“Do you know how we stand, J. ?” said the broker gravely. “Do you know how we stand⁠—financially? It’s taken pretty nearly every cent of our ready money to support this July market. Oh, we can figure out our paper profits into the millions. We’ve got thirty, forty, fifty million bushels of wheat that’s worth over a dollar a bushel, but if we can’t sell it, we’re none the better off⁠—and that wheat is costing us six thousand dollars a day. Hell, old man, where’s the money going to come from? You don’t seem to realise that we are in a precarious condition.” He raised an arm, and pointed above him in the direction of the floor of the Board of Trade.

“The moment we can’t give our boys⁠—Landry Court, and the rest of ’em⁠—the moment we can’t give them buying orders, that Pit will suck us down like a chip. The moment we admit that we can’t buy all the wheat that’s offered, there’s the moment we bust.”