"Yes," replies a voice at his elbow, "and it may be that a slump of the market is at the bottom of most of this. I wouldn't trust these brokers. They'd kill a regiment to get a flurry on the market if they were short."
The stout man, who happens to be a stock broker, says no more.
"Get yer extra, all about six millionaires killed; get yer extra!" cry the newsboys.
"Make it seven," shouts a coarse voice from the very heart of the mass of humanity.
And seven it is to be.
The bulletin is being cleared for a fresh notice.
"Bet you it's a Banker this time," a book-keeper, who had deserted his desk to get the latest news, says jestingly.
"Ah, it'll be a dead shoemaker next," laughingly exclaims a messenger boy who has heard the book-keeper's remark.
By a strange coincidence the name that appears the following instant is that of Henry Hide, the head of the leather Trust. The ribald jest of the boy proves to be all too true.