He could not tell why Gretry had so earnestly desired him to come to
his office that morning, but he wanted to know how wheat was selling
before talking to the broker. The room was large, and but for the
lighted gas, burning crudely without globes, would have been dark.
All one wall opposite the door was taken up by a great blackboard
covered with chalked figures in columns, and illuminated by a row of
overhead gas jets burning under a tin reflector. Before this board
files of chairs were placed, and these were occupied by groups of
nondescripts, shabbily dressed men, young and old, with tired eyes
and unhealthy complexions, who smoked and expectorated, or engaged
in interminable conversations.

In front of the blackboard, upon a platform, a young man in
shirt-sleeves, his cuffs caught up by metal clamps, walked up and
down. Screwed to the blackboard itself was a telegraph instrument,
and from time to time, as this buzzed and ticked, the young man
chalked up cabalistic, and almost illegible figures under columns
headed by initials of certain stocks and bonds, or by the words
"Pork," "Oats," or, larger than all the others, "May Wheat." The air
of the room was stale, close, and heavy with tobacco fumes. The only
noises were the low hum of conversations, the unsteady click of the
telegraph key, and the tapping of the chalk in the marker's fingers.

But no one in the room seemed to pay the least attention to the
blackboard. One quotation replaced another, and the key and the
chalk clicked and tapped incessantly. The occupants of the room,
sunk in their chairs, seemed to give no heed; some even turned their
backs; one, his handkerchief over his knee, adjusted his spectacles,
and opening a newspaper two days old, began to read with peering
deliberation, his lips forming each word. These nondescripts