“Well,” asked Cresswell, maintaining his composure by an effort, “how are things?”
“Great!” returned Taylor. “League holds three million bales and controls five. It’s the biggest corner in years.”
“But how’s cotton?”
“Ticker says six and three-fourths.”
Cresswell sat down abruptly opposite Taylor, looking at him fixedly.
“That last drop means liabilities of a hundred thousand to us,” he said slowly.
“Exactly,” Taylor blandly admitted.
Beads of sweat gathered on Cresswell‚Äôs forehead. He looked at the scrawny iron man opposite, who had already forgotten his presence. He ordered whiskey, and taking paper and pencil began to figure, drinking as he figured. Slowly the blood crept out of his white face leaving it whiter, and went surging and pounding in his heart. Poverty‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat was what those figures spelled. Poverty‚ÅÝ‚Äîunclothed, wineless poverty, to dig and toil like a ‚Äúnigger‚Äù from morning until night, and to give up horses and carriages and women; that was what they spelled.
‚ÄúHow much‚ÅÝ‚Äîfarther will it drop?‚Äù he asked harshly.
Taylor did not look up.
‚ÄúCan‚Äôt tell,‚Äù he said, ‚Äú‚Ää‚Äôfraid not much though.‚Äù He glanced through a telegram. ‚ÄúNo‚ÅÝ‚Äîdamn it!‚ÅÝ‚Äîoutside mills are low; they‚Äôll stampede soon. Meantime we‚Äôll buy.‚Äù