“How do you do, Mr. Ormiston?” squeaked Greener, cordially.
“Greener,” panted the portly man, “what’s the matter with Iowa Midland?”
“How should I know?” in a half-complaining, half-petulant squeak.
“Brown started the selling. I saw it myself. Greener, I did you a good turn once in Central District Telegraph. I’m long 6,000 shares of this Iowa Midland. For God’s sake, man, if you know anything——”
“Mr. Ormiston, all I know is what I learn from my confidential reports of the Iowa crop. Along the line of the Keokuk & Northern the crop is not what I hoped for.” And he shook his head dolefully.
“Ticky-ticky-ticky tick!” said the ticker, calmly.
The portly man approached the little machine. “Thirty-seven-and-an-eighth. Thirty-seven!” he shouted. “Great Scott! she’s going down like a——” He did not finish the comparison, but rushed out of the office without pausing to say good-by. At one o’clock his 6,000 shares at $42½ represented $255,000. Now, at two o’clock, at $37, the same stock would fetch about $222,000. A depreciation of $33,000 in an hour is apt to make one neglectful of the little niceties. An additional un-nicety was the obvious fact that an attempt to sell 6,000 shares on a declining market would inevitably cause a still further drop. Mr. Ormiston was excusable.
Again Mr. Greener summoned a confidential clerk.
“Mr. Rock,” he squeaked, placidly, “telephone Mr. Brown that Ormiston, Monkhouse & Co. are about to sell 6,000 shares of Iowa Midland, and that Mr. Coolidge must not pay more than 35 for it.”
“Mr. Coolidge is in your private room, sir,” announced an office-boy.