He hung up the receiver and leaned back in his chair.

“They’ll report the trade in a minute,” he said. “Better wait and see.”

Cressler stood at the window, his hands clasped behind his back, looking down into the street. He did not answer. The seconds passed, then the minutes. Crookes turned to his desk and signed a few letters, the scrape of his pen the only noise to break the silence of the room. Then at last he observed:

“Pretty bum weather for this time of the year.”

Cressler nodded. He took off his hat, and pushed the hair back from his forehead with a slow, persistent gesture; then as the ticker began to click again, he faced around quickly, and crossing the room, ran the tape through his fingers.

“God,” he muttered, between his teeth, “I hope your men didn’t lose any time. It’s up again.”