It was a terrible hour. He looked furtively at the clock, the while he kept on bidding. Some minutes of the “call” still remained. A messenger forced his way through the crowd, with a note from the office. It was from their banking-clerk: “Money ten per cent. Fechheimer has called for margin.” Curse the rate of money; what cared he what it cost if they had only got it? Why in heaven didn’t Lauer tell him that? And he wiped the sweat from his brow and went on bidding.
And now there was a sudden eddy in the crowd, and it opened inward and he saw Deacon Remington himself. Townley’s face fell, despite him; he was not yet old enough to be quite a perfect gambler; and there was a sort of awe-struck hush, as the ranks of the Greeks might have hushed before Troy when Achilles took the field.
“Five thousand at seventy-five,” said old Remington, turning a wad of tobacco in his cheek.
“Take it,” said Charlie, coolly. Now seventy-five was nearly two whole points below the last quoted sale; which had been a little lot of two hundred shares sold by—alas, shall we say it? Of such, however, is the friendship of Wall Street—his old friend Arthur Holyoke. Charlie was reckless now, and had nailed his colors to the mast; a pretty sure sign, by the way, that a man is beaten.
But the artful Tamms had still one more trick in his bag. In the momentary hush that followed this first discharge of heavy guns, Charlie got another telegram. It was dated Brooklyn, like the first. “Allegheny Central—special stockholders meeting for dividend—books close to-morrow.” Tamms would have compressed the gospel of eternal life into ten words.
Then a clever idea struck young Townley. If they had no money, neither had Remington and his crowd any stock. “Post this telegram,” he said to his clerk who had brought it. And then:
“I want ten thousand more of Allegheny Central—cash.”
Now “cash” meant that the stock must be delivered that day, as the books closed on the morrow.
There was another pause. He could hear the younger brokers among his adversaries anxiously inquiring the loaning rate on Allegheny Central. Now Charlie knew very well there was none to loan.
“I’ll give seventy-six for ten thousand, cash.” And this time there was a sort of wolf-like howl; but no other response.