“I see,” said Montague—­and he had a sudden appalling realization of the wild game which his brother had planned for him.

“Whereas,” Mr. Streeter continued, persuasively, “if you put up ten per cent., you will have six points.”

“Very well,” said the other promptly.  “Then please buy me six thousand shares.”

So they closed the deal, and the papers were signed, and Mr. Streeter took the six new, crisp ten-thousand-dollar bills.

Then he escorted him to the outer office, remarking pleasantly on the way, “I hope you’re well advised.  We’re inclined to be bearish upon Transcontinental ourselves—­the situation looks rather squally.”

These words were not worth the breath it took to say them; but Montague was not aware of this, and felt a painful start within.  But he answered, carelessly, that one must take his chance, and sat down in one of the customer’s chairs.  Hammond and Streeter’s was like a little lecture-hall, with rows of seats and a big blackboard in front, with the initials of the most important stocks in columns, and yesterday’s closing prices above, on little green cards.  At one side was a ticker, with two attendants awaiting the opening click.

In the seats were twenty or thirty men, old and young; most of them regular habitues, victims of the fever of the Street.  Montague watched them, catching snatches of their whispered conversation, with its intricate and disagreeable slang.  He felt intensely humiliated and uncomfortable—­for he had got the fever of the Street into his own veins, and he could not conquer it.  There were nasty shivers running up and down his spine, and his hands were cold.

He stared at the little figures, fascinated; they stood for some vast and tremendous force outside, which could not be controlled or even comprehended,—­some merciless, annihilating force, like the lightning or the tornado.  And he had put himself at the mercy of it; it might do its will with him!  “Tr.  C. 59 5/8” read the little pasteboard; and he had only six points of safety.  If at any time in the day that figure should be changed to read “53 5/8”—­then every dollar of Montague’s sixty thousand would be gone for ever!  The great fee that he had worked so hard for and rejoiced so greatly over—­that would be all gone, and a slice out of his inheritance besides!

A boy put into his hand a little four-page paper—­one of the countless news-sheets which different houses and interests distributed free for advertising or other purposes; and a heading “Transcontinental” caught his eye, among the paragraphs in the Day’s Events.  He read:  “The directors’ meeting of the Transcontinental R.R. will be held at noon.  It is confidently predicted that the quarterly dividend will be passed, as it has been for the last three quarters.  There is great dissatisfaction among the stock-holders.  The stock has been decidedly weak, with no apparent inside support; it fell off three points just before closing yesterday, upon the news of further proceedings by Western state officials, and widely credited rumours of dissensions among the directors, with renewed opposition to the control of the Hopkins interests.”