Sommers leaned forward and touched Webber, who, with open mouth, was following the figures. Webber turned round, but his head went back to the board. The glance he had given was empty—the glance of the drunkard.
"Your young friend's got hit," White remarked apathetically. "He shouldn't try to play marbles with this crowd. Carson is just chucking new stocks at the public. But he has a clique with him that can do anything."
In spite of this opinion "Rag" tottered and wavered. Rumors rapidly spread among the onlookers that Carson had failed to put "Rag" through; that the consolidated companies would fall asunder on the morrow, like badly glued veneer; that Porter "had gone back on Carson" and was selling the stock. The quotations fell: common stock 60, 59, 56, 50, 45, 48, 50, 52, 45, 40—so ran the dazzling line of figures across the blackboard, again and again.
"There'll be fun to-morrow," White remarked, moving away. "Better come in and see Vinegar and Oil and the rest of Carson's list get a black eye."
Sommers touched Webber, then shook him gently, asking,
"What is it this time? Iron and Distillery?"
"Rag," Webber snapped, recognizing the doctor. "And I'm done for this time sure thing—every red copper. I made two thousand last week on Tin, and this morning I chucked the whole pile into Rag."
"You'd better come with me," Sommers urged. "The Exchange is closing for to-day, anyway."
The clerk laughed, and replied: "Let's have a drink. I've just got enough to get drunk on."
"You're drunk already," the doctor answered gruffly.