“For a million bushels?”

“Yes⁠—for a million. How much in margins will you want?”

Gretry figured a moment on the back of an envelope.

“Fifty thousand dollars,” he announced at length.

Jadwin wrote the check on a corner of the broker’s desk, and held it a moment before him.

“Goodbye,” he said, apostrophising the bit of paper. “Goodbye. I ne’er shall look upon your like again.”

Gretry did not laugh.

“Huh!” he grunted. “You’ll look upon a hatful of them before the month is out.”