He wished to sell and realize his profits; but his brother gripped him fast by the arm.  “No! no!” he said.  “It hasn’t really come yet!”

Some went out to lunch—­to a restaurant where they could have a telephone on their table, so as to keep in touch with events.  But the Montagues had no care about eating; they sat picturing the directors in session, and speculating upon a score of various eventualities.  Things might yet go wrong, and all their profits would vanish like early snow-flakes—­and all their capital with them.  Oliver shook like a leaf, but he would not stir.  “Stay game!” he whispered.

He took out his watch, and glanced at it.  It was after two o’clock.  “It may go over till to-morrow!” he muttered.—­But then suddenly came the storm.

The ticker recorded a rise in the price of Transcontinental of a point and a half, upon a purchase of five thousand shares; and then half a point for two thousand more.  After that it never stopped.  It went a point at a time; it went ten points in about fifteen minutes.  And babel broke loose in the office, and in several thousand other offices in the street, and spread to others all over the world.  Montague had got up, and was moving here and there, because the tension was unendurable; and at the door of an inner office he heard some one at the telephone exclaiming, “For the love of God, can’t you find out what’s the matter?”—­A moment later a man rushed in, breathless and wild-eyed, and his voice rang through the office, “The directors have declared a quarterly dividend of three per cent, and an extra dividend of two!”

And Oliver caught his brother by the arm and started for the door with him.  “Get to your broker’s,” he said.  “And if the stock has stopped moving, sell; and sell in any case before the close.”  And then he dashed away to his own headquarters.

At about half after three o’clock, Oliver came into Hammond and Streeter’s, breathless, and with his hair and clothing dishevelled.  He was half beside himself with exultation; and Montague was scarcely less wrought up—­in fact he felt quite limp after the strain he had been through.

“What price did you get?” his brother inquired; and he answered, “An average of 78 3/8.”  There had been another sharp rise at the end, and he had sold all his stock without checking the advance.

“I got five-eighths,” said Oliver.  “O ye gods!”

There were some unhappy “shorts” in the office; Mr. Streeter was one of them.  It was bitterness and gall to them to see the radiant faces of the two lucky ones; but the two did not even see this.  They went out, half dancing, and had a drink or two to steady their nerves.

They would not actually get thoir money until the morrow; but Montague figured a profit of a trifle under a quarter of a million for himself.  Of this about twenty thousand would go to make up the share of his unknown informant; the balance he considered would be an ample reward for his six hours’ work that day.