“We’ll let them wait until supper’s over. I don’t expect any news that’s particularly good,” he said. “The bottom’s apparently dropping out of the wheat market.”
“Mr. Hamilton can’t get cars enough, and we’ll have to shut down in another day or two unless they turn up,” remarked Winifred. “It’s much the same all along the line. The Winnipeg traffic people wired us that they haven’t an empty car in the yards. Why do you rush the grain in that way? It’s bound to break the market.”
Hastings smiled. “Well,” he explained, “a good many of us have bills to meet. For another thing, they’ve had a heavy crop in Manitoba, Dakota and Minnesota, and I suppose some folks have an idea they’ll get in first before the other people swamp the Eastern markets. I think they’re foolish. It’s a temporary scare. Prices will stiffen by and by.”
“That’s what Mr. Hamilton says, but I suppose the thing is natural. Men are very like sheep, aren’t they?”
Mr. Hastings laughed. “Well,” he admitted, “we are, in some respects. When prices break a little we generally rush to sell. One or two of my neighbors are holding on, and it’s hardly likely that very much of my wheat will be flung on to a falling market.”
“We have been getting a good deal from the Range.”
There was displeasure in Hastings’ face. “Gregory’s selling largely on Harry’s account?”
“They’ve been hauling wheat in to us for the last few weeks,” said Winifred.
Agatha noticed that Hastings glanced at his wife significantly, but Mrs. Hastings interposed and forbade any further conversation on the subject until supper was over. After the table had been cleared Hastings opened his papers. The others sat expectantly silent, while he turned the pages over one after another.
“No,” he said, “there’s no news of Harry, and I’m afraid it’s scarcely possible that we’ll hear anything of him this winter.”