"And Harding?"
"It remains to be proven whether the fault lies in the man himself or in his alleged bad luck. I am sending him the bare fact as to the canal bill's fate, and it is for him to seize the skirts of chance. I'll write the note now and deliver it at the office myself in the morning. Then we will see."
"We will see," I echoed, and we parted for the night.
At one o'clock the following afternoon Indiman and I stood watching the ticker in an up-town broker's office.
"The Senate rejects the canal treaty," read out Indiman. "Now for the next quotation of Panama common; the last sale was at 70 1/2. Will you take the tape, Mr. Barnes?"
There was an instant's pause in the click-click of the instrument, the heart-gripping lull before the breaking of the tempest. Then the wheels began to revolve again, and the white tape, our modern thread of the Norns, sped through the twitching fingers of the young chap to whom Indiman had yielded place.
"Five hundred Pan. com., 68," he read out. "One thousand, 67 1/2; four hundred, 67; two thousand, 65. I guess I've seen enough, gentlemen; it's my—my finish." He gulped down something in his throat and walked over to the water-cooler,
"And enough for us," whispered Indiman. "Let us go."
"It's the way of the world," I philosophized as we gained the street. "One man up and another down. He is young; he will have his chance again."
"It is Harding's day," said Indiman.