Punctually at one Rosser arrived at the Rand Club. Carson was deep in an indaba with two men he knew well, and the talk was all of shares and money—big business had been done on 'Change. Rosser was cold-eyed and inaccessible until the other men went, then he brightened and told Carson what he had done.
"I've sold everything on time!" he said. "Committed you—roughly—to ten thousand pounds of sales ... sixty days ... buyer's options."
If Carson's spirit groaned, his face gave no sign; but the little broker was as sensitive as the market. He looked at the other keenly.
"Don't do the business if you're afraid; I'm perfectly satisfied to go into it alone. Why! I'm so certain of the coming fall that I advise you to run a bear account up to fifty thousand pounds. Hell! Carson, what's come to you? I've never known you like this before."
"I've got a touch of fever," said Carson irritably, but he did not specify the peculiar brand he was suffering from. He was ashamed of his funk—but the best of men get attacks of it in certain circumstances.
"Well, if you'll make up your mind to stick to it for three months you'll make ten thousand pounds at least."
"Three months!" It was Carson's turn to cry "Hell!" But presently he said firmly: "Go ahead, Rosser, and sell another ten thousand—buyer's options, this afternoon."
"Right!" cried Rosser gaily, and with a heart at peace proceeded to acknowledge his friends at various tables, while Carson turned up the wine-list. They had been eating and drinking steadily through lunch.
"Coffee, 1830 Brandy, and '94 Coronas," was Carson's order, and when the waiter had come and gone, Rosser sadly said, looking at his glass:
"I wonder how long it will last!"