boy did who cut his drum open
to find out what made the noise, or to find out what Frank's reasons are
for doing what he ought to do, and I would advise you not to." All of
which goes to show that far-seeing Blanch was capable of managing her
mother and sister equally well.

CHAPTER XXX

NEMESIS

"And round and round the caldron
The weird passions dance,
And the only god they worship
Is the mystic god of chance."

The last day of August dawned fair in busy Boston. Summer sojourners
were returning. John Nason's store was filled with new fall styles; the
shoppers were crowding the streets, and the hustling, bustling life of a
great city was at flood tide. Albert Page, full of business, was in his
office, and Frank Nason was studying hard again, cheered by a new and
sweet ray of hope. Small fortunes were being won and lost on State
Street, and in one smoke-polluted broker's office Nicholas Frye sat
watching the price of wheat. The September option opened that day at
seventy-eight and one-quarter, rose to seventy-nine, fell to seventy-six
and seven-eighths, rose to seventy-eight and then dropped back to
seventy-six. He had margined his holdings to seventy-one, and if it fell
to that price his sixty thousand dollars would be gone and he--ruined.
For many nights he had had but little sleep, and that made hideous by
dreams filled with the unceasing whir and click, click, click of the
ticker. At times he had dreamed that a tape-like snake with endless
coils was twining itself about him. He was worn and weary with the long
nervous strain and misery of seeing his fortune slowly clipped away by
the clicker's tick that had come to sound like the teeth of so many
little devils snapping at him. To let his holdings go, he could not,
and, lured on and on by the broker's daily uttered assertion that "wheat
_could_ not go much lower, but must have a rally soon," he had kept
putting up margins. Now all he could possibly raise was in the broker's
hands, and when that was gone, all was lost.

Frye sat and watched the blackboard where the uneven columns of
quotations looked like so many little legs ever growing longer. Around
him were a score of other men--no, insane fools--watching the figures
that either made them curse their losses or gloat over their gains. No
one spoke to another; no one cared whether another won or lost in the
great gambling game that daily ruins its thousands.

It was the caldron f