Fame and Fortune Weekly STORIES OF BOYS WHO MAKE MONEY _Issued Weekly--By Subscription $2.50 per year. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1905, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C., by Frank Tousey, Publisher, 24 Union Square, New York._ =No. 3= OCTOBER 20, 1905. =Price 5 Cents= A Corner in Corn; OR, HOW A CHICAGO BOY DID THE TRICK. =By A SELF-MADE MAN.= CHAPTER I. IN THE ROOKERY BUILDING. “Has Vance returned yet?” asked Jared Whitemore, a stout, florid-complexioned man of sixty-five, opening the door of his private office and glancing into the outside room. “No, sir,” replied Edgar Vyce, his bookkeeper and office manager--a tall, saturnine-looking man, who had been in his employ several years. “Send him in as soon as he comes back.” The bookkeeper nodded carelessly and resumed his writing. “Miss Brown,” said Jared to his stenographer and typewriter, a very pretty brown-eyed girl of seventeen, the only other occupant of the room, whose desk stood close to one of the windows overlooking La Salle Street. She immediately left her machine and followed her employer into the inner sanctum. Mr. Whitemore was a well-known speculator, one of the shrewdest and most successful operators on the Chicago Board of Trade. He owned some of the best business sites in the city, and his ground rents brought him in many thousands a year. Accounted a millionaire many times over, no one could with any degree of certainty say exactly what he was worth. His plainly furnished office was on an upper floor of the Rookery Building. He did business for nobody but himself. Jarboe, Willicutt & Co., whose offices were on the ground floor of the Board of Trade Building, were his brokers. The office clock chimed the hour of five as the bookkeeper, with a frown, laid down his pen, rested his elbow on the corner of his tall desk and glanced down into the busy thoroughfare. At that moment the office door opened and a messenger boy entered. Mr. Vyce came to the railing and received an envelope addressed to himself. He signed for it, tore it open, read the contents, which were brief, with a corrugated brow, and then, with much deliberation, tore the paper into fine particles and tossed them into the waste-basket. For a moment or two he paced up and down before his desk, with his hands thrust into his trousers pockets, and then resumed his work just as the door opened again and admitted a stalwart, good-looking lad, with a frank, alert countenance and a breezy manner, who entered briskly with a handful of pamphlets and papers. “Mr. Whitemore wants you to report in his office at once, Thornton,” said the bookkeeper, in a surly kind of voice, accompanied with a look which plainly showed that he was not particularly well disposed toward the boy. “All right,” answered Vance, cheerily, turning toward the private office, on the door of which he knocked, and then entered on being told to come in.