“Well, I’ve got it for you.” “Now, that’s nice,” said the deacon, so mildly that the man with the info swelled up and said, “Yes, sir, deacon.” Then he came closer so nobody else would hear and said, “H. O. Havemeyer is buying Sugar.” “Is he?” asked the deacon quite calmly. It peeved the informant, who said impressively: “Yes, sir. Buying all he can get, deacon.” “My friend, are you sure?” asked old S.V. “Deacon, I know it for a positive fact. The old inside gang are buying all they can lay their hands on. It’s got something to do with the tariff and there’s going to be a killing in the common. It will cross the preferred. And that means a sure thirty points for a starter.” “D’you really think so?” And the old man looked at him over the top of the old-fashioned silver-rimmed spectacles that he had put on to look at the tape. “Do I think so? No, I don’t think so; I know so. Absolutely! Why, deacon, when H. O. Havemeyer and his friends buy Sugar as they’re doing now they’re never satisfied with anything less than forty points net. I shouldn’t be surprised to see the market get away from them any minute and shoot up before they’ve got their full lines. There ain’t as much of it kicking around the brokers’ offices as there was a month ago.” “He’s buying Sugar, eh?” repeated the deacon absently. “Buying it? Why, he’s scooping it in as fast as he can without putting up the price on himself.” “So?” said the deacon. That was all. But it was enough to nettle the tipster, and he said, “Yes, sir-ree! And I call that very good information. Why, it’s absolutely straight.” “Is it?” “Yes; and it ought to be worth a whole lot. Are you going to use it?” “Oh, yes. I’m going to use it.” “When?” asked the information bringer suspiciously. “Right away.” And the deacon called: “Frank!” It was the first name of his shrewdest broker, who was then in the adjoining room. “Yes, sir,” said Frank. “I wish you’d go over to the Board and sell ten thousand Sugar.” “Sell?” yelled the tipster. There was such suffering in his voice that Frank, who had started out at a run, halted in his tracks. “Why, yes,” said the deacon mildly. “But I told you H. O. Havemeyer was buying it!” “I know you did, my friend,” said the deacon calmly; and turning to the broker: “Make haste, Frank!” The broker rushed out to execute the order and the tipster turned red. “I came in here,” he said furiously, “with the best information I ever had. I brought it to you because I thought you were my friend, and square. I expected you to act on it--” “I am acting on it,” interrupted the deacon in a tranquillising voice. “But I told you H.O. and his gang were buying!” “That’s right. I heard you.” “Buying! Buying! I said buying!” shrieked the tipster. “Yes, buying! That is what I understood you to say,” the deacon assured him. He was standing by the ticker, looking at the tape. “But you are selling it.” “Yes; ten thousand shares.” And the deacon nodded. “Selling it, of course.”