I gave my orders briefly.
“Dot is a larch order,” said Bockstein dubiously.
“You don't have to take it,” I was about to retort, when Eppner's high-pitched voice interrupted:
“It's all right. The customary margin is enough.”
Wallbridge was more enthusiastic.
“You've come just in the nick of time,” said the stout little man, swabbing his bald head from force of habit, though the morning was chill. “The market has been drier than a fish-horn and duller than a foggy morning. You saved me from a trip to Los Angeles. I should have been carried off by my wife in another day.”
“You have got Gradgrind's idea of a holiday,” I laughed.
“Gradgrind, Gradgrind?” said the little man reflectively. “Don't know him. He's not in the market, I reckon. Oh, I'm death on holidays! I come near dying every day the Board doesn't meet. When it shut up shop after the Bank of California went to the wall, I was just getting ready to blow my brains out for want of exercise, when they posted the notice that it was to open again.”
I laughed at the stout broker's earnestness, and told him what I wanted done.
“Whew!” he exclaimed, “you're in business this time, sure. Well, this is just in my line.”