"How deep shall I go in?"
"Fifty thousand, to begin with. However, there won't be many transfers actually made; the bulls will merely pay the differences."
"Or else waddle out of the street lame ducks."
Bullion rubbed his hands, while his eyes shone with a colder glitter.
"Well, you are a bear, truly," said Fletcher, with unfeigned admiration,—"a real Ursa Major."
"To be sure, I'm a bear. What's the use in being a bull in times like these, to be skinned and sold for your hide and tallow?"
"The market is falling, and no mistake."
"Yes, and will fall lower. Stocks haven't been down since '37 so low as you will see them a month from now."
Fletcher bowed——and waited. Bullion pointed the eyebrow again.
"You don't want to begin on an uncertainty. I see. Sharp. Proper enough. I'll give you ten per cent. of the profits,—you to pay the commissions. Each day's work to be set down, and at the end of each week I'll give you a note for your share. That do? I thought it would. I offer a liberal figure, for I think you know something, youngster. Use your judgment, now. Consult me, of course; but mum's the word. If any stock is pushed in, lay hold, and don't be afraid. The holders must sell, and they must sacrifice. We'll skin 'em, by G—," said Bullion, with an excitement that was rare in a cool, hard head like his. Then thinking he had been too outspoken, he resumed his former concise manner.