And all the while above the din upon the floor, above the tramplings and the shoutings in the Pit, there seemed to thrill and swell that appalling roar of the Wheat itself coming in, coming on like a tidal wave, bursting through, dashing barriers aside, rolling like a measureless, almighty river, from the farms of Iowa and the ranches of California, on to the East⁠—to the bakeshops and hungry mouths of Europe.

Landry caught one of the Gretry traders by the arm.

“What shall we do?” he shouted. “I’ve bought up to my limit. No more orders have come in. The market has gone from under us. What’s to be done?”

“I don’t know,” the other shouted back, “I don’t know. We’re all gone to hell; looks like the last smash. There are no more supporting orders⁠—something’s gone wrong. Gretry hasn’t sent any word.”