He saw now that he and his followers had to face a loss of several cents a bushel on each one of the five million they had sold. They had not been able to cover one single sale, and the situation was back again exactly as before his onslaught, the Unknown Bull in securer control than ever before.
But Crookes had, at last, begun to suspect the true condition of affairs, and now that the market was hourly growing tighter and more congested, his suspicion was confirmed. Alone, locked in his private office, he thought it out, and at last remarked to himself:
“Somebody has a great big line of wheat that is not on the market at all. Somebody has got all the wheat there is. I guess I know his name. I guess the visible supply of May wheat in the Chicago market is cornered.”
This was at a time when the price stood at a dollar and one cent. Crookes—who from the first had managed and handled the operations of his confederates—knew very well that if he now bought in all the wheat his clique had sold short, the price would go up long before he could complete the deal. He said nothing to the others, further than that they should “hold on a little longer, in the hopes of a turn,” but very quietly he began to cover his own personal sales—his share of the five million sold by his clique. Foreseeing the collapse of his scheme, he got out of the market; at a loss, it was true, but still no more than he could stand. If he “held on a little longer, in the hopes of a turn,” there was no telling how deep the Bull would gore him. This was no time to think much about obligations. It had got to be “every man for himself” by now.
A few days after this Crookes sat in his office in the building in La Salle Street that bore his name. It was about eleven o’clock in the morning. His dry, small, beardless face creased a little at the corners of the mouth as he heard the ticker chattering behind him. He knew how the tape read. There had been another flurry on the Board that morning, not half an hour since, and wheat was up again. In the last thirty-six hours it had advanced three cents, and he knew very well that at that very minute the boys on the floor were offering nine cents over the dollar for the May option—and not getting it. The market was in a tumult. He fancied he could almost hear the thunder of the Pit as it swirled. All La Salle Street was listening and watching, all Chicago, all the nation, all the world. Not a “factor” on the London ’Change who did not turn an ear down the wind to catch the echo of this turmoil, not an agent de change in the peristyle of the Paris Bourse, who did not strain to note the every modulation of its mighty diapason.
“Well,” said the little voice of the man-within-the-man, who in the person of Calvin Hardy Crookes sat listening to the ticker in his office, “well, let it roar. It sure can’t hurt C. H. C.”
“Can you see Mr. Cressler?” said the clerk at the door.
He came in with a hurried, unsteady step. The long, stooping figure was unkempt; was, in a sense, unjointed, as though some support had been withdrawn. The eyes were deep-sunk, the bones of the face were gaunt and bare; and from moment to moment the man swallowed quickly and moistened his lips.
Crookes nodded as his ally came up, and one finger raised, pointed to a chair. He himself was impassive, calm. He did not move. Taciturn as ever, he waited for the other to speak.
“I want to talk with you, Mr. Crookes,” began Cressler, hurriedly. “I—I made up my mind to it day before yesterday, but I put it off. I had hoped that things would come our way. But I can’t delay now. … Mr. Crookes, I can’t stand this any longer. I must get out of the clique. I haven’t the ready money to stand this pace.”
There was a silence. Crookes neither moved nor changed expression. His small eyes fixed upon the other, he waited for Cressler to go on.
“I might remind you,” Cressler continued, “that when I joined your party I expressly stipulated that our operations should not be speculative.”
“You knew—” began Crookes.
“Oh, I have nothing to say,” Cressler interrupted. “I did know. I knew from the first it was to be speculation. I tried to deceive myself. I—well, this don’t interest you. The point is I must get out of the market. I don’t like to go back on you others”—Cressler’s fingers were fiddling with his watch chain—“I don’t like to—I mean to say you must let me out. You must let me cover—at once. I am—very nearly bankrupt now. Another half-cent rise, and I’m done for. It will take as it is—my—my—all my ready money—all my savings for the last ten years to buy in my wheat.”
“Let’s see. How much did I sell for you?” demanded Crookes. “Five hundred thousand?”
“Yes, five hundred thousand at ninety-eight—and we’re at a dollar nine now. It’s an eleven-cent jump. I—I can’t stand another eighth. I must cover at once.”
Crookes, without answering, drew his desk telephone to him.
“Hello!” he said after a moment. “Hello! … Buy five hundred May, at the market, right away.”
He hung up the receiver and leaned back in his chair.
“They’ll report the trade in a minute,” he said. “Better wait and see.”
Cressler stood at the window, his hands clasped behind his back, looking down into the street. He did not answer. The seconds passed, then the minutes. Crookes turned to his desk and signed a few letters, the scrape of his pen the only noise to break the silence of
