He was ruined anyhow. If he failed without further ado, that is, without increasing his liabilities, he would be cursed by twenty-five of his customers and by fifteen of his fellow-brokers who were “lending” stocks to him. But if he made one last desperate effort, he might pull out of the hole; or, at the worst, why, the number of cursing customers would remain the same, but the fellow-brokers would rise to twenty or thirty.
He took another stiff drink. The market had become undoubtedly a bull market. The bears had been fighting the advance, and there still remained a stubborn short interest in certain stocks, as, for example, in American Sugar Company stock. Now if that short interest could be stampeded it might mean an eight or ten-point advance. If he bought 10,000 or 15,000 shares and sold them at an average profit of four or five points, he would put off the disaster, and if he made ten points he would be a great operator. He had, to be sure, no business to buy even 1,000 shares of Sugar; but then he had no business to be on the verge of bankruptcy.
The liquor was potent. Sally said to himself, aggrievedly: “I might as well be hung for a flock as for one measly old mutton.”
He walked a trifle unsteadily from “Fred’s” across the narrow asphalted New Street to the Stock Exchange. He paused at the entrance. There was no escape. Unless he could make a lucky strike, he would fail ignominiously.
“Pike’s Peak or bust!” he muttered to himself, and walked into the big room.
“Good-morning, Mr. Hayward,” said the doorkeeper. Hayward nodded absently, caught himself repeating, “Pike’s Peak or bust!” and walked straight toward the Sugar post.
He began to bid for stock. One thousand shares at 116; he got it. Another thousand; it was forthcoming at 116⅛. A third thousand; somebody was glad to sell it at 116½. So far, so bad. Then he bid 117 for 2,500 shares, and it was promptly sold. But when he bid “117 for any part of 5,000!” the crowd hesitated; the brokers were not altogether sure Hayward was “good for it”; his ability to pay for the stock was not undoubted. So Sally, taking advantage of the hesitation, bid 117¼ and 117½ for 5,000 Sugar, at which price “Billy” Thatcher, a two-dollar broker, sold it to him. It made 10,500 shares Hayward had bought, and the stock had risen only 1½ points. The shorts were not frightened a wee bit. But Sally was. He rushed out of the crowd to his telephone and made a pretence of “reporting” the transactions to his office, as he would have done had they been bona fide purchases. He was followed by a hundred sharply curious—and curiously sharp—eyes. They saw him hold the telephone receiver to his ear with an expression of great interest, as if he were listening to an important message. But the only message he heard was that of his heart-beats, that seemed to say, almost articulately: “You have played and you have lost; you have played and you have lost. Therefore, you are that much worse off than before. You must play again—and not lose!”
He left his telephone and rushed back to the Sugar crowd. He was less excited, less like a drunken man; his face was no longer flushed, but pale. And anon there flashed upon him, as if in candent letters, the words Pike’s Peak or bust! But Pike’s Peak glowed dully, feebly, while the alternative was of a lurid splendor. And he blinked his eyes and made a curious impatient motion with his hand, as one waves away an annoying insect.
He gave an order for 5,000 Sugar to his friend, Newton Hartley.
“Is this for yourself, Sally?” asked Hartley.