Each of these was a good and sufficient reason why Iowa Midland stock should be sold. The comparison is odiously trite, but the growth of an adverse rumor in Wall Street really resembles nothing so much as the traditional snowball rolling down a hillside and becoming larger and larger as it rolls, until it is huge, terrific, with appalling possibilities for evil. The Board Room became Iowa-Midland-mad. Speculators often stampede—just like other animals. No stock can withstand their rush to sell, even though it be “protected” or “supported” by its manipulators, much less a stock like Iowa Midland, whose market sponsor was out of town, and out of reach of the telegraph. From all over the room men rushed to Brown, who was sitting calmly at the Erie “post,” chatting pleasantly with a friend. “Brown, what’s up in Iowa Midland?” one of them asked, feverishly. The others listened eagerly. Brown might have said, “I don’t know,” rudely, and turned his back on them. But he did not. He responded jocularly: “It seems to me that something is down in Iowa Midland, that something being about three points, I should say. Ha! ha!” By this time nearly all the listeners had concluded that, since Brown refused to tell, there must be something serious—something very serious. Brown obviously was still selling the stock through other brokers, and would keep the bad news to himself until he had marketed his “line.” After that, probably he would become interestingly garrulous. They therefore advised their respective offices to get rid of their Iowa Midland stock. It might be all right; but it might be all wrong. And it was going down fast. Mr. Greener in his office was looking at the “tape” as it came out of the little electrical printing machine that records the transactions and prices. The sallow-faced little man permitted himself a slight—a very slight—smile. The tape showed: “IA. MID., 1000. 39; 300. 38¾; 500. ⅝; 300. ½; 200. ⅜; ¼; 300. 38.” He turned away to summon a clerk, to whom he said: “Mr. Rock, please send for Mr. Coolidge. Make haste.” “Very well, sir.” A portly, white-waistcoated, white-haired man, with snow-white, short-cropped side whiskers, burst unceremoniously into the room. “How do you do, Mr. Ormiston?” squeaked Greener, cordially. “Greener,” panted the portly man, “what’s the matter with Iowa Midland?” “How should I know?” in a half-complaining, half-petulant squeak. “Brown started the selling. I saw it myself. Greener, I did you a good turn once in Central District Telegraph. I’m long 6,000 shares of this Iowa Midland. For God’s sake, man, if you know anything——” “Mr. Ormiston, all I know is what I learn from my confidential reports of the Iowa crop. Along the line of the Keokuk & Northern the crop is not what I hoped for.” And he shook his head dolefully. “_Ticky-ticky-ticky tick!_” said the ticker, calmly.