I wondered idly who this Plymire might be, and pictured to myself some old attorney who had fallen into the hands of Doddridge Knapp, and had, through misfortune, been forced to sell everything for the mess of pottage to keep life in him. But there was small time for musing, and I went out to do Doddridge Knapp's bidding in the stock-gambling whirlpool of Pine Street. There was already a confused murmur of voices about the rival exchanges that were the battlegrounds of millionaires. The “curbstone boards” were in session. The buyers who traded face to face, and the brokers who carried their offices under their hats, were noisily bargaining, raising as much clamor over buying and selling a few shares as the most important dealer in the big boards could raise over the transfer of as many thousands. It was easy to find Bockstein and Eppner, and there could be no mistaking the prosperity of the firm. The indifference of the clerks to my presence, and the evident contempt with which an order for a hundred shares of something was being taken from an apologetic old gentleman were enough to assure me of that. Bockstein and Eppner were together, evidently consulting over the business to be done. Bockstein was tall and gray-haired, with a stubby gray beard. Eppner was short and a little stooped, with a blue-black mustache, snapping blue-black eyes, and strong blue-black dots over his face where his beard struggled vainly against the devastating razor. Both were strongly marked with the shrewd, money-getting visage. I set forth my business. “You wand to gif a larch order?” said Bockstein, looking over my memoranda. “Do you haf references?” “Yes,” echoed Eppner. “References are customary, you know.” He spoke in a high-keyed voice that had irritating suggestions in it. “Is there any reference better than cash?” I asked. The partners looked at each other. “None,” they replied. “How much will secure you on the order?” They named a heavy margin, and the sum total took my heart into my mouth. How large a balance I could draw against I had not the faintest idea. Possibly this was a trap to throw me into jail as a common swindler attempting to pass worthless checks. But there was no time to hesitate. I drew a check for the amount, signed Henry Wilton's name, and tossed it over to Bockstein. “All ridt,” said the senior partner. “Zhust talk it ofer vit Misder Eppner. He goes on der floor.” I knew well enough what was wanted. My financial standing was to be tested by the head of the firm, while the junior partner kept me amused. Eppner was quick to take my ideas. A few words of explanation, and he understood perfectly what I wanted. “You have not bought before?” It was an interrogation, not an assertion. “Oh, yes,” I said carelessly, “but not through you, I believe.” “No, no, I think not. I should have remembered you.” I thought this might be a favorable opportunity to glean a little information of what was going on in the market.