Landry was beside himself. He had not foreseen this break. There was no reckoning on that cursed visible, and he still had 50,000 bushels to dispose of. There was no telling now how low the price might sink. He must act quickly, radically. He fought his way towards the Porteous crowd, reached over the shoulder of the little Jew Grossmann, who stood in his way, and thrust his hand almost into Paterson’s face, shouting:

“Sell fifty May at seven-eighths.”

It was the last one of his unaccountable selling orders of the early morning.

The other shook his head.

“Sell fifty May at three-quarters.”

Suddenly some instinct warned Landry that another break was coming. It was in the very air around him. He could almost physically feel the pressure of renewed avalanches of wheat crowding down the price. Desperate, he grabbed Paterson by the shoulder.