“What do you think of the market?” was again the question a beardless youth asked of Tamms anxiously, to the dismay of all about him. But the beardless youth had just come fresh from California with his father’s fourteen millions, bent on becoming a power in the street; and had not learned his money-changer’s etiquette as yet. But to the surprise of all the rest, Tamms answered quite naturally and fully. “I don’t know much about the market,” said he, cannily. “I guess perhaps there ain’t much in the market, anyhow, of itself----” “You think it a good sale?” broke in the beardless youth eagerly; while his neighbors kicked him under the table and the ones placed farthest from their host swore at him audibly. “I ain’t sayin’ what I think it--at least, not jest now,” said Tamms, with dignity. “I s’pose things is kind o’ stagnant--unless some feller drops a stone into the pool.” The attention grew breathless; you might have heard a pin drop; though not, perhaps, the flutter of an angel’s wing. “There’s a good deal of money coming in on the first of January; and I don’t know but what things might start up a little, if some stock got kind o’ scarce.” Tamms spoke these last words with greater precision, and in much better English than the former ones; and his young partner knew that in this accent he was always lying. But all the rest had treasured every syllable of the oracle’s words, more carefully than any reporter’s note-book could have set them down, while in appearance dallying with their cigarettes and iced champagne. “He means a corner,” said every man to himself; “who’s he gunning for?”--“He wants them to think he means to corner Allegheny,” said young Townley to himself. “Old man Remington has caused the present break,” said a rich young stock-broker with an air of much importance. “The deacon and I are kind o’ out,” said Tamms. “The fact is, I’m afraid the deacon may have been selling too many stocks.” “Remington has sold nothing but Allegheny,” said every man to himself; and felt that they were well repaid their ferry-trips to Brooklyn. But after this, Mr. Tamms obstinately refused to talk any more stocks, but only Shakespeare and the music-glasses, that is, of Mr. Beecher and the Coney Island races. Charlie outstayed them all, and then went home alone. “It can’t be done,” he said to himself; “the Governor knows it and he’s desperate. I don’t believe that we can borrow fifty thousand more.” He was sitting alone in the ladies’ room of the ferry-boat, his fur collar pulled well up about his face, smoking one of his own cigars; for Tamms’s were too strong. There was only one other passenger upon the boat; a drunken working-man; and he was cursing Townley for a swell. “Confound him, they wouldn’t let me smoke there, though it is late at night. But I ain’t got no fine cigar, perhaps.”