" He glanced through a
telegram. "No--damn it!--outside mills are low; they'll stampede soon.
Meantime we'll buy."
"But, Taylor--"
"Here are one hundred thousand offered at six and three-fourths."
"I tell you, Taylor--" Cresswell half arose.
"Done!" cried Taylor. "Six and one-half," clicked the machine.
Cresswell arose from his chair by the window and came slowly to the wide
flat desk where Taylor was working feverishly. He sat down heavily in
the chair opposite and tried quietly to regain his self-control. The
liabilities of the Cresswells already amounted to half the value of
their property, at a fair market valuation. The cotton for which they
had made debts was still falling in value. Every fourth of a cent fall
meant--he figured it again tremblingly--meant one hundred thousand more
of liabilities. If cotton fell to six he hadn't a cent on earth. If it
stayed there--"My God!" He felt a faintness stealing over him but he
beat it back and gulped down another glass of fiery liquor.
Then the one protecting instinct of his clan gripped him. Slowly,
quietly his hand moved back until it grasped the hilt of the big Colt's
revolver that was ever with him--his thin white hand became suddenly
steady as it slipped the weapon beneath the shadow of the desk.
"If it goes to six," he kept murmuring, "we're ruined--if it goes to
six--if--"
"Tick," sounded the wheel and the sound reverberated like sudden thunder
in his ears.
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