Down it went—46—45. Dixon had sold a large block for his private account. Flushed and excited, he camped beside the ticker, ceasing to take any interest in the cotton market, chewing a dead cigarette to pieces, talking incessantly. Lang and Carroll ceased to be “gentlemen.” He called them “boys,” and Carroll addressed him as “Dix,” and hit him furiously on the back when the stock made a half-point drop at once. With a thousand shares at stake, every point down meant a win of a thousand dollars.
Where would it stop? Where was the bottom? Forty-four—43—42-1/2—43 again.
Lang drew himself painfully out of the pit of fascination.
“We must get out of it—cover our sales. It’s rallying,” he exclaimed.
“Nonsense! Don’t be a quitter!” Carroll snapped.
“Don’t worry,” said Dixon. “It’s only the rally before the closing market—people taking profits. I expected it. It’ll open down to 40 to-morrow morning. Let it stand over night.”
Forty-three—43-1/8—43-1/4, then down an eighth, up a quarter, a rally, forty-four.
“Sell out!” insisted Lang.
He had a sudden amazement at what he had done, at what he had risked. Suppose they had been wiped out—how could he ever have explained the transaction?
Carroll protested wildly, drunk with winning. It was the chance of a lifetime; they stood to clear a fortune; but Lang was inflexible. Desperately anxious to close before the stock could rally further, he insisted on instant buying in, and Dixon sent the order.