Ten o’clock came and went, and the ticker began its long journey.  There was intense activity in Transcontinental, many thousands of shares changing hands, and the price swaying back and forth.  When Oliver came in, in half an hour, it stood at 59 3/8.

“That’s all right,” said he.  “Our time will not come till afternoon.”

“But suppose we are wiped out before afternoon?” said the other.

“That is impossible,” answered Oliver.  “There will be big buying all the morning.”

They sat for a while, nervous and restless.  Then, by way of breaking the monotony, Oliver suggested that his brother might like to see the “Street.”  They went around the corner to Broad Street.  Here at the head stood the Sub-treasury building, with all the gold of the government inside, and a Gatling gun in the tower.  The public did not know it was there, but the financial men knew it, and it seemed as if they had huddled all their offices and banks and safe-deposit vaults under its shelter.  Here, far underground, were hidden the two hundred millions of securities of the Oil Trust—­in a huge six-hundred-ton steel vault, with a door so delicately poised that a finger could swing it on its hinges.  And opposite to this was the white Grecian building of the Stock Exchange.  Down the street were throngs of men within a roped arena, pushing, shouting, jostling; this was “the curb,” where one could buy or sell small blocks of stock, and all the wild-cat mining and oil stocks which were not listed by the Exchange.  Rain or shine, these men were always here; and in the windows of the neighbouring buildings stood others shouting quotations to them through megaphones, or signalling in deaf and dumb language.  Some of these brokers wore coloured hats, so that they could be distinguished; some had offices far off, where men sat all day with strong glasses trained upon them.  Everywhere was the atmosphere of speculation—­the restless, feverish eyes; the quick, nervous gestures; the haggard, care-worn faces.  For in this game every man was pitted against every other man; and the dice were loaded so that nine out of every ten were doomed in advance to ruin and defeat.  They procured passes to the visitors’ gallery of the Exchange.  From here one looked down into a room one or two hundred feet square, its floor covered with a snowstorm of torn pieces of paper, and its air a babel of shouts and cries.  Here were gathered perhaps two thousand men and boys; some were lounging and talking, but most were crowded about the various trading-posts, pushing, climbing over each other, leaping up, waving their hands and calling aloud.  A “seat” in this exchange was worth about ninety-five thousand dollars, and so no one of these men was poor; but yet they came, day after day, to play their parts in this sordid arena, “seeking in sorrow for each other’s joy”:  inventing a thousand petty tricks to outwit and deceive each other; rejoicing in a thousand petty triumphs; and spending their lives, like the waves upon the shore, a very symbol of human futility.  Now and then a sudden impulse would seize them, and they would become like howling demons, surging about one spot, shrieking, gasping, clawing each other’s clothing to pieces; and the spectator shuddered, seeing them as the victims of some strange and dreadful enchantment, which bound them to struggle and torment each other until they were worn out and grey.