The Canadian draws a long puff at his cigar, as though reflecting. Then he turns suddenly upon his companion and says:
“I see how it is, my dear fellow; you are running the Midway—it is a little private speculation of yours.”
“No, no; I deny the soft impeachment,” returns the Chicagoan, laughing heartily.
“At least you own the Ferris wheel? Now don’t deny that.”
“I must. True, I took in tickets at the entrance for a time, and even pushed people into the cars, but when I went into this other colossal business I had to give that up. No man could continually put twenty people where ten ought to go, and at the same time do justice to great deals involving millions.”
“You are right, my boy. But will you kindly relieve my suspense and tell me the nature of this marvelous business.”
Wycherley removes his pipe and says laconically:
“You’ve heard of Wall Street. Well, we have no Wall Street in Chicago, but we’ve got the greatest lot of hustlers in the grain pit you ever heard of, from Hutchinson, in days gone by, to old Samson Cereal, the grain king of to-day. Now you understand why I gave up a lucrative office; now you can see where the immense profits come in. Why, look here,” snatching out the book again and showing a closely written page, “there’s what will to-morrow either win or lose me a cool million.”
Craig begins to be amused.
“Oh! and I presume you’re quite prepared to meet your losses if fortune is against you?”