Old Westlake was a rich and successful banker and promoter. He ran across John W. Gates one day. Gates asked him what he knew. “If you will act on it I’ll give you a tip. If you won’t I’ll save my breath,” answered old Westlake grumpily. “Of course I’ll act on it,” promised Gates cheerfully. “Sell Reading! There is a sure twenty-five points in it, and possibly more. But twenty-five absolutely certain,” said Westlake impressively. “I’m much obliged to you,” and Bet-you-a-million Gates shook hands warmly and went away in the direction of his broker’s office. Westlake had specialized on Reading. He knew all about the company and stood in with the insiders so that the market for the stock was an open book to him and everybody knew it. Now he was advising the Western plunger to go short of it. Well, Reading never stopped going up. It rose something like one hundred points in a few weeks. One day old Westlake ran smack up against John W. in the Street, but he made out he hadn’t seen him and was walking on. John W. Gates caught up with him, his face all smiles and held out his hand. Old Westlake shook it dazedly. “I want to thank you for that tip you gave me on Reading,” said Gates. “I didn’t give you any tip,” said Westlake, frowning. “Sure you did. And it was a Jim Hickey of a tip too. I made sixty thousand dollars.” “Made sixty thousand dollars?” “Sure! Don’t you remember? You told me to sell Reading; so I bought it! I’ve always made money coppering your tips, Westlake,” said John W. Gates pleasantly. “Always!” Old Westlake looked at the bluff Westerner and presently remarked admiringly, “Gates, what a rich man I’d be if I had your brains!” The other day I met Mr. W. A. Rogers, the famous cartoonist, whose Wall Street drawings brokers so greatly admire. His daily cartoons in the New York _Herald_ for years gave pleasure to thousands. Well, he told me a story. It was just before we went to war with Spain. He was spending an evening with a broker friend. When he left he picked up his derby hat from the rack, at least he thought it was his hat, for it was the same shape and fitted him perfectly. The Street at that time was thinking and talking of nothing but war with Spain. Was there to be one or not? If it was to be war the market would go down; not so much on our own selling as on pressure from European holders of our securities. If peace, it would be a cinch to buy stocks, as there had been considerable declines prompted by the sensational clamorings of the yellow papers. Mr. Rogers told me the rest of the story as follows: