"All right," I agreed. "I'll be down at the office until the morning."
[CHAPTER 28]
The highly respectable receptionist at the office of Tompkins, Wasson & Cone almost smiled at me.
"There are several gentlemen waiting for you, Mr. Tompkins," she announced. "Some of them have been here since before lunch. Do you plan to receive them or shall I ask them to return tomorrow?"
"No, I'll see them in a few minutes," I replied. "Miss Briggs will let you know."
No sooner had I settled down at my desk, however, than Graham Wasson and Phil Cone came dancing in, wreathed in tickertape.
"We're rich! We're rich!" they chanted.
"Where's the Marine Band and 'Hail to the Chief'?" I asked. "How rich are we, anyway?"
"We cleaned up," Wasson said. "Just a bit under three million in one week. It was as you said. We went short of the market and after Roosevelt's death, boy! did they liquidate! And thanks to Phil here, we got out before the big boys put the squeeze on the shorts."