"Oh, so-so."
"Making money?"
The salutation came like a trick to his lips before he noticed the adoption. Crowley looked rather pleased.
"Thanks, I've got a pretty good thing. If you've got any loose change I can put you on to a cinch. Step into the club a moment. You'll see a lot of the crowd."
At the club, an immense hotel filled with businesslike young men rushing in and rushing out, thronging the grill-room with hats and coats on, an eye to the clock, Bojo was acclaimed with that rapturous campus enthusiasm which greets a returned hero. The tribute pleased him, after the journey through the indifferent multitude. It was something to return as even a moderate-sized frog to the small puddle. He wandered from group to group, ensconced at round tables for a snatched moment before the call of the evening. The vitality of these groups, the conflict of sounds in the low room, bewildered him. Speculation was in the air. The bonanza age of American finance was reaching its climax. Immense corporations were being formed overnight and stocks were mounting by bounds. All the talk in corners was of this tip and that while in the jumble staccato sentences struck his ear.
"A sure thing, Joe— I'll tell you where I got it."
"They say Harris cleaned up two thousand last week."
"The amalgamation's bound to go through."
"I'm in the bond business now; let me talk to you."
"Two more years in the law school, worse luck."