“Well, tell it this for me,” said Galt. “Tell it just as I tell you. The panic is over.”
“But, Mr.—”
“Now, that’s all,” said Galt. “Ain’t it enough?”
I had been to look at the tape.
“Great Midwestern is a hundred and thirty,” I announced at large.
The reporters stared at me wide-eyed.
Postey ran to look for himself, bumping Mordecai aside.
“That’s right,” he said, making swiftly for the door. The others followed him in a trampling rush.
The sensation now to be accounted for was not the weakness but the sudden recovery of Great Midwestern and Galt’s statement explained it. So they were anxious to spread their news.
It was true. Galt had timed his stroke unerringly.