Finding no support, the price developed a habit of declining regularly until one day it broke rather badly and touched 32. That was the lowest that had ever been recorded for it, for, as you will remember, Jim Barnes and the original syndicate had pegged it at 37 in order not to have their one hundred thousand shares dumped on the market by the bank. I was in my office that day peacefully studying the tape when Joshua Wolff was announced. I said I would see him. He rushed in. He is not a very large man, but he certainly seemed all swelled up--with anger, as I instantly discovered. He ran to where I stood by the ticker and yelled, “Hey? What the devil’s the matter?” “Have a chair, Mr. Wolff,” I said politely and sat down myself to encourage him to talk calmly. “I don’t want any chair! I want to know what it means!” he cried at the top of his voice. “What does what mean?” “What in hell are you doing to it?” “What am I doing to what?” “That stock! That stock!” “What stock?” I asked him. But that only made him see red, for he shouted, “Consolidated Stove! What are you doing to it?” “Nothing! Absolutely nothing. What’s wrong?” I said. He stared at me fully five seconds before he exploded: “Look at the price! Look at it!” He certainly was angry. So I got up and looked at the tape. I said, “The price of it is now 31¼.” “Yeh! Thirty-one and a quarter, and I’ve got a raft of it.” “I know you have sixty thousand shares. You have had it a long time, because when you originally bought your Gray Stove----” But he didn’t let me finish. He said, “But I bought a lot more. Some of it cost me as high as 40! And I’ve got it yet!” He was glaring at me so hostilely that I said, “I didn’t tell you to buy it.” “You didn’t what?” “I didn’t tell you to load up with it.” “I didn’t say you did. But you were going to put it up----” “Why was I?” I interrupted. He looked at me, unable to speak for anger. When he found his voice again, he said, “You were going to put it up. You had the money to buy it.” “Yes. But I didn’t buy a share,” I told him. That was the last straw. “You didn’t buy a share, and you had over four millions in cash to buy with? You didn’t buy any?” “Not a share!” I repeated. He was so mad by now that he couldn’t talk plainly. Finally he managed to say, “What kind of a game do you call that?” He was inwardly accusing me of all sorts of unspeakable crimes. I sure could see a long list of them in his eyes. It made me say to him: “What you really mean to ask me, Wolff, is, why I didn’t buy from you above 50 the stock you bought below 40. Isn’t that it?” “No, it isn’t. You had a call at 40 and four millions in cash to put up the price with.” “Yes, but I didn’t touch the money and the syndicate has not lost a cent by my operations.” “Look here, Livingston--” he began. But I didn’t let him say any more.