"I've found the very place," responded Blagden. "Floyd & Meredith, in the Exchange Building. They are thoroughly reliable, and the office is precisely the right size. It's big enough so we won't attract attention--they have perhaps fifteen or twenty customers in the office, on an average. And it's small enough so that we can always have a place at the ticker, and see our stuff as it comes."
Mills stared out into the sunshine. "And what sized lots," he asked, "are you going to trade in?"
"I shall take no chances," Blagden answered. "I am going to be over cautious, for if anything happens this time, it will surely be our finish. I'm going to play in three lots of a hundred shares each, which will give us twenty points margin on each lot. That's conservative, isn't it?"
"Sure," Mills grinned. "After some of the shoestring margins I've played on, twenty points sounds like the Bank of England, with certain portions of Broadway thrown in. And whether you buy or sell, I suppose it will be on a scale, up or down."
"Exactly," Blagden assented. "That is the way the big men do it; we know that now for a certainty. And what is good enough for them is good enough for us."
There was silence for a moment; then Blagden continued earnestly, "Tubby, if we are right, can you imagine what this is going to mean? Think of it. Actually to win, instead of losing. No more horror of sudden bulges or drops. No more nightmares of dwindling margins. No more agony of stop orders caught and accounts wiped out. To think of piling up gold, steadily, unceasingly, till we have all we want. Honestly, it seems too good to be true."
Mills sighed. "That's what I'm afraid of," he rejoined. "I've been a lamb--or a goat, whichever you choose to call it--so long, that I can't make myself believe we can ever take money out of the market. But there's one comfort; we've always lost before, so if we lose again this time, it won't be a new experience, and we really can't complain."
Blagden rose from his seat. "We mustn't turn faint hearted now!" he cried. "We've been through a good deal in the last ten days, or our nerves would be in better shape. Come on, let's get down to State Street and have it over with. As you say, we can't do more than lose."
A half hour later, they had entered the Exchange Building, ascended to the office of Floyd & Meredith, and were cordially greeted by Farwell, the amiable, bald-headed and inoffensive customers' man. It was still a few minutes to ten; a dozen speculators talked, read, or studied the "dope" in letters, telegrams and financial papers of all descriptions. Bearishness was in the air. "They're a sale." That was the slogan on every lip; that was the message, express or implied, upon each printed page. From the firm's correspondents in New York came the word, "Sell them on the bulges; don't buy them at any price."
Blagden strolled over to where Farwell was standing. "Not a very bullish crowd in here," he observed.