Montague went in and got his money, in six new, crisp, ten-thousand-dollar bills. He buttoned them up in his inmost pocket, wondering a little, incidentally, at the magnificence of the place, and at the swift routine manner in which the clerk took in and paid out such sums as this. Then they drove to Oliver’s bank, and he drew a hundred and twenty thousand; and then he paid off the cab, and they strolled down Broadway into Wall Street. It lacked a quarter of an hour of the time of the opening of the Exchange; and a stream of prosperous-looking men were pouring in from all the cars and ferries to their offices.
“Where are your brokers?” Montague inquired.
“I don’t have any brokers—at least not for a matter such as this,” said Oliver. And he stopped in front of one of the big buildings. “In there,” he said, “are the offices of Hammond and Streeter—second floor to your left. Go there and ask for a member of the firm, and introduce yourself under an assumed name—”
“What!” gasped Montague.
“Of course, man—you would not dream of giving your own name! What difference will that make?”
“I never thought of doing such a thing,” said the other.
“Well, think of it now.”
But Montague shook his head. “I would not do that,” he said.
Oliver shrugged his shoulders. “All right,” he said; “tell him you don’t care to give your name. They’re a little shady—they’ll take your money.”
“Suppose they won’t?” asked the other.