There was a momentary lull as Jones raised his arm and thrust his hand forward with all fingers extended. He shouted something that was unintelligible to Jack and Dick, but which raised a storm in the pit. Again and again he repeated the gesture, and from all about the pit men struggled toward him, as though they wished to tear him to pieces. Another messenger boy was running across the floor, and Dick watched him seek out Keyes again. Keyes read the second message and turned back to the pit. His arm shot forward, the hand erect, palm out, and said something. He did not have to shout. The pit had stopped to gasp. When the yell broke out again, it was a different sort of yell. It drew the traders scattered about the floor and in other pits as a magnet draws iron filings. Dick heard the young fellow at her side choke. “What is it?” she demanded. “What has happened?” “Keyes--is--selling.” He spoke in a daze, his eyes on the men signalling from the edge of the pit. “Do you know why he’s selling?” asked Jack. It was the first time he had spoken. “They’ve busted Pickering--that’s why--and a lot of small fry with him that don’t count,--me for one.” So the three stood there watching one of the sharpest turns that most irregular market has ever made. In the fifteen minutes before closing time lard dropped nearly three cents a pound. The one who understood held his open watch in his hand and monotonously reported the swiftly dropping price as it was signalled over to the telephones. The other two listened, bewildered between a pity for him and a conviction that the fifteen minutes would never end. Suddenly he slipped his watch into his pocket and turned away. “That puts me out,” he said. And then--it seems an hour afterward to Jack and Dick--the great bell rang, and it was over. Without speaking, they made their way back to the ground floor and drifted along with the crowd that was pouring into the street. Just before they reached the door Jack exclaimed:-- “Look! there’s Curtin. No, don’t look either. Turn this way.” It was too late to escape him. He made his unsteady way toward them and stood barring their path. “I suppose you think I’ve been drinking,” he said thickly. He was flushed; his eyes rolled about aimlessly. He was shaking like one palsied. Jack Dorlin turned to Dick. “Walk right along without me, please,” he said. “I’ll overtake you in a minute.” Then he caught Curtin by the arm, and, leading him to the sidewalk, hailed a cab. “I’m not drunk,” Curtin protested; “I’ve not been drinking. Oh, my God! I’m going to prison! I’m going to prison!” He tried to say something more, but simply choked. Jack thrust him into the cab and telling the driver Curtin’s address, he pushed his way through the little crowd that had gathered, and hurried after Dick. Then they walked on slowly for more than a block without speaking, and in spite of the crowd on the sidewalk he continued to stay close at her side.