“It ain’t, as you might say, colossal,” admitted Gretry.
There was a long silence while the two men studied the report still further. Gretry took a pamphlet of statistics from a pigeonhole of his desk, and compared certain figures with those mentioned in the report.
Outside the rain swept against the windows with the subdued rustle of silk. A newsboy raised a Gregorian chant as he went down the street.
“By George, Sam,” Jadwin said again, “do you know that a whole pile of that wheat has got to go to Europe before July? How have the shipments been?”
“About five millions a week.”
“Why, think of that, twenty millions a month, and it’s—let’s see, April, May, June, July—four months before a new crop. Eighty million bushels will go out of the country in the next four months—eighty million out of less than a hundred millions.”
“Looks that way,” answered Gretry.
“Here,” said Jadwin, “let’s get some figures. Let’s get a squint on the whole situation. Got a Price Current here? Let’s find out what the stocks are in Chicago. I don’t believe the elevators are exactly bursting, and, say,” he called after the broker, who had started for the front office, “say, find out about the primary receipts, and the Paris and Liverpool stocks. Bet you what you like that Paris and Liverpool together couldn’t show ten million to save their necks.”
In a few moments Gretry was back again, his hands full of pamphlets and trade journals.
By now the offices were quite deserted. The last clerk had gone home. Without, the neighbourhood was emptying rapidly. Only a few stragglers hurried over the glistening sidewalks; only a few lights yet remained in the façades of the tall, grey office buildings. And in the widening silence the cooing of the pigeons on the ledges and windowsills of the Board of Trade Building made itself heard with increasing distinctness.
Before Gretry’s desk the two men leaned over the litter of papers. The broker’s pencil was in his hand and from time to time he figured rapidly on a sheet of note paper.
“And,” observed Jadwin after a while, “and you see how the millers up here in the Northwest have been grinding up all the grain in sight. Do you see that?”
“Yes,” said Gretry, then he added, “navigation will be open in another month up there in the straits.”
“That’s so, too,” exclaimed Jadwin, “and what wheat there is here will be moving out. I’d forgotten that point. Ain’t you glad you aren’t short of wheat these days?”
“There’s plenty of fellows that are, though,” returned Gretry. “I’ve got a lot of short wheat on my books—a lot of it.”
All at once as Gretry spoke Jadwin started, and looked at him with a curious glance.
“You have, hey?” he said. “There are a lot of fellows who have sold short?”
“Oh, yes, some of Crookes’ followers—yes, quite a lot of them.”
Jadwin was silent a moment, tugging at his mustache. Then suddenly he leaned forward, his finger almost in Gretry’s face.
“Why, look here,” he cried. “Don’t you see? Don’t you see?”
“See what?” demanded the broker, puzzled at the other’s vehemence.
Jadwin loosened his collar with a forefinger.
“Great Scott! I’ll choke in a minute. See what? Why, I own ten million bushels of this wheat already, and Europe will take eighty million out of the country. Why, there ain’t going to be any wheat left in Chicago by May! If I get in now and buy a long line of cash wheat, where are all these fellows who’ve sold short going to get it to deliver to me? Say, where are they going to get it? Come on now, tell me, where are they going to get it?”
Gretry laid down his pencil and stared at Jadwin, looked long at the papers on his desk, consulted his pencilled memoranda, then thrust his hands deep into his pockets, with a long breath. Bewildered, and as if stupefied, he gazed again into Jadwin’s face.
“My God!” he murmured at last.
“Well, where are they going to get it?” Jadwin cried once more, his face suddenly scarlet.
“J.,” faltered the broker, “J., I—I’m damned if I know.”
And then, all in the same moment, the two men were on their feet. The event which all those past eleven months had been preparing was suddenly consummated, suddenly stood revealed, as though a veil had been ripped asunder, as though an explosion had crashed through the air upon them, deafening, blinding.
Jadwin sprang forward, gripping the broker by the shoulder.
“Sam,” he shouted, “do you know—great God!—do you know what this means? Sam, we can corner the market!”
VIII
On that particular morning in April, the trading around the Wheat Pit on the floor of the Chicago Board of Trade began practically a full five minutes ahead of the stroke of the gong; and the throng of brokers and clerks that surged in and about the Pit itself was so great that it overflowed and spread out over the floor between the wheat and corn pits, ousting the traders in oats from their traditional ground. The market had closed the day before with May wheat at ninety-eight and five-eighths, and the Bulls had prophesied and promised that the magic legend “dollar wheat” would be on the Western Union wires before another twenty-four hours.
The indications pointed to a lively morning’s work. Never for an instant during the past six weeks had the trading sagged or languished. The air of the Pit was surcharged with a veritable electricity; it had the effervescence of champagne, or of a mountain-top at sunrise. It was buoyant, thrilling.
The “Unknown Bull” was to all appearance still in control; the whole market hung upon his horns; and from time to time, one felt the sudden upward thrust, powerful, tremendous, as he flung the wheat up another notch. The “tailers”—the little Bulls—were radiant. In the dark, they hung hard by their unseen and mysterious friend who daily, weekly, was making them richer. The
