“Oh,” said the other, “we shall certainly have to charge you a ten per cent, margin.” Montague was not prepared for this contingency; but he did some mental arithmetic. “What is the present price of the stock?” he asked. “Fifty-nine and five-eighths,” was the reply. “Then sixty thousand dollars is more than ten per cent, of the market price,” said Montague. “Yes,” said Mr. Streeter. “But in dealing with a stranger we shall certainly have to put a ‘stop loss’ order at four points above, and that would leave you only two points of safety—surely not enough.” “I see,” said Montague—and he had a sudden appalling realization of the wild game which his brother had planned for him. “Whereas,” Mr. Streeter continued, persuasively, “if you put up ten per cent., you will have six points.” “Very well,” said the other promptly. “Then please buy me six thousand shares.” So they closed the deal, and the papers were signed, and Mr. Streeter took the six new, crisp ten-thousand-dollar bills. Then he escorted him to the outer office, remarking pleasantly on the way, “I hope you’re well advised. We’re inclined to be bearish upon Transcontinental ourselves—the situation looks rather squally.” These words were not worth the breath it took to say them; but Montague was not aware of this, and felt a painful start within. But he answered, carelessly, that one must take his chance, and sat down in one of the customer’s chairs. Hammond and Streeter’s was like a little lecture-hall, with rows of seats and a big blackboard in front, with the initials of the most important stocks in columns, and yesterday’s closing prices above, on little green cards. At one side was a ticker, with two attendants awaiting the opening click. In the seats were twenty or thirty men, old and young; most of them regular _habitués_, victims of the fever of the Street. Montague watched them, catching snatches of their whispered conversation, with its intricate and disagreeable slang. He felt intensely humiliated and uncomfortable—for he had got the fever of the Street into his own veins, and he could not conquer it. There were nasty shivers running up and down his spine, and his hands were cold. He stared at the little figures, fascinated; they stood for some vast and tremendous force outside, which could not be controlled or even comprehended,—some merciless, annihilating force, like the lightning or the tornado. And he had put himself at the mercy of it; it might do its will with him! “Tr. C. 59-5/8” read the little pasteboard; and he had only six points of safety. If at any time in the day that figure should be changed to read “53-5/8”—then every dollar of Montague’s sixty thousand would be gone for ever! The great fee that he had worked so hard for and rejoiced so greatly over—that would be all gone, and a slice out of his inheritance besides!