his passion
for wealth, to his passion for gambling. But once entered upon the game
it drove him to fear and frenzy: first, it was a long game and Harry
Cresswell was not trained to waiting, and, secondly, it was a game whose
intricacies he did not know. In vain did he try to study the matter
through. He ordered books from the North, he subscribed for financial
journals, he received special telegraphic reports only to toss them
away, curse his valet, and call for another brandy. After all, he kept
saying to himself, what guarantee, what knowledge had he that this was
not a "damned Yankee trick"?

Now that the web was weaving its last mesh in early January he haunted
Montgomery, and on this day when it seemed that things must culminate or
he would go mad, he hastened again down to the Planters' Hotel and was
quickly ushered to John Taylor's room. The place was filled with tobacco
smoke. An electric ticker was drumming away in one corner, a telephone
ringing on the desk, and messenger boys hovered outside the door and
raced to and fro.

"Well," asked Cresswell, maintaining his composure by an effort, "how
are things?"

"Great!" returned Taylor. "League holds three million bales and controls
five. It's the biggest corner in years."

"But how's cotton?"

"Ticker says six and three-fourths."

Cresswell sat down abruptly opposite Taylor, looking at him fixedly.

"That last drop means liabilities of a hundred thousand to us," he said
slowly.

"Exactly," Taylor blandly admitted.

Beads of sweat gathered on Cresswell's forehead. He looked at the
scrawny iron man opposite, who had already forgotten his presence. He
ordered whiskey, and taking paper and pencil began to figure, drinking
as he figured. Slowly the blood crept out of his white face leaving it
whiter, and went surging and pounding in his heart. Poverty--that was
what those figures spelled. Poverty--unclothed, wineless poverty, to dig
and toil like a "nigger" from morning until night, and to give up horses
and carriages and women; that was what they spelled.

"How much--farther will it drop?" he asked harshly.

Taylor did not look up.

"Can't tell," he said, "'fraid not much though." He glanced through a
telegram. "No--damn it!--outside mills are low; they'll stampede soon.
Meantime we'll buy."

"But, Taylor--"

"Here are one hundred thousand offered at six and three-fourths."

"I tell you, Taylor--" Cresswell half arose.

"Done!" cried Taylor. "S