Little by little his savings grew; and with them grew his desire to speculate on his own account. It made him irritable not to gamble.
He met Freeman one day in one of his dissatisfied moods. Out of politeness he asked the young cynic the universal query of the Street:
“What do you think of ‘em?” He meant stocks.
“What difference does it make what I think?” sneered Freeman, with proud humility. “I’m nobody.” But he looked as if he did not agree with himself.
“What do you know?” pursued Gilmartin mollifyingly.
“I know enough to be long of Gotham Gas. I just bought a thousand shares at 180.” He really had bought a hundred only.
“What on?”
“On information. I got it straight from a director of the company. Look here, Gilmartin, I’m pledged to secrecy. But, for your own benefit, I’ll just tell you to buy all the Gas you possibly can carry. The deal is on. I know that certain papers were signed last night, and they are almost ready to spring it on the public. They haven’t got all the stock they want. When they get it, look out for fireworks.”
Gilmartin did not perceive any resemblance between Freeman’s tips and his own.
He said, hesitatingly, as though ashamed of his timidity: