e said vacantly,
leaning against the mantelpiece.

"So did a good many others," said Drake shrewdly. "Sit down, till I tell
you about it. Head clearin' up?"

"It's rather a shock," said Bojo, trying to smile. "I'm sorry to be such
a baby."

"I warned you not to jump to conclusions or try any flyers," said Drake,
watching him. "Of course you did?"

Bojo nodded, his glance on the floor.

"Well, write it off against your profits and charge it up to
experience," said Drake, smiling. "Store this away for the future and
use it if you ever need it, if you're ever running a pool of your
own--which I hope you won't. It's been my golden rule and I paid a lot
to learn it. It's this: If you want a secret kept, keep it yourself." He
burst into a round, hearty laugh, gazing contentedly into the fire.
"Wish I could see Borneman's face. Helped me a lot, Borneman did. You
see, Tom," he said, with the human need of boasting a little, which
allies such men rather to the child on an adventure than to the
criminal, between whom they occupy an indefinable middle position,
"you've come in on the drop of the curtain. You've seen the finale of
something that'll set Wall Street stewing for years to come. Yes, by
George, it's the biggest bit of manipulation by a single operator yet!
And look at the crowd I tricked--the inner gang, the creme de la creme,
Tom--exactly that!"

"I don't understand it," said Bojo, as Drake began to smile, reflecting
over remembered details. He himself understood only confusedly the
events which had been whirling about him.

"Tom, the crowd had figured me out for a trimming," said Drake,
gleefully, caressing his chin. "They thought the time had come to trim
old Drake. You see, they calculated I was loaded up with stocks, crowded
to busting and ready to squeal at the slightest squeeze. Now getting
rich on paper is one thing and getting rich in the bank's another. Any
one can corner anything--but it's all-fired different to get Mr. Fly to
come down to your parlor and take some stock after you've got it where
you want it. That's what they figured. Dan Drake was loaded to the sky
with stocks that looked almighty good on the quotation column, but
darned hard to swap for cold, hard cash. That's what they figured, and
the strange part about it is they were right.

"But--there's always a but--they hadn't reckoned on the fact that Mr. Me
was expecting just what they'd figured out. That's what I told you was
the secre