P. or Erie, or St. Paul had moved up an eighth, or down a
quarter, since they had devoured the morning papers on their way
to town; old speculators who had spent their lives waiting
buzzard-like for some calamity, enabling them to swoop down and
make off with what fragments they could pick up; well-dressed,
well-fed club men, who had had a run of luck and who never carried
less than a thousand shares to keep their hands in; gray-haired
novices nervously rolling little wads of paper between their
fingers and thumbs--up every few minutes to listen to the talk of
the ticker, too anxious to wait until the sallow-faced young man
with the piece of chalk could make his record on the board. Some
of them had gathered together their last dollar. Two per cent. or
one percent, or even one-half of one per cent. rise or fall was
all that stood between them and ruin.
"Very sorry, sir, but you know we told you when you opened the
account that you must keep your margins up," Breen had said to an
old man. The old man knew; had known it all night as he lay awake,
afraid to tell his wife of the sword hanging above their heads.
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