“So we headed for the Stock Exchange. We got our gallery tickets at the bank where the Golconda folks kept money, and in a little while we was leanin' over a kind of marble bulwarks and starin' down at a gang of men smokin' and foolin' and carryin' on. 'Twas a dull day, so we found out afterward, and I guess likely that was true. Anyway, I never see such grown-up men act so much like children. There was a lot of poles stuck up around with signs on 'em, and around every pole was a circle of bedlamites hollerin' like loons. Hollerin' was the nighest to work of anything I see them fellers do, unless 'twas tearin' up papers and shovin' the pieces down somebody's neck or throwin' 'em in the air like a play-actin' snowstorm. “'What's the matter with 'em?' says I. 'High finance taken away their brains?' “But Phinney was awful interested. He dumped some money in a mine once. The mine caved in on it, I guess, for not a red cent ever come to the top again, but he's been a kind of prophet concernin' finances ever sence. “'I want to see the big fellers,' says he. 'S'pose that fat one is Morgan?' “'I don't know,' says I. 'Me and Pierpont ain't met for ever so long. Don't lean over and point so; you're makin' a hit.' “He was, too. Some of the younger crew on the floor was lookin' up and grinnin', and more kept stoppin' and joinin' in all the time. I cal'late we looked kind of green and soft, hangin' over that marble rail, like posies on a tombstone; and green is the favorite color to a stockbroker, they tell me. Anyhow, we had a good-sized congregation under us in less than no time. Likewise, they got chatty, and commenced to unload remarks. “'Land sakes!' says one. 'How's punkins?' “'How's crops down your way?' says another. “Now there wa'n't nothin' real bright and funny about these questions--more fresh than new, they struck me--but you'd think they was gems from the comic almanac, jedgin' by the haw-haws. Next minute a little bald-headed smart Alec, with clothes that had a tailor's sign hull down and out of the race, steps to the front and commences to make a speech. “'Gosh t'mighty, gents,' says he. 'With your kind permission, I'll sing “When Reuben Comes to Town.”' “And he did sing it, too, in a voice that needed cultivatin' worse'n a sandy front yard. And with every verse the congregation whooped and laughed and cheered. When the anthem was concluded, all hands set up a yell and looked at us to see how we took it. “As for me, I was b'ilin' mad and mortified and redhot all over. But Sim Phinney was as cool as an October evenin'. Once in a while old Sim comes out right down brilliant, and he done it now. He smiled, kind of tolerant and easy, same as you might at the tricks of a hand-organ monkey. Then he claps his hands, applaudin' like, reaches into his pocket, brings up a couple of pennies, and tosses 'em down to little baldhead, who was standin' there blown up with pride.