Tamms looked after him long and curiously, as an artist might look after a retreating cow which had just knocked over his easel and trampled on his study of pastoral life. Charlie looked at Tamms. The hour for him to be upon the Stock Exchange had long since passed; but he still sat there, and nothing was said for some time. Finally Tamms took a bit of paper, and began to roll it up into little balls.
“It is very unnecessary for Mr. Townley to take up such a quixotic attitude,” said he. “That sort of thing is all very well in Shakespeare.” And he threw his little balls of paper, with great accuracy, one into each of the three other corners of the room.
“What shall I do, sir, about the circular?”
“You must have it printed at once, and mailed, as Mr. Townley directed. But Mr. Lauer will attend to that.” (Lauer was the bookkeeper.) “This insane action of Townley’s will require considerable ready money. You must go to the board at once, and sell some Allegheny Central.” Tamms had endeavored to assume his slightly contemptuous air in speaking of his partner; but it seemed to Charlie that there was still a pallor in his sharp face that belied his jauntiness.
“How much shall I sell, sir?”
“All we’ve got,” said Tamms, curtly. Charlie nodded, and jumped up to leave the room. When he got to the street-door a clerk came running after him. “Don’t sell yourself—get Lawson, Rawson & Co. to do it,” said Tamms, as he turned back. Charlie nodded again, and was off. Now, Lawson, Rawson & Co. were Deacon Remington’s brokers; ergo Tamms did not want people to know he was selling; ergo, he was selling in good earnest. It looked bad. And he had thought Tamms such a clever fellow!
Charlie was very busy at the stock-board that afternoon. He bought a few hundred shares himself, but this had little avail in staying the price against the thousands with which Lawson, Rawson & Co. deluged the market. Charlie did not trouble himself much then with thinking; he had no positive capital in the firm of Townley & Tamms; but he had a feeling that it was a critical moment for them. He could not help a slight wonder that Tamms had yielded to his senior so easily; but then he reflected that a violent rupture at such a juncture meant to Tamms even more certain financial ruin than the firm incurred by making good the Terminal bonds. Despite Charlie’s strategy, and the few hundreds he bought with much vociferation, the price sagged from 93 to 90 and a fraction; and there was a wild and struggling crowd of panting men about the iron standard that bore the sign of Allegheny Central. Now and then Charlie would elbow his way into the outskirts and make a feeble bid or two; but a good-natured friend volunteered advice that it was no use, and “the best thing he could do was to wait until the Deacon had got his lines well out, and then catch him short,” advice which Charlie received with a smile. At all events, the Governor could not say he had not done things well; for even his friend had not suspected that it was he who was selling.
Dick Rawson was standing in the middle, red-faced and breathless, his voice already hoarse, like a stag at bay amid a pack of leaping hounds. Charlie looked at him and for a fraction of a second caught his eye. Then Charlie looked at the wall beneath the gallery. That wall is used for members’ signals, and as he watched it, a wooden lid fell back, revealing a white placard with the number 449. Now, this was Charlie’s number, and it meant that there was someone for him in the lobby; he went out at once, and the number sprang back out of sight with a click, worked by some clockwork mechanism. In the lobby Charlie found a messenger with a sealed note addressed to him. It was a hastily pencilled scrawl from Rawson, the very man who was standing in the focus of the excited throng, but of course had given no sign of any understanding there.
“I have sold 11,000. Shall I go on?