And still Sharpe, wonderful man that he was, gave no sign that he was about to begin unloading. Whereupon the other members of the pool began to wish he were not quite so greedy. They were satisfied to quit, they said. The presence of the pool’s stock in their offices began to irritate them. They knew the vicissitudes of life, the uncertainties of politics, and of the stock market. Supposing some crazy anarchist blew up the President of the United States, or the Emperor of Germany were to insult his grandmother, the market would “break” to pieces, and their $4,000,000 of paper profits would disappear. They implored, individually and collectively, Mr. Jacob Greenbaum to call on Sharpe; and Greenbaum, disregarding a still, small voice that warned him against it, went to Sharpe’s office, and came out of it, two minutes later, somewhat flushed, and assured his colleagues one by one that Sharpe was all right, and that he seemed to know his business. Also, that he was cranky that day. He always was, added Greenbaum forgivingly, when one of his horses lost a race. The stock fluctuated between 60 and 65. It seemed to be having a resting spell. But as it had enjoyed these periods of repose on three several occasions during the rise—at 40 and 48 and 56–-the public became all the more eager to buy it whenever it fell to 60 or 59, for the Street was now full of tips that “Turp” would go to par. And such was the public’s speculative temper and Mr. Sharpe’s good work that disinterested observers were convinced the stock would surely sell above 90 at the very least. Mr. Sharpe still bought and sold, but he sold twice as much as he bought, and the big block he had been obliged to take in the course of his manipulation diminished. On the next day he hoped to begin selling the pool stock. That very day Mr. Greenbaum, as he returned to his office from his luncheon, felt well pleased with the meal and therefore with himself and therefore with everything. He scanned a yard or two of the tape and smiled. “Turp” was certainly very active and very strong. “In such a market,” thought Mr. Greenbaum, “Sharpe can’t possibly tell he’s getting stock from me. In order to be on the safe side I’m going to let him have a couple of thousand. Then, should anything happen, I’d be that much ahead. Ike!” he called to a clerk. “Yes, sir.” “Sell two—wait; make it 3,000–-no, never mind. Send for Mr. Ed Lazarus.” And he muttered to himself, with a sub-thrill of pleasure: “I can just as well as not make it 5,000 shares.” “Eddie,” he said to his partner’s son, “give an order to some of the room traders, say to Willie Schiff, to sell five—er—six—tell him to sell 7,000 shares of Turpentine and to borrow the stock. I am not selling a share, see?” with a wink. “It’s short selling by him, do you understand?”