"Sixty-_two_."

"It's the Chicago price that does it, Lewiston. Truslow is bearing the
stuff for all he's worth. It's Truslow and the bear clique that stick
the knife into us. The price broke again this morning. We've just got a
wire."

"Good heavens," murmured Lewiston, looking vaguely from side to side.
"That--that ruins me. I _can't_ carry my grain any longer--what with
storage charges and--and--Bridges, I don't see just how I'm going to
make out. Sixty-two cents a bushel! Why, man, what with this and with
that it's cost me nearly a dollar a bushel to raise that wheat, and now
Truslow--"

He turned away abruptly with a quick gesture of infinite discouragement.

He went down the stairs, and making his way to where his buckboard was
hitched, got in, and, with eyes vacant, the reins slipping and sliding
in his limp, half-open hands, drove slowly back to the ranch. His wife
had seen him coming, and met him as he drew up before the barn.

"Well?" she demanded.

"Emmie," he said as he got out of the buckboard, laying his arm across
her shoulder, "Emmie, I guess we'll take up with Joe's offer. We'll go
to Chicago. We're cleaned out!"


II. THE BULL--WHEAT AT A DOLLAR-TEN