But the fickle goddess of chance loves to sport with her victims, and wheat rose to seventy-five again; then fell to seventy-four, and vibrated between that and seventy-five for an hour. Frye was growing desperate, and his deep-set yellow eyes glared like those of a cat at night. The market closed at two. It was now one-thirty, and wheat was seventy-three and three-quarters. Frye went out again, and two more glasses of brandy were added to his delirium. Wheat was now seventy-three and one-half! Then, as once more he fixed his vulture eyes on that long column of figures, at the foot of which was seventy-three and one-half, the devil's teeth began a more vicious snapping, and so fast came the quotations that the boy could no longer record them. Instead, he called them out in a drawling sing-song: "September wheat now seventy-three,--the half,--five-eighths,--a half,--five-eighths split,--now a half,--three-eighths,--a quarter,--seventy-three!" Frye set his feet hard together, and clinched his hands. Only two cents in price stood between him and the loss of all his twenty years' saving. All the lies he had told for miserable gain, all the miserly self-denial he had practised, all the clients he had cheated and robbed, all the hatred he had won from others availed him not. His contemptible soul and his life, almost, now hung by a miserly two cents. Once more the devil's teeth clicked, and once more the boy's drawl rose above the ticker's whir. "Seventy-three,--a quarter,--an eighth,--seventy-three,--now seventy-two seven-eighths,--three-quarters,--five-eighths,--three-quarters split,--now five-eighths,--a half,--a half." And now pandemonium was raging in the Chicago wheat pit, and the ticker's teeth clicked like mad. "Seventy-two,--a half,--a half,--three-eighths,--a half,--three-eighths,--a quarter,--seventy-two!" Cold beads of sweat gathered on Frye's forehead. One cent more and he was ruined! Again the ticker buzzed like a mad hornet, and again the devil's teeth snapped. "September wheat now seventy-one seven-eighths,--seven-eighths, --three-quarters,--seven-eighths split,--now the three-quarter, --five-eighths,--a half,--a half,--five-eighths,--a half,--a half again,--three-eighths,--a quarter,--an eighth,--a quarter,--an eighth, --a quarter,--an eighth,--an eighth,--a quarter split,--an eighth,-- "SEVENTY-ONE!!!" FRYE WAS RUINED. He gave one low moan, the first, last, and only one during those three long weeks of agony!