This new blood was just what Wall Street then wanted to put the wheels of speculation in motion. Mr. Keene informed himself about the principal stocks dealt in at the Exchange. He did so with remarkable rapidity. They were all down to panic prices, and seeing that most of them were intrinsically cheap, he bought heavily. Soon the turn came which resulted in the high tide of speculation which continued with but slight reactions all through 1879-80. The advance was immense, as can be seen in the tabular statement at the end of this book, and the profits were enormous. Keene’s millions were doubled and trebled. He must have felt himself a modern Crœsus. Fully nine millions were added to the four which he brought from California. He stood in the centre of that great pile, figuratively speaking, the cynosure of all eyes from Maine to California, and his fame was noised abroad in Europe. Gould and other old speculators began to grow green with envy at Keene’s unprecedented success. He seemed likely to exceed the wildest dreams that ever the avarice of Monte Cristo or Daniel Drew had conjured up, and with him the imaginary profits of Col. Sellers had become material realities. His investments were nearly all in good, reliable securities. No dubious paper acceptances nor rotten railroad items were mixed up with his tangible fortune, which was without parallel in Wall Street for its size and rapidity of accumulation. The history of speculation was ransacked in vain for an illustration of such amazing success in so short a period. But here, I regret to say, this marvellous prosperity ends. In an evil hour Mr. Keene was induced to spread himself out all over creation, while he still retained his immense interest in stocks. He was so flushed with successive victories that he began to regard failure impossible, and thought he was a man of destiny in speculation, such as Napoleon considered himself in war. He speculated in everything that came along—in wheat, lard, opium and fast horses. Keene’s attempt to get a corner in all the grain in the country, however, was a signal failure. The very week that Foxhall won the Grand Prix in Paris he himself was sadly beaten in the speculative race by the steady going farmers of the West, who sent their wheat to market quicker than he could purchase it with his thirteen million dollars, and all the credit which that implied.