Aleck and Wycherley look at each other.
“He’s looking for a telegram too,” mutters the latter; “wonder if one will come for me from Vanderbilt or George Gould, asking me to take charge.”
“Well, gentlemen, I wish you good-day. Market’s on the rise—a little excitement—Consolidated——”
Wycherley clutches his arm.
“Don’t tell me sir, it’s gone higher?” he exclaims, his face elongated, his eyes distended.
“Why, yes—two cents above yesterday’s highest quotation.”
The actor puts one hand on his heart, and his whole attitude is one of bliss.
“Aleck, my dear boy—do you hear that? I had the audacity to back Consolidated again with half my pile. It means another million to me.”
“What!” roars the big operator, aghast.
Mr. Wycherley recovers himself, while Aleck turns aside so that his smile may not offend the peculiar fellow he calls friend—the warm-hearted oddity who has in times past tried nearly every vocation on the list, only to find himself a round peg in a square hole, and who is still vainly groping for his true business in life.