“Winifred Walcott is a trump!” he exclaimed, jumping up.
Just then our other telephone rang, and I answered it. “I’m down here in Mr. Dexter’s office,” called a voice which I took to be that of the other broker. “We have been talking the situation over. Of course, if Mr. Maddox were here himself, you know,” he went on apologetically, “it might be different. We could have him sign his name to orders, but—really—well, you understand, under the circumstances—we feel, both Mr. Dexter and myself, that we have gone about far enough. It’s not that we question Mr. Maddox’s intentions in any way, you understand, but—perhaps if he were on the ground, he might protect us from loss, which he may not be able to do over the telephone. We’re sorry, but—”
“Tell them I’ll be right down,” interjected Kennedy, sensing from my look the tenor of what was being said.
I interrupted the broker at the first opportunity, then turned to Kennedy. He had pulled from a compartment of the metal base a little wax cylinder and dropped it into his pocket carefully.
“Come on,” he cried, dashing for the door and taking the stairs, not even waiting for the elevator to come up.
A moment later we burst into the board room of the broker. Customers were standing about in a high state of excitement, while the boys at the board scurried about, replacing the figures on little bits of green cardboard which fitted under the abbreviated names of the active stocks listed on the board at one end of the room. Others were gathered about the ticker, reading the words that the printed tape was pushing forth. All seemed talking at once.
Kennedy did not pause, however, but walked unceremoniously into the private office of Dexter. There already were several men representing the two brokerage houses. Evidently they had been having a hasty conference on what they should do in view of the situation in Maddox Munitions.
I felt a sort of frigidity in the air as we entered. It was not that anything was either said or done, but I have felt the same thing several times when as a reporter it was my duty to be present at some event that marked the freezing out of some person financially.
“Maddox Munitions,” began Dexter, clearing his throat with dignity, “seems to have occasioned somewhat of a flurry on the market to-day in which it is the chief sufferer itself. Our latest quotation shows that it has declined steadily—two points, for instance since the quotation before, and twenty-five under the opening of the market. I think you will readily appreciate, Mr. Kennedy, our position in the matter.”
Before Kennedy could reply, however, another took up the conversation. “Yes,” he remarked, “we have been observing the trend of events for the last few days. Of course, we can readily appreciate the feeling of Mr. Maddox in the matter, and, indeed, I must say that at the beginning I thought that all that was necessary was a good strong show of buying and that the run would end. Now, however, it begins to look as though there were other factors entering in. You know the newspapers have given a great deal of unpleasant notoriety to the Maddox family and Maddox Munitions. Perhaps the general public does not like it. At least it begins to seem as though even Mr. Shelby Maddox might not have the resources to stem the tide.”