Chapter XIV
ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WHIRLPOOL
On the rear deck of a ferry-boat bound for Hoboken on the morning of May 12th stood Randolph Taney, with his hands in his pockets, gazing intently at the foaming waters of the Hudson plowed up by the screw. It was all over: he had speculated in Wall Street, putting his money on Harriman, and had lost every cent he had. What Harriman could safely do with a million, Randolph Taney could not do with a quarter of a million. That's why he had lost. Fortunately only his own money. The whole bundle of papers wasn't worth any more than the copy of the Times tossed about in the swirling water in the wake of the boat.
Randolph Taney kept on thinking. Just why he was going to Hoboken he really didn't know, but it made little difference what he did.
"Halloo, Taney," called out an acquaintance, "where are you going?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? How's that?"
"I'm done for."
"You're not the only one; Wall Street is a dangerous vortex."
"But I'm absolutely cleaned out."