That he actually had done so was not now denied.
The news, fully verified, had by this time been wired all over America.
Vance Thornton’s name was that morning on every business man’s lips from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from the Great Lakes to the Gulf of Mexico.
Traders who must buy the grain to fulfil their contracts now began to call at Mr. Whitemore’s office in the Rookery Building.
They inquired deferentially for the boy who held the market in his hand, and bowed to his mandate when he dictated the price.
Among the brokers who dropped in that morning was Mr. Jarboe, the dignified head of the firm of Jarboe, Willicutt & Co.
“I’ll see him,” said Vance when his name was handed in.
“Good-morning, Mr. Thornton,” said the trader, as politely as his feelings would permit.
“Good-morning, Mr. Jarboe. What can I do for you?”
“The fact is, young man,” answered the broker, hesitatingly, “we are short to you one million bushels at (here he named a figure) a bushel. I want to know how much it is going to cost us to get out of your corner.”