However, Mordecai knew, as no one else did, that Galt was still in a very strong position. He had not begun to strike. Thanks to the intuition which moved him at the onset to convert two thirds of his fortune into cash he could, when the moment came, strike hard. Now came the day of days,--the time when Bullguard did his utmost. Fastenings gave way. Walls rocked. Strong men lost their rational faculties and retained only the power of primitive vocal utterance. The sounds that issued from the Stock Exchange were appalling. The ear would think a demented menagerie was devouring itself. Thousands of small craft disappeared that day and left no trace. Great Midwestern, spilling out on the tape in five and ten-thousand share blocks, fell twenty points in two hours. Galt was in his office at the ticker. Mordecai was with him, holding his hands reverently together, gazing at the tape in a state of fascination. On one headlong impulse Great Midwestern touched one hundred dollars a share,--par! It had fallen from two-hundred-and-twenty in three months. “It’s over,” said Galt, turning away. I once saw a great prizefighter, on giving the knock-out blow at the end of a hard battle, turn his back with the same gesture and walk to his own corner. “Vhat iss id you zay?” asked Mordecai, following. “It’s over,” Galt repeated. “They haven’t got me and they can’t go any further without breaking themselves. Get your house on the wire. That’s the direct telephone ... that one. I want to give an order.” Mordecai picked up the telephone and asked for one of his partners, who instantly responded. “Vhat iss ze order?” asked Mordecai, holding the telephone and looking at Galt. “Buy all the Great Midwestern there is for sale up to one-hundred-and-f-i-f-t-y!” said Galt. Mordecai transmitted this extraordinary order, put the telephone down softly, and lisped, “My Gott!” Just then the door burst open. Thirty or forty reporters had been waiting in the outer office all day. Their excitement at last broke bounds; they simply came in. The Evening Post man was at their head. “Mr. Galt,” he shouted, “you have got to make some kind of statement. Public opinion demands it.” I expected Galt to explode with rage. “Postey,” he said, “I don’t know a damn thing about public opinion. That’s your trade. Tell me something about it.” “It wants to know what all this means,” said Postey. “Well, tell it this for me,” said Galt. “Tell it just as I tell you. The panic is over.” “But, Mr.--” “Now, that’s all,” said Galt. “Ain’t it enough?” I had been to look at the tape. “Great Midwestern is a hundred and thirty,” I announced at large. The reporters stared at me wide-eyed. Postey ran to look for himself, bumping Mordecai aside. “That’s right,” he said, making swiftly for the door. The others followed him in a trampling rush.