“My husband,” sobbed the woman at last, “has invested everything we possess in wheat, and since that time the price of wheat has been falling steadily. Now we are on the verge of ruin.”
“What on earth did he meddle with wheat for? It is more dangerous than dynamite.”
“I don’t know,” wept the young woman; “but Tom thought it was sure to rise.”
“Yes. They always think that. How much did he purchase?”
“One million bushels.”
“Good gracious! Do you happen to know the price?”
“Yes, seventy-eight cents.”
“Great Scott! Do you mean to say that you two silly young people took on an obligation of seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, when you possess less than fifty thousand? When he made the deal, how much of a margin did he put up?”
“You mean the money he gave the broker? Ten thousand dollars.”
“Ah, then a decline of a cent a bushel would wipe that out.”