the damned things. And to tell you the truth, Ken, when a client asks for
my advice about them, I don't know what to say."

Kendrick contemplated the tips of his patent boots. He was a
well-looking, well-turned-out and well-to-do representative of the
occupation which he, his father and grandfather had followed,--ten years
older, perhaps, than his companion, but remarkably well-preserved. He had
made money and kept it.

"They say that Rockefeller's at the back of them," he remarked.

"They may say what they like but who's to prove it?" his young companion
argued. "They must have enormous backing, of course, but until they
declare it, I'm not pushing the business. Look at the Board on their
merits, Ken."

Roger Kendrick nodded. Every one on the Stock Exchange was interested in
B. & I.'s, and he settled himself down comfortably to hear what his
companion had to say on the matter.

"There's old Dreadnought Phipps," White continued. "Peter Phipps, to
give him his right name. Well, has ever a man who aspires to be
considered a financial giant had such a career? He was broken on the New
York Stock Exchange, went to Montreal and made a million or so, back to
New York, where he got in with the copper lot and no doubt made real
money. Then he went for that wheat corner in Chicago. He got out of that
with another fortune, though they say he sold his fellow directors. Now
he turns up here, chairman of the B. & I., who must have bought fifty
million pounds' worth of wheat already this year. Well, unless he's
considerably out of his depth, he must have some one else's money to