gathered there, they knew not why. Every day found them in the same
place, always with the same fetid, unlighted cigars, always with the
same frayed newspapers two days old. There they sat, inert, stupid,
their decaying senses hypnotised and soothed by the sound of the
distant rumble of the Pit, that came through the ceiling from the
floor of the Board overhead.

One of these figures, that of a very old man, blear-eyed, decrepit,
dirty, in a battered top hat and faded frock coat, discoloured and
weather-stained at the shoulders, seemed familiar to Jadwin. It
recalled some ancient association, he could not say what. But he was
unable to see the old man's face distinctly; the light was bad, and
he sat with his face turned from him, eating a sandwich, which he
held in a trembling hand.

Jadwin, having noted that wheat was selling at 94, went away, glad
to be out of the depressing atmosphere of the room.

Gretry was in his office, and Jadwin was admitted at once. He sat
down in a chair by the broker's desk, and for the moment the two
talked of trivialities. Gretry was a large, placid, smooth-faced
man, stolid as an ox; inevitably dressed in blue serge, a quill
tooth-pick behind his ear, a Grand Army button in his lapel. He and
Jadwin were intimates. The two had come to Chicago almost
simultaneously, and had risen together to become the wealthy men
they were at the moment. They belonged to the same club, lunched
together every day at Kinsley's, and took each other driving behind
their respective trotters on alternate Saturday afternoons. In the
middle of summer each stole a fortnight from his business, and went
fishing at Geneva Lake in Wisconsin.