“The day on which the stock-gambling structure falls is the day for which all honest men and women should pray.”
Bob Brownley paused and let his eyes sweep his dumfounded audience. There was not a murmur. The crowd was speechless.
Again his eyes swept the room. Then he slowly raised his right hand with fist clenched, as though about to deal a blow.
“Men of Wall Street”—his voice was now deep and solemn—“to show that Robert Brownley knew what was fitting for the last day of his career, he has revealed to you the trick—and more.
“Many of you are desperate. Many of you by to-morrow will be ruined. The time of all times for such to put my trick in practice is now. The victim of victims is ready for the experiment. I am he. I have a billion dollars. With this billion dollars I am able to buy ten million shares of the leading stocks and to pay for them, even though after I have bought they fall a hundred dollars a share. Here is your chance to prevent your ruin, your chance to retrieve your fortune, your chance to secure revenge upon me, the one who has robbed you.”
He paused only long enough for his astounding advice to connect with his listener’s now keenly sensitive nerve centres; then deep and clear rang out, “Barry Conant.” The wiry form of Bob’s old antagonist leaped to the rostrum.
“I authorise you to buy any part of ten million shares of the leading stocks at any price up to fifty points above the present market. There is my check-book signed in blank, and I authorise you to use it up to a billion dollars, and I agree to have in bank to-morrow sufficient funds to meet any checks you draw. You have failed to-day for seven millions, and, therefore, cannot trade, but I herewith announce that I will pay all the indebtedness of Barry Conant and his house. Therefore he is now in good standing.” Bob had kept his eye on the great clock; as the last word passed his lips, the President’s gavel descended.
With a mighty rush the gamblers leaped for the different poles. Barry Conant with lightning rapidity gave his orders to twenty of his assistants, who, when Bob Brownley called for Conant, had gathered around their chief. In less than a minute the dollar-battle of the age was on, a battle such as no man had ever seen before. It required no supernatural wisdom for any man on the floor to see that Bob Brownley’s seed had fallen in superheated soil, that his until now secret hellite was about to be tested. It needed no expert in the mystic art of deciphering the wall hieroglyphics of Old Hag Fate to see that the hands on the clock of the “System” were approaching twelve. It needed no ear trained to hear human heart and soul beats to detect the approaching sound of onrushing doom to the stock-gambling structure. The deafening roar of the brokers that had broken the stillness following Robert Brownley’s fateful speech had awakened echoes that threatened to shake down the Exchange walls. The surging mob on the outside was roaring like a million hungry lions in an Arbestan run at slaughter time.
Chapter X.
The instant after the gong sounded Bob Brownley was alone on the floor at the foot of the president’s desk. His form was swaying like a reed on the edge of the cyclone’s path. I jumped to his side. His brother, who had during Bob’s harangue been vainly endeavouring to beat his way through the crowd, was there first. “For God’s sake, Bob, hear me. Word came from your house half an hour ago of the miracle: Beulah has awakened to her past. Her mind is clear; the nurses are frantic for you to come to her.”