"They are selling 'Little Alicia'—your stock—down there!" he gasped. "Have you—have you—"
"No; I haven't put mine on the market. It's some of my partner's, Grigsby's, stock. I suppose he couldn't stand the push."
Once more the president listened. Only an ex-wrestler in the wheat pit could have picked intelligence out of the Babel of puts and calls.
"It's up to a hundred and fifty!" he exploded. "What did you pay for your shares, Mr. Ford?"
"Twenty," said Ford coolly.
"Good Heavens! I—I hope you hold a safe majority?"
"No; we broke even, Grigsby and I. I have fifty per cent."
The president groaned.
"I—I'll excuse you, Mr. Ford. Get down there at once and buy that other necessary share!"
Ford shook his head with predetermined gloom. "No, Mr. Colbrith, I'm not buying any more mining stock. What I did buy seems to have cost me my job."