Madison listened attentively until he stopped speaking. Then he looked up, his manner defiant and aggressive.
"I'll take a chance," he said contemptuously, "but before you start I want to tell you that the class of people you belong to, I have no use for—they don't speak my language. You are what they call a manipulator of stocks. That means that you are living on the weaknesses of other people, and it almost means that you get your daily bread—yes—and your cake and your wine, too, from the sweat and toil of others. You're a safe gambler, a 'gambler under cover.' Show me a man who's dealing bank; he's free and above board. But you—you can figure the percentage against you, and then if you buck the tiger and get stung, you do it with your eyes open. With you Wall Street men, the game is crooked twelve months of the year. From a business point of view, I think you're a crook!" He paused, as if to see the effect of his words. Then he added: "Now I guess we understand each other. If you've got anything to say, why—spill it."
Brockton rose impatiently. His voice rising in anger, he said:
"We're not talking business now, but women. How much money do you earn?"
For a moment Madison was taken aback by the very impudence of the question. He glared at his questioner, and half rose from his seat with a threatening gesture. But noting the cool and composed manner of the broker, he merely shrugged his shoulders. Clenching his teeth, he leaned forward and said warningly:
"Understand, I don't think it is any of your damned business! But I'm going through with you on this proposition, just to see how the land lays. Take my tip, however. Be mighty careful how you speak about the girl, if you're not looking for trouble."
Paying no attention to the covert threat, Brockton went on:
"How much did you say you made?"
"Thirty dollars a week."
The broker gave vent to a low, but expressive whistle. Elevating his eyebrows, he asked: