“You’ve heard of Wall Street. Well, we have no Wall Street in Chicago, but we’ve got the greatest lot of hustlers in the grain pit you ever heard of, from Hutchinson, in days gone by, to old Samson Cereal, the grain king of to-day. Now you understand why I gave up a lucrative office; now you can see where the immense profits come in. Why, look here,” snatching out the book again and showing a closely written page, “there’s what will to-morrow either win or lose me a cool million.” Craig begins to be amused. “Oh! and I presume you’re quite prepared to meet your losses if fortune is against you?” Wycherley, a modern Dick Swiveller in all his rattle-brained, devil-may-care ways, shrugs his shoulders. “If the fair goddess refuses me her favor, I’ll have to carry it over to the next day.” “Your creditors are very obliging.” “Pshaw! don’t you understand, old fellow? I said I was an apprentice; I’m making a deep study of this grain gambling on ’Change. It’s my intention to devote myself to it after I’ve got the secret of success down fine. I’m only betting with myself, you see. Some days I’m depressed by heavy losses; then again I’m on the top of the swim--my name famous as a high-roller. You don’t know how exciting it is to take up an afternoon paper in a delightful state of uncertainty as to whether you have won or lost a fortune.” “Ahem! it must be, indeed. See here, how long have you been at this odd game?” “About three weeks.” “Doing a big business, I presume?” Claude thrusts his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, and swells with importance. “I’ve handled millions, my dear fellow; made some of the boldest moves ever known; expect to be the Napoleon of the wheat pit ere long.” “Well, how do you stand?” continues Craig, thoroughly interested in this queer freak of his entertaining companion. “Stand?” echoes Claude. “Yes; what have the profits, imaginary of course, been?” “H’m! Well, I was figuring up this evening, and if I’m lucky to-morrow----” “Yes.” “And win that cool million----” “We’ll take that for granted, my dear boy.” “And no beggar of a broker goes back on his contract, I’ll be just thirteen dollars ahead of the game.” CHAPTER II. HOW SAMSON CEREAL STOLE A BRIDE IN TURKEY. Craig turns and looks squarely in the face of his companion. His Canadian sense of humor does not grasp the situation as readily as would have been the case with an American, but gradually a smile creeps over his countenance. “Then if luck follows you, my dear Claude, I shall know where to go if I want to make a loan,” he says, and the other joins in the laugh. “Perhaps you’ll give me credit for having a long head when you know _all_,” pursues Wycherley, with a mysterious nod. “Then there is still something more back of it?” “I should say so. This brain-racking mental calculation is only a means to an end. Should the plan carry out I’m a goner,” with a sigh.