And it was during this lull in the morning's business that the
idiocy of the English ultimatum to the Porte melted away. As
inexplicably and as suddenly as the rumour had started, it now
disappeared. Everyone, simultaneously, seemed to ridicule it.
England declare war on Turkey! Where was the joke? Who was the damn
fool to have started that old, worn-out war scare? But, for all
that, there was no reaction from the advance. It seemed to be
understood that either Leaycraft or the Porteous crowd stood ready
to support the market; and in place of the ultimatum story a feeling
began to gain ground that the expected report would indicate a
falling off in the "visible," and that it was quite on the cards
that the market might even advance another point.

As the interest in the immediate situation declined, the crowd in
the Pit grew less dense. Portions of it were deserted; even
Grossmann, discouraged, retired to a bench under the visitors'
gallery. And a spirit of horse-play, sheer foolishness, strangely
inconsistent with the hot-eyed excitement of the few moments after
the opening invaded the remaining groups. Leaycraft, the formidable,
as well as Paterson of the Porteous gang, and even the solemn
Winston, found an apparently inexhaustible diversion in folding
their telegrams into pointed javelins and sending them sailing
across the room, watching the course of the missiles with profound
gravity. A visitor in the gallery--no doubt a Western farmer on a
holiday--having put his feet upon the rail, the entire Pit began to
groan "boots, boots, boots."

A little later a certain broker came scurrying across the floor from
the direction of the telephone room. Panting, he flung himself up