All Story Magazine, December 1913 — page 64: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

774 back again to find Rand Island a point or two higher than when they left post No. 3. The big man, I presumed, was Rol- lins’s friend. Rollins did not appear. Some one sold a thousand shares at 120, and a moment later a quiet-voiced, white-haired gentleman made himself suddenly prominent by bidding 130 for any part of twenty thousand. The big man snorted, glared at the new- comer, and carried the “fight” ten points higher. Perhaps a number were fooled into believing that it was a real fight. I knew better, and gave the big man credit for being an actor of no mean ability. His expression of surprise when competed with was splendid. One would almost believe he was surprised ; quite as if his competitors were not acting under orders from Rollins, who, I presumed, was pulling the wires upon the outside. There wasn’t, apparently, a share of the stock in sight; at least, there was none for sale at 150. I began to count my winnings at that figure when it al- tered to 160 with the assistance of a squat, square-jawed man, who did not leave until he had forced the big man to bid 175 for any part of twenty-five thousand. In spite of the ninety-point rise, it was as if the fun were only beginning. There was plenty of noise, of course; men screeching at the pitch of their voices, rushing across the floor toward the telephones and back again, and out into the street; some of them white and frantic-eyed, most of them making great use of their arms, with the big man’s staccato voice sounding above it all. But there did not seem to be the fuss that adequately represented the eighty-eight thousand my partner and I had made within half an hour. I had expected a sort of riot, but there was nothing like that; far from it, and I wondered what sort of a rise would be necessary to create one. THE ALL-STORY MAGAZINE. I did not get in the least excited. The stock was sure to go up to 200; and so long as the big man was con- fident I had nothing to worry about. He could, as he had said, carry it to 500 if he liked. There wasn’t a sign of weakness, and I stood fascinated, watching it climb, ten points each jump, till it reached 225. The very little man with the strag- gling black beard came back and squeaked it up to that figure. His shrill, piping voice made me nervous, and there were many members on the floor who felt just as I did; wanted to yell but couldn't. One or two became rather hysterical in their manner; most of them talked very fast and seemed to run around in circles, as if they did not know what to do with themselves. Riot had almost come. One cannot describe that noise. Some of it came from the street. It isn’t a bit like the roar of a baseball crowd, because that is a volume of sound in which thirty to forty thou- sand throats create in unison. The other business was a yell and a groan and a whisper and a low, re- verberant murmuring and the scuffle of many feet, all jumbled up together in one horrible, inharmonious whole that began and ended nowhere. I decided I would sel! at 250, feeling that I would probably lose the benefit of a further fifty-point rise by doing so: and I had barely made the decision when the big man’s staccato voice drowned the little man’s squeak and his bid: “Tyo hundred and thirty-five for any part of twenty thousand!” Soniething like a groan went up. I edged toward the gallery exit, still leaning over the rail, almost hypnotized by the seething confusion of sound and action below. “Two hundred and forty for twenty- five thousand!" some one called quiet- ly, and J stopped to see who it was. The white-haired gentleman looked a