“Yes,” I said; “that’s why I came.”
“Well, don’t come any more. Keep away!” he snarled at me. The private policeman in gray came over, casual-like. St. Louis shook his fist at the manager and yelled: “You ought to’ve known better, you poor boob, than to let this guy get into you. He’s Livingston. You had your orders.”
“Listen, you,” I said to the St. Louis man. “This isn’t St. Louis. You can’t pull off any trick here, like your boss did with Belfast Boy.”
“You keep away from this office! You can’t trade here!” he yells.
“If I can’t trade here nobody else is going to,” I told him. “You can’t get away with that sort of stuff here.”
Well, St. Louis changed his tune at once.
“Look here, old boy,” he said, all fussed up, “do us a favor. Be reasonable! You know we can’t stand this every day. The old man’s going to hit the ceiling when he hears who it was. Have a heart, Livingston!”
“I’ll go easy,” I promised.
“Listen to reason, won’t you? For the love of Pete, keep away! Give us a chance to get a good start. We’re new here. Will you?”
“I don’t want any of this high-and-mighty business the next time I come,” I said, and left him talking to the manager at the rate of a million a minute. I’d got some money out of them for the way they treated me in St. Louis. There wasn’t any sense in my getting hot or trying to close them up. I went back to Fullerton’s office and told McDevitt what had happened. Then I told him that if it was agreeable to him I’d like to have him go to Teller’s place and begin trading in twenty or thirty share lots, to get them used to him. Then, the moment I saw a good chance to clean up big, I’d telephone him and he could plunge.