The new harvest was coming in; the new harvest of wheat, huge beyond possibility of control; so vast that no money could buy it, so swift that no strategy could turn it. But Jadwin hurried away from the sound of the near roaring of the Pit. No, no. Luck was with him; he had mastered the current of the Pit many times before⁠—he would master it again. The day passed and the night, and at nine o’clock the following morning, he and Gretry once more met in the broker’s office.

Gretry turned a pale face upon his principal.

“I’ve just received,” he said, “the answers to our cables to Liverpool and Paris. I offered wheat at both places, as you know, cheaper than we’ve ever offered it there before.”

“Yes⁠—well?”

“Well,” answered Gretry, looking gravely into Jadwin’s eyes, “well⁠—they won’t take it.”