"What is the prospect to-morrow?" Sommers asked timidly. He felt out of place in all the skurry of the brokers' office, where men were drinking in the last quotations as the office boy scratched them on the board.
"Dunno. Can't tell. Good, if the Senate doesn't shoot off its mouth any more."
"How much is Webber margined for?"
"Say, Phil," Einstein sang out to his partner, who came out from another cubbyhole, "how much has Webber on Iron?"
"Six points," White replied. He nodded to Sommers. The doctor remembered White as one of the negative figures of his early months in Chicago,—a smiling, slim, youthful college boy. Evidently he was the genteel member of the firm. Sommers thought again. He could not wait. "Will you carry him five points more?" he asked.
"Can you put up the money?" White replied indifferently.
"No," the doctor admitted. "But I will try to get it at once."
Einstein shook his head. But White asked, good-naturedly, "Are you sure?"
"I think so," the doctor replied.
"Well, that'll tide him over; the market is sure to go back next week."