“All right,” he said, “I’ll come in.”
“For a million bushels?”
“Yes—for a million. How much in margins will you want?”
Gretry figured a moment on the back of an envelope.
“Fifty thousand dollars,” he announced at length.
Jadwin wrote the check on a corner of the broker’s desk, and held it a moment before him.
“Goodbye,” he said, apostrophising the bit of paper. “Goodbye. I ne’er shall look upon your like again.”
Gretry did not laugh.
“Huh!” he grunted. “You’ll look upon a hatful of them before the month is out.”
That same morning Landry Court found himself in the corridor on the ground floor of the Board of Trade about nine o’clock. He had just come out of the office of Gretry, Converse & Co., where he and the other Pit traders for the house had been receiving their orders for the day.
As he was buying a couple of apples at the news stand at the end of the corridor, Semple and a young Jew named Hirsch, Pit traders for small firms in La Salle Street, joined him.
“Hello, Court, what do you know?”
“Hello, Barry Semple! Hello, Hirsch!” Landry offered the halves of his second apple, and the three stood there a moment, near the foot of the stairs, talking and eating their apples from the points of their penknives.
“I feel sort of seedy this morning,” Semple observed between mouthfuls. “Was up late last night at a stag. A friend of mine just got back from Europe, and some of the boys were giving him a little dinner. He was all over the shop, this friend of mine; spent most of his time in Constantinople; had some kind of newspaper business there. It seems that it’s a pretty crazy proposition, Turkey and the Sultan and all that. He said that there was nearly a row over the Higgins-Pasha incident, and that the British agent put it pretty straight to the Sultan’s secretary. My friend said Constantinople put him in mind of a lot of opéra bouffe scenery that had got spilled out in the mud. Say, Court, he said the streets were dirtier than the Chicago streets.”
“Oh, come now,” said Hirsch.
“Fact! And the dogs! He told us he knows now where all the yellow dogs go to when they die.”
“But say,” remarked Hirsch, “what is that about the Higgins-Pasha business? I thought that was over long ago.”
“Oh, it is,” answered Semple easily. He looked at his watch. “I guess it’s about time to go up, pretty near half-past nine.”
The three mounted the stairs, mingling with the groups of floor traders who, in steadily increasing numbers, had begun to move in the same direction. But on the way Hirsch was stopped by his brother.
“Hey, I got that box of cigars for you.”
Hirsch paused. “Oh! All right,” he said, then he added: “Say, how about that Higgins-Pasha affair? You remember that row between England and Turkey. They tell me the British agent in Constantinople put it pretty straight to the Sultan the other day.”
The other was interested. “He did, hey?” he said. “The market hasn’t felt it, though. Guess there’s nothing to it. But there’s Kelly yonder. He’d know. He’s pretty thick with Porteous’ men. Might ask him.”
“You ask him and let me know. I got to go on the floor. It’s nearly time for the gong.”
Hirsch’s brother found Kelly in the centre of a group of settlement clerks.
“Say, boy,” he began, “you ought to know. They tell me there may be trouble between England and Turkey over the Higgins-Pasha incident, and that the British Foreign Office has threatened the Sultan with an ultimatum. I can see the market if that’s so.”
“Nothing in it,” retorted Kelly. “But I’ll find out—to make sure, by Jingo.”
Meanwhile Landry had gained the top of the stairs, and turning to the right, passed through a great doorway, and came out upon the floor of the Board of Trade.
It was a vast enclosure, lighted on either side by great windows of coloured glass, the roof supported by thin iron pillars elaborately decorated. To the left were the bulletin blackboards, and beyond these, in the northwest angle of the floor, a great railed-in space where the Western Union Telegraph was installed. To the right, on the other side of the room, a row of tables, laden with neatly arranged paper bags half full of samples of grains, stretched along the east wall from the doorway of the public room at one end to the telephone room at the other.
The centre of the floor was occupied by the pits. To the left and to the front of Landry the provision pit, to the right the corn pit, while further on at the north extremity of the floor, and nearly under the visitors’ gallery, much larger than the other two, and flanked by the wicket of the official recorder, was the wheat pit itself.
Directly opposite the visitors’ gallery, high upon the south wall a great dial was affixed, and on the dial a marking hand that indicated the current price of wheat, fluctuating with the changes made in the Pit. Just now it stood at ninety-three and three-eighths, the closing quotation of the preceding day.
As yet all the pits were empty. It was some fifteen minutes after nine. Landry checked his hat and coat at the coat room near the north entrance, and slipped into an old tennis jacket of striped blue flannel. Then, hatless, his hands in his pockets, he leisurely crossed the floor, and sat down in one of the chairs that were ranged in files upon the floor in front of the telegraph enclosure. He scrutinised again the despatches and orders that he held in his hands; then, having fixed them in his memory, tore them into very small bits, looking vaguely about the room, developing his plan of campaign for the morning.
In a sense Landry Court had a double personality. Away from the neighbourhood and influence of La Salle Street, he was rattlebrained, absentminded, impractical, and easily excited, the last fellow
