Part 13 (2/2)

”Seventy-two,” he shouted wildly. ”Opened at sixty-five! Leaped right up to 68, then to 70, then to 72. Now's your chance, old man. Say the word and say it quick. Never mind about the $20,000. We'll settle up when the day is over, and every second you lose now will cost you hundreds of dollars. It's sure to go to 160. Don't keep me waiting--say the word?”

Mr. Gallivant jammed his hands deep into his pockets to prevent their betraying his excitement, and hemmed and hawed.

”Do you really think it's worth while, Thwicket!”

”Great guns, man! You make me--”

”Now, don't be nervous, Thwicket. When I trust a man to spend my money for me I want him cool and calm.”

”But you're losing valuable time! It's jumping up every minute. The Exchange has gone wild! Everybody's in a furor. You can make a mint if you go right in.”

”All right, drive ahead. But use judgment, Thwicket. Remember I don't want to invest more than $20,000, and you should preserve your equanim--”

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”SEVENTY-TWO,” HE SHOUTED WILDLY.]

But Thwicket was gone, and when the door closed behind him Mr.

Gallivant gave a leap from the floor where he stood to the sofa eight feet away! Then he leaped back. Then he picked up a pair of dumb-bells and swung them fiercely at the imminent risk of his head and the furniture of the room. Then finally he drew from his desk a bottle of brandy and took a long, strong pull.

”Ah,” he said, smacking his lips, ”now I'll get ready and go to the street and watch the tumult.”

Disposing, as soon as he could, of the correspondence on his desk, he presently made his way to Thwicket's office. The broker was still at the Stock Exchange. He grabbed at the tapes and looked for Snapshot. There was nothing on them but Snapshot. ”Snap. Col. 93,” ”Snap. Col. 96-3/8,”

”Snap. Col.”--even as he stood by the ticker and watched the machine roll out its stream of white paper--”Snap. Col. 108!”

Mr. Gallivant's eyes blurred. He felt queer in his knees. The perspiration broke out fiercely all over his plump little body. ”Why the mischief doesn't Thwicket come in?” he murmured. ”Why don't he sell and get out of this? Ten, twenty, thirty--great guns! I've made $50,000 already! It can't go on like this much longer. It'll break in half an hour, 'gad, I know it will--I feel it in my bones! If Thwicket doesn't sell inside of thirty minutes I'm a goner, and what's worse, he'll be a goner with me! What's this! 117! By the great horn spoon, I must get hold of Thwicket! Thwicket! Thwicket! My kingdom for Thwicket!”

Mr. Gallivant dropped the tapes and rushed frantically into the street and across to the entrance of the Exchange. He dispatched a messenger across the floor to find his broker, but who could find which in that tumultuous mob? The Exchange floor was crowded with a crazy body of yelling men, their faces boiled into crimson, their eyes glowing with a fierce fire, their hats banged out of shape, their coats in many cases torn into shreds, jostling, tumbling, jumping, stretching all over each other in riotous confusion. Fat men were being squeezed into pancakes, little men were being covered out of sight, tall men were being clambered upon as if their manifest destiny were to serve as poles, and every man of them, big, short, thin, fat, lank, and heavy, was flouris.h.i.+ng his arms in the air and howling at the top of his voice!

Mr. Gallivant's messenger returned in a few moments with the report that Mr. Thwicket could not be found. Quivering with excitement, Mr.

Gallivant started forth in further search. At the door of the Exchange he met his office-boy, who told him the broker was searching for him high and low--had been at the office and was now in the Savarin cafe.

Thither Mr. Gallivant rushed as fast as his legs could carry him, only to learn that Thwicket had just gone out asking every man he met if he had seen Gallivant. The lawyer was in despair. He glanced at the ticker--”Snap. Col. 134-1/2!”

”Heavens!” he shrieked, ”will n.o.body seize that crazy Thwicket and hold him till I come!”

He ran at full speed to the broker's office. Thwicket had left two minutes before, having learned that Gallivant was at the Savarin. He turned around again and started once more to dash forth, when he saw the broker coming along in reckless haste.

In an instant Mr. Gallivant was all repose--all serenity and ease. He dropped quietly into a chair and picked up the morning paper. In rushed Thwicket, disheveled, frantic, breathless.

”At last!” he cried. ”It's 136. It'll break in another ten minutes!

Hadn't I better get from under?”

”Still excited, Thwicket?” answered Mr. Gallivant reproachfully. ”My dear boy, I'm afraid you've not got a proper hold upon yourself. Yes, probably you'd better unload. Perhaps now's as good a moment as any. But be--”

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”YOU'VE DONE VERY WELL, THWICKET.”]

Thwicket did not wait for the rest. He fled. When he returned half an hour later his face was radiant, but his collar wilted. ”Sold!” he cried, ”at 148, and busted at 152!”

By a quick, spontaneous motion, Mr. Gallivant's mustaches drew themselves in a loving curl around his nose, but for the rest he was merely cheery--gently cheery--as he always was.

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