His hand was iron, and he raised it slightly. "Six," said
the wheel--his finger quivered--"and a half."
"Hell!" yelled Taylor. "She's turned--there'll be the devil to pay now."
A messenger burst in and Taylor scowled.
"She's loose in New York--a regular mob in New Orleans--and--hark!--By
God! there's something doing here. Damn it--I wish we'd got another
million bales. Let's see, we've got--" He figured while the wheel
whirred--"7--7-1/2--8--8-1/2."
Cresswell listened, staggered to his feet, his face crimson and his hair
wild.
"My God, Taylor," he gasped. "I'm--I'm a half a million ahead--great
heavens!"
The ticker whirred, "8-3/4--9--9-1/2--10." Then it stopped dead.
"Exchange closed," said Taylor. "We've cornered the market all
right--cornered it--d'ye hear, Cresswell? We got over half the crop and
we can send prices to the North Star--you--why, I figure it you
Cresswells are worth at least seven hundred and fifty thousand above
liabilities this minute," and John Taylor leaned back and lighted a big
black cigar.
"I've made a million or so myself," he added reflectively.
Cresswell leaned back in his chair, his face had gone white again, and
he spoke slowly to still the tremor in his voice.
"I've gambled--before; I've gambled on cards and on horses; I've
gambled--for money--and--women--but--"
"But not on cotton, hey? Well, I don't know about cards and such; but
they can't beat cotton.
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