Mrs. Hastings shook her head at him. “No,” she said; “you certainly wouldn’t while I had any say in the matter. You’re rather a good farmer, but I haven’t met one yet who made a successful speculator. Some of our friends have tried it—and you know where it landed them. I expect those broker and mortgage men must lick their lips when a nice fat woolly farmer comes along. It must be quite delightful to shear him.”
Hastings laughed. “I should like to point out that most of the farmers in this country are decidedly thin, and have uncommonly little wool on them.” Then he turned to the others. “I feel inclined to tell you how Mrs. Hastings made the expenses of her Paris trip; it’s an example of feminine consistency. She went around the neighborhood and bought up all the wheat anybody had left on hand, or, at least, she made me do it.”
Mrs. Hastings, who had means of her own, nodded. “That was different,” she declared; “anyway, I had the wheat, and I—knew—it would go up.”
“Then why shouldn’t other folks sell forward, for instance, when they know it will go down? That’s not what I suggested doing, but the point’s the same.”
“They haven’t got the wheat.”
“Of course; they wouldn’t operate for a fall if they had. On the other hand, if their anticipations proved correct, they could buy it for less than they sold at before they had to deliver.”
“That,” asserted Mrs. Hastings severely, “is pure gambling. It’s sure to land one in the hands of the mortgage jobber.”
Hastings smiled at the others. “As a matter of fact, it not infrequently does, but I want you to note the subtle distinction. The thing’s quite legitimate if you’ve only got the wheat in a bag. In such a case you must naturally operate for a rise.”
“There’s a good deal to be said for that point of view,” observed Sproatly. “You can keep the wheat if you’re not satisfied, but when you try the other plan the margin that may vanish at any moment is the danger. I suppose Gregory has still been selling the Range wheat, Winifred?”
“I believe we have sent on every bushel.”