the gage of battle. No longer was this the
heartsick face which of late had avoided the gaze of his fellows. It was
the fighting face of one who hurls himself into the thick of a
struggle, seeking forgetfulness in the ferocity of combat.

"163 for any part of 10,000"--"SOLD!"

With each repetition the unchanged formula took on an added ferocity--a
deeper meaning. It was a three-cornered duel. Jack Staples leaned
eagerly forward, his eyes burning and keen with aggressive alertness
like a boxer facing opponents in a battle royal. Len Haswell seemed
bending to meet him, his long arm raised and his face afire, while
Hardinge, whose place had been for the moment preempted, mopped his
brow, already perspiring, and smiled grimly like a relay racer waiting
his turn.

But what gave an undercurrent of terrific force to the battle of these
three men was the thing which every broker present understood--that one
of them was the floor spokesman of Malone and Harrison and the old
invincible order of Consolidated--and that two voiced the message of the
new power and in the name of Hamilton Burton were declaring a war to the
death.

"160 for any part of 20,000"--"SOLD!"

Generals had broken fifteen points in ten minutes and were slumping as
though their foundations floated in thin air. A yell went up over the
floor through which sounded demoniac notes of panic and rage. Men surged
around the Generals post, struggling as cowards might struggle to leave
a burning theater, collars tore loose and eyes glittered like those of a
wolf-pack. The blackboards at north and south burst into a hysterical
flashing of white numbers, and a word went out which set the cylinders
of printing presses whirling. A Burton bear raid was on, and the Street
was in panic-making excitement!

But close around the post three figures still dominated the picture.
Staples with his tigerish teeth to the crowd fought the two men who
carried Burton's orders and who with implacable monosyllables still
hammered the market with sledges of mighty resource. What had been the
orderly floor of an artistically designed mart of trade was now a hell
of pandemonium. With the sweat pouring down his face, his hands clenched
above his head, and his deep voice strained into a hoarse bellow, Jack
Staples of Consolidated fought as a man fights death, to breast and stem
and turn the tidal wave of disaster.

Other stocks followed suit, and while Haswell, forgetting in his
excitemen