“No,” he muttered, “I won’t try to kill you any more. You’ve cornered wheat, have you? All right.⁠ ⁠… Your own wheat, my smart Aleck, will do all the killing I want.”

Then at last the news of the great corner, authoritative, definite, went out over all the country, and promptly the figure and name of Curtis Jadwin loomed suddenly huge and formidable in the eye of the public. There was no wheat on the Chicago market. He, the great man, the “Napoleon of La Salle Street,” had it all. He sold it or hoarded it, as suited his pleasure. He dictated the price to those men who must buy it of him to fill their contracts. His hand was upon the indicator of the wheat dial of the Board of Trade, and he moved it through as many or as few of the degrees of the circle as he chose.