Then there came to him a notion, an ironical, whimsical notion that pleased him, and he stood still, smiling over it. He would set a period to this delectable experience. His opponent should have an hour and a half. He would begin now in three--two and three-quarters--minutes, and at eleven o’clock his bear’s hug should squeeze the last gasp out of Pickering. It was anything but hard business sense, but for this once he could afford the luxury of following a fancy, as pretty a fancy as that. Then the big bell rang out half-past nine, and the trading began. It had been long since Sponley had taken the field in person, but not so long that men had forgotten that he was the best operator on the board. That he was, was due partly to his impassivity, partly to his quickness; but more than either, apparently, to his mere bulk, or at least to a certain oppression which seemed to emanate from it. Keyes was a good man, an old hand at the business, he knew every trick of it, but he felt as if Pickering’s defeat were already accomplished when he looked at Sponley standing there, at the other side of the pit. None the less he held his ground gallantly; for the first three-quarters of an hour he never gave an inch. But it was a game of follow the leader by that time. It seemed that every trader on the floor was coming to the provision pit, to make a short sale and take a little share in Sponley’s certain victory. No one could stand for long against such a pressure as that, and the price began dropping, a notch at a time, at first, but faster afterwards and down, down, down it went, sliding. At a quarter before eleven there came a check and then a smart rally of a point or two. Sponley glanced up at the big clock, and he smiled. He was going to hit it almost exactly. He had expected this turn, he knew just what it meant. Pickering was of the sort who die hard, and now, as he came so desperately near the extreme edge, he was gathering every ounce of fight into this last plunge. Without hurry and without discomposure, Sponley hammered the price back again, and the narrow margin was almost nothing. Outside, in the street, a carriage with three men in it was driving up furiously, reckless of the shouts from the policeman at the corner. When it stopped before the Board of Trade building, Pickering was still fighting, but already half over the edge. That was six minutes of eleven. CHAPTER XX ASSAULT AND BATTERY