“The Ant, the Spider, the Beaver, and the Lion. Out of the nineteen combinations in the Menagerie I've narrowed my choice to these four. You know conditions better than I and probably have seen the Cribbage Board. Have you a choice?” He looked at Richards so eagerly, and withal so shrewdly and sanely, that in self-defense the broker said:
“I can't say that I have. Of course I am bullish—”
“Of course. But the question is: Which—in a week?”
Richards had no idea what was meant by this man with the sane eyes who said crazy things through his nose—a man who had one hundred thousand dollars to his credit with the firm. Perplexed to the verge of exasperation, Richards was stock-broker enough—when in doubt, bluff!—to say, with a frown, “Yes, that's the question: Which—in a week?” He shook his head as though he were trying to pick out the best for his beloved Robison.
“I never was so puzzled in my life, and I want you to know that I've made money even in Rumanian bonds!”
“I'm afraid I can't help you much.”
“What does the I. S. Board say?”
“Mr. Robison, exactly what do you mean by the I. S. Board?”
“What? You don't know the International Syndicate Cribbage Board! Then how in Hades do you pick your combinations?”
“We buy and sell stocks on our judgment of basic conditions or for special reasons.”