itation, Crookes, with a
succinct nod, turned upon his heel and walked away.

At Kinsley's that day, in a private room on the second floor, Cressler
met not only Crookes, but his associate Sweeny, and another gentleman
by the name of Freye, the latter one of his oldest and best-liked
friends.

Sweeny was an Irishman, florid, flamboyant, talkative, who spoke with a
faint brogue, and who tagged every observation, argument, or remark
with the phrase, "Do you understand me, gen'lemen?" Freye, a
German-American, was a quiet fellow, very handsome, with black side
whiskers and a humourous, twinkling eye. The three were members of the
Board of Trade, and were always associated with the Bear forces.
Indeed, they could be said to be its leaders. Between them, as Cressler
afterwards was accustomed to say, "They could have bought pretty much
all of the West Side."

And during the course of the luncheon these three, with a simplicity
and a directness that for the moment left Cressler breathless,
announced that they were preparing to drive the Unknown Bull out of the
Pit, and asked him to become one of the clique.

Crookes, whom Cressler intuitively singled out as the leader, did not
so much as open his mouth till Sweeny had talked himself breathless,
and all the preliminaries were out of the way. Then he remarked, his
eye as lifeless as the eye of a fish, his voice as expressionless as
the voice of Fate itself:

"I don't know who the big Bull is, and I don't care a curse. But he
don't suit my book. I want him out of the market. We've let him have
his way now for three or four months. We figured we'd let him run to
the dollar mark. The May option closed this morning at a dollar and an
eighth.... Now we take hold.

"But," Cressler hastened to object, "you forget--I'm not a speculator."

Freye smiled, and tapped his friend on the arm.

"I guess, Charlie," he said, "that there won't be much speculating
about this."

"Why, gen'lemen," cried Sweeny, brandishing a fork, "we're going to
sell him right out o' the market, so we are. Simply flood out the
son-of-a-gun--you understand me, gen'lemen?"

Cressler shook his head.

"No," he answered. "No, you must count me out. I quit speculating years
ago. And, besides, to sell short on this kind of market--I don't need
to tell you what you risk."

"Risk hell!" muttered Crookes.

"Well, now, I'll explain to you, Charlie," began Freye.

The other two withdrew a little from the conv