“Great Scott! I’ll choke in a minute. See what? Why, I own ten million bushels of this wheat already, and Europe will take eighty million out of the country. Why, there ain’t going to be any wheat left in Chicago by May! If I get in now and buy a long line of cash wheat, where are all these fellows who’ve sold short going to get it to deliver to me? Say, where are they going to get it? Come on now, tell me, where are they going to get it?”

Gretry laid down his pencil and stared at Jadwin, looked long at the papers on his desk, consulted his pencilled memoranda, then thrust his hands deep into his pockets, with a long breath. Bewildered, and as if stupefied, he gazed again into Jadwin’s face.

“My God!” he murmured at last.

“Well, where are they going to get it?” Jadwin cried once more, his face suddenly scarlet.