Armstrong was dumbfounded, staggered. For Ried Williams answered for ten thousand shares!
A low mutter passed through the crowd; it swelled and swelled into a vibrant, angry roar of protest. The supercilious smile vanished from the lips of Findlater. Macgowan, furious, bellowed for silence. At last, unable to get it, he held out his hand toward the standing figure of Mansfield in tacit permission. The uproar quieted.
As Mansfield voiced objection, Armstrong's attention was suddenly dragged away. He found Jimmy Wren at his elbow, gripping his arm, agitated and tense.
"Come to the telephone—long distance—French at Chicago wants you—"
"Damn the telephone!" Armstrong was trying to catch Mansfield's voice. "Tell 'em—"
"You've got to come! It's the Chicago office—come and hear for yourself! It's more important than anything here—"
One look into the eyes of Wren, and Armstrong obeyed. He rose, suffered Wren to pilot him out, wondering what new stroke of fate was to fall upon him. Ten thousand shares that did not exist! This was more than audacity; it was insolence. Macgowan could never get away with such action as this. He had passed the limit at last. His effrontery had now over-reached itself—
"Hello!" Armstrong spoke into the telephone. "Armstrong speaking. Who is it?"
He listened for a moment; his face changed. A start escaped him, as though from some invisible blow.
"What's that again?" he demanded vibrantly. "Repeat it!"