"He?" exclaimed his companion. "Not much he didn’t. He always caught the turn at just the right minute. When the books are made up he’s as likely to be ahead as behind." "He has the devil’s own luck," said the first broker. "He found out what he was bucking against early in the game," said the other, "and after that he didn’t need anybody to tell him when to get out." As the throng passed out, Peter Bolton still sat in his seat by the rail. A grim air of reflection was on his face, the lines of stern determination still drew his chin forward and his lips back, and he studied the floor of the Exchange as though it were a blackboard on which his problem was being worked out. Then at last he slowly rose, and with a sour shake of his head walked toward the door, I turned my eyes on the clock in the hope of escaping his observation; but as he came by my seat he halted. "So, young man," he said, with the compressed force of anger audible in his sarcastic drawl, "you think you have beat me, do you?--you and that smirking scoundrel you call Kendrick!" There was the concentrated essence of venom in his tone that testified to the depth of his hatred and chagrin. His words were an admission that I was quick to understand. In a moment my mind flashed to the conclusion that the whole enginery of rumor and riot had been set in motion by this man to serve the purposes of his malignity. He had sought to pull down the commercial edifice of San Francisco in the hope of burying Wharton Kendrick in the ruins. The design was the worthy offspring of the malevolent mind before me, but it was rather his insulting reference to my client than the wickedness of the thing he had attempted to do that stirred me with anger. A harsh answer was on my lips, but it was checked by the sudden recollection of Wharton Kendrick’s advice to "cultivate Peter Bolton’s acquaintance." Accepting this recommendation as a command, I bowed with a smile as sarcastic as his own, and replied cheerfully: "You do seem to have made a failure of it, Mr. Bolton." A flash of anger came into the pale blue eyes, a shade of red flamed in the sallow cheeks, and Peter Bolton broke forth into passionate speech: