illed with lies, false reports, fictitious sales,
and the hope and lust of gain that boiled and bubbled, heated by the
fires of hell. And ever around that caldron the souls of men were
circling, cursing their losses and gloating over their gains.

And Frye was muttering curses.

At eleven o'clock wheat stood at seventy-five and one-half; at
eleven-thirty, seventy-four and seven-eighths; at twelve, seventy-four.

Frye arose, and going to a nearby room, all mirrors and plate-glass,
called at the bar for brandy. Two full glasses he tossed off like so
much water, and then returned to his watching.

Wheat was seventy-three and three-quarters!

But the fickle goddess of chance loves to sport with her victims, and
wheat rose to seventy-five again; then fell to seventy-four, and
vibrated between that and seventy-five for an hour. Frye was growing
desperate, and his deep-set yellow eyes glared like those of a cat at
night. The market closed at two. It was now one-thirty, and wheat was
seventy-three and three-quarters.

Frye went out again, and two more glasses of brandy were added to his
delirium.

Wheat was now seventy-three and one-half!

Then, as once more he fixed his vulture eyes on that long column of
figures, at the foot of which was seventy-three and one-half, the
devil's teeth began a more vicious snapping, and so fast came the
quotations that the boy could no longer record them. Instead, he called
them out in a drawling sing-song:

"September wheat now seventy-three,--the half,--five-eighths,--a
half,--five-eighths split,--now a half,--three-eighths,--a
quarter,--seventy-three!" Frye set his feet hard together, and clinched
his hands. Only two cents in price stood between him and the loss of all
his twenty years' saving. All the lies he had told for miserable gain,
all the miserly self-denial he had practised, all the clients he had
cheated and robbed, all the hatred he had won from others availed him
not. His contemptible soul and his life, almost, now hung by a miserly
two cents.

Once more the devil's teeth clicked, and once more the boy's drawl rose
above the ticker's whir.

"Seventy-three,--a quarter,--an eighth,--seventy-three,--now seventy-two
seven-eighths,--three-quarters,--five-eighths,--three-quarters
split,--now five-eighths,--a half,--a half."

And now pandemonium was raging in the Chicago wheat pit, and the
ticker's teeth clicked like mad.

"Seventy-two,--a half,--a half,--three-eighths,-