"Seventy-three,—a quarter,—an eighth,—seventy-three,—now seventy-two seven-eighths,—three-quarters,—five-eighths,—three-quarters split,—now five-eighths,—a half,—a half."
And now pandemonium was raging in the Chicago wheat pit, and the ticker's teeth clicked like mad.
"Seventy-two,—a half,—a half,—three-eighths,—a half,—three-eighths,—a quarter,—seventy-two!"
Cold beads of sweat gathered on Frye's forehead. One cent more and he was ruined!
Again the ticker buzzed like a mad hornet, and again the devil's teeth snapped.
"September wheat now seventy-one seven-eighths,—seven-eighths, —three-quarters,—seven-eighths split,—now the three-quarter, —five-eighths,—a half,—a half,—five-eighths,—a half,—a half again,—three-eighths,—a quarter,—an eighth,—a quarter,—an eighth, —a quarter,—an eighth,—an eighth,—a quarter split,—an eighth,—
"Seventy-One!!!"
Frye Was Ruined.
He gave one low moan, the first, last, and only one during those three long weeks of agony!
A few who sat near heard it, but did not even look at him, so lost were they to all human feeling. The devil's teeth kept snapping, the endless coils of tape kept unwinding; the boy continued his drawl, but Frye paid no heed. Only those spider-legs on the wall seemed kicking at him, and that fatal seventy-one, one, one kept ringing in his ears. He arose, and staggered out into that palace of glass again and swallowed more brandy. Then jostling many, but seeing no one, he, with bowed head, made his way to his office, opened, entered, and locked the door, and sat down.