passed the floor employees in cadet gray, and boys carrying green
watering-pots with which, when many feet had pounded the boards into
dust, they would sprinkle this hot-house of Finance, as they might have
sprinkled a bed of thirsty geraniums.

Then from the marble balcony, where is placed the president's chair,
sounded the clang of the opening gong. The session had begun.

Hamilton Burton's lieutenants meant to waste no moment of the five-hour
session. Another day meant the drawing of new lines, and time for
tallying and rallying, but what was done today was immutably done.
Hardinge and Haswell stood near the post at whose head hung the sign,
"Railway Generals." About them lounged a handful of dilatory brokers.
Railway Generals had closed yesterday strong at 175, but quotations from
London, where by reason of difference in time there had already been
several hours of trading, reflected an unaccountable nervousness
over-seas. So the stock opened five points off.

Every game has its traditional rules. It is a cardinal by-law of the
Exchange that until the gong peals every man on the floor must maintain
an unruffled and blasé composure, though when the clamor of the big bell
unleashes their restraint whosoever chooses may leap into the frenzy of
a madhouse.

A voice at the Railway-Generals post drawled out "170 for any part of
5,000 Generals," and on the instant Hardinge's deep basso boomed a
challenge and a battle cry as he yelled back, "Sold!"

The bidder was Jack Staples, and he bore the credentials of J.J. Malone.
For just an instant he eyed his vis-à-vis and his prominent lower jaw