“What is the price of Great Midwestern to-day?”
“Eight,” said Galt, amid profound silence.
That was all. Yet it was as if a spark had passed through inflammable gas. The same feeling was deepened further by another incident.
“Coxey,” said Galt, addressing me rhetorically, “what one thing has impressed you most in Wall Street?”
“The unbelief of people in themselves, in each other and in what they are doing,” I replied.
“What’s that? Say it again.”
I said it again, whereat he burst forth with shrill, discordant, exulting sounds, beating the china with a spoon and making for one person an incredible uproar. At the same time he looked about him with a high air, especially at his wife, whose expression was perfectly blank. Natalie smiled grimly. The old mother was oblivious.
“I don’t see anything in that,” I said, when the racket subsided.
“There is, though,” he said. “You didn’t mean to do it but you hit ’em in the eye that time,—square in the eye. Wow!” He was very agreeably excited and got up from the table.
“Come on,” he said, “we’ll talk in my room.”