"It can't be true!" he moaned. "It CAN'T be true! If it is I'm ruined—all of us ruined!"
The roar in the receiver lessened—some one had entered the booth at the other end and had closed the door. "Well!" he heard in a sharp, impatient voice—Zabriskie's.
"What is it, Ned—what's the matter? Why didn't you tell me?" Fanning-Smith's voice was like the shrill shriek of a coward in a perilous storm. It was in itself complete explanation of Zabriskie's neglect to call upon him for orders.
"Don't ask me. Somebody's rocketing Great Lakes—taking all offerings. Don't keep me here. I'm having a hard enough time, watching this crazy market and sending our orders by the roundabout way. Got anything to suggest?"
Tick—tick—tick—Commander-in-chief Fanning-Smith watched the crawling tape in fascinated horror—Great Lakes one hundred and thirty-eight. It had spelled out for him another letter of that hideous word, Ruin. All the moisture of his body seemed to be on the outside; inside, he was dry and hot as a desert. If the price went no higher, if it did not come down, nearly all he had in the world would be needed to settle his "short" contracts. For he would have to deliver at one hundred and seven, more than two hundred thousand shares which he had contracted to sell; and to get them for delivery he would have to pay one hundred and thirty-eight dollars a share. A net loss of more than six millions!
"You must get that price down—you must! You MUST!" quavered James.
"Hell!" exclaimed Zabriskie—he was the youngest member of the firm, a son of James' oldest sister. "Tell me how, and I'll do it."
"You're there—you know what to do," pleaded James. "And I order you to get that price down!"
"Don't keep me here, talking rot. I've been fighting—and I'm going to keep on."
James shivered. Fighting! There was no fight in him—all his life he had got everything without fighting. "Do your best," he said. "I'm very ill to-day. I'm—"