“To-morrow you’ll be buying it back.”
“Buying what back?” I said. I hadn’t told a soul except the telegraph operator.
“Anaconda,” he said. “You’ll be paying 320 for it. That wasn’t a good move of yours, Larry.” And he smiled again.
“What wasn’t?” And I looked innocent.
“Selling your eight thousand Anaconda at the market; in fact, insisting on it,” said Ollie Black.
I knew that he was supposed to be very clever and always traded on inside news. But how he knew my business so accurately was beyond me. I was sure the office hadn’t given me away.
“Ollie, how do you know that?” I asked him.
He laughed and told me: “I got it from Charlie Kratzer.” That was the telegraph operator.
“But he never budged from his place,” I said.
“I couldn’t hear you and him whispering,” he chuckled. “But I heard every word of the message he sent to the New York office for you. I learned telegraphy years ago after I had a big row over a mistake in a message. Since then when I do what you did just now—give an order by word of mouth to an operator—I want to be sure the operator sends the message as I give it to him. I know what he sends in my name. But you will be sorry you sold that Anaconda. It’s going to 500.”