“Yes. Sam Sharpe told”—Gilmartin was on the point of saying a “friend of mine” but caught himself and went on, impressively—“told me, yesterday, to buy Pa. Cent. as he had accumulated his full line, and was ready to whoop it up. And you know what Sharpe is,” he finished, as if he thought Smithers was familiar with Sharpe’s powers. “Is that so?” nibbled Smithers. “Why, when Sharpe makes up his mind to put up a stock, as he intends to do with Pa. Cent., nothing on earth can stop him. He told me he would make it cross par within sixty days. This is no hearsay, no tip. It’s cold facts. I don’t _hear_ it’s going up; I don’t _think_ it’s going up; I _know_ it’s going up. Understand?” And he shook his right forefinger with a hammering motion. In less than five minutes Smithers was so wrought up that he bought 500 shares and promised solemnly not to “take his profits,” _i.e._ sell out, until Gilmartin said the word. Then they had another drink and another look at the ticker. “You want to keep in touch with me,” was Gilmartin’s parting shot. “I’ll tell you what Sharpe tells me. But you must keep it quiet,” with a side-wise nod that pledged Smithers to honorable secrecy. Had Gilmartin met Sharpe face to face, he would not have known who was before him. Shortly after he left Smithers he buttonholed another acquaintance, a young man who thought he knew Wall Street, and therefore had a hobby—manipulation. No one could induce him to buy stocks by telling him how well the companies were doing, how bright the prospects, etc. That was bait for “suckers” not for clever young stock operators. But anyone, even a stranger, who said that “they”—the perennially mysterious “they,” the “big men,” the mighty “manipulators” whose life was one prolonged conspiracy to pull the wool over the public’s eyes—“they” were going to “jack up” these or the other shares, was welcomed, and his advice acted upon. Young Freeman believed in nothing but “their” wickedness and “their” power to advance or depress stock values at will. Thinking of his wisdom had given him a chronic sneer. “You’re just the man I was looking for,” said Gilmartin, who hadn’t thought of the young man at all. “What Sam?” “Sharpe. The old boy sent for me. He was in mighty good-humor too. Tickled to death. He might well be—he’s got 60,000 shares of Pennsylvania Central. And there’s going to be from 50 to 60 points profit in it.” “H’m!” sniffed Freeman, skeptically, yet impressed by the change in Gilmartin’s attitude from the money-borrowing humility of the previous week to the confident tone of a man with a straight tip. Sharpe was notoriously kind to his old friends—rich or poor.