Then came the temptation. Life was a battle, and this was the way it was being fought. If he rejected the opportunity, others would seize it; in fact, by refusing, he would be handing it to them. This great man, whoever he might be, who was manipulating stocks for his own convenience—could anyone in his senses reject a chance to wrench from him some part of his spoils? Montague saw the impulse of refusal dying away within him. “Well?” asked his brother, finally. “Oliver,” said the other, “don’t you think that I ought to know more about it, so that I can judge?” “You could not judge, even if I told you all,” said Oliver. “It would take you a long time to become familiar with the circumstances, as I am. You must take my word; I know it is certain and safe.” Then suddenly he unbuttoned his coat, and took out some papers, and handed his brother a telegram. It was dated Chicago, and read, “Guest is expected immediately.—HENRY.” “That means, ‘Buy Transcontinental this morning,’” said Oliver. “I see,” said the other. “Then the man is in Chicago?” “No,” was the reply. “That is his wife. He wires to her.” “—How much money have you?” asked Oliver, after a pause. “I’ve most of the fifty thousand,” the other answered, “and about thirty thousand we brought with us.” “How much can you put your hands on?” “Why, I could get all of it; but part of the money is mother’s, and I would not touch that.” The younger man was about to remonstrate, but Montague stopped him, “I will put up the fifty thousand I have earned,” he said. “I dare not risk any more.” Oliver shrugged his shoulders. “As you please,” he said. “You may never have another such chance in your life.” He dropped the subject, or at least he probably tried to. Within a few minutes, however, he was back at it again, with the result that by the time they reached the banking-district, Montague had agreed to draw sixty thousand. They stopped at his bank. “It isn’t open yet,—” said Oliver, “but the paying teller will oblige you. Tell him you want it before the Exchange opens.” Montague went in and got his money, in six new, crisp, ten-thousand-dollar bills. He buttoned them up in his inmost pocket, wondering a little, incidentally, at the magnificence of the place, and at the swift routine manner in which the clerk took in and paid out such sums as this. Then they drove to Oliver’s bank, and he drew a hundred and twenty thousand; and then he paid off the cab, and they strolled down Broadway into Wall Street. It lacked a quarter of an hour of the time of the opening of the Exchange; and a stream of prosperous-looking men were pouring in from all the cars and ferries to their offices. “Where are your brokers?” Montague inquired.