The morality of this sort of operation must not be scrutinized too closely. Commercially it is “all right.” A man who only just fails to get a corner--and get out of it--may even get a little sympathy from his fellows. A man who succeeds is sure of unbounded admiration. The commercial sort of morality is all that a banker has a right to expect from his customers, and that was not the phase of the question which interested John. He was wondering whether Pickering would succeed. Cornering a market is at best a desperate operation; the chances lie heavily on the side of failure. It is daring, splendid, Napoleonic; it makes capital reading in the daily papers, and affords the outsiders a chance to win a little and to lose a great deal of money; but bankers regard it with suspicion. However, Pickering might win. Everything that one could foresee was in his favor. The stock of lard was small,--there had been a short corn crop two years before,--and he had succeeded in buying a large part of what there was of it without attracting attention. Nobody seemed to think of a corner. Most of all in his favor was the man himself. His skill was the growth of years of experience, his resources were immense, and his nerve would never fail. Yes, he might win. When John came back to the bank, he found Melville Sponley talking to Curtin. Had he entered just a second sooner, he would have heard Curtin say,-- “A fellow named Pickering--” But as it happened, when he came in earshot, Sponley was talking,-- “It’s just a quiet little place, but you can sit over your coffee and cigars as long as you like and nobody hurries you. I generally go there--Hello!” “What place is this?” John asked, coming up. “The place I want you to go to with me for lunch to-day.” “Oh, you’re too late,” said John. “I’ve just been.” “You’re the worst victim of the early hour habit I know,” Sponley exclaimed, with feigned impatience. “I thought I’d come early enough to catch you. I suppose you breakfasted to-day at seven and will dine at six.” John laughed. “I’m getting to be an old dog,” he said. “You’ve got to expect me to keep at my old tricks. Come in here and sit down. You won’t want your lunch for an hour yet.” He followed Sponley into the office and sat down before his desk. His eyes rested on it a moment and he scowled. “That old thing irritates me,” he said. “It’s always dirty. The cracks and filigree stuff on the thing would defy the best-intentioned office boy in the world.” “It’s symbolic,” said Sponley, laughing. “It’s the exact type of the ancient régime of Bagsbury and Company. All the rest of the furniture of the bank is of the same kind.”