Greener really was in desperate straits. He was committed to many important enterprises. To carry them out he needed cash and the banks, fearful of stock market possibilities, were loath to lend him enough. Besides which, there was the desire on the part of the banks’ directors to pick up fine bargains should their refusal to lend Greener money force him to throw overboard the greater part of his load. Greener had despoiled innumerable widows and orphans in his railroad wrecking schemes. The money lenders should avenge the widows and orphans. It was a good deed. There was not a doubt of it in their minds. Federal Telegraph, in which Greener’s commitments were heaviest, had been slowly sinking. Successful in other quarters of the market, Dutch Dan decided to “whack the everlasting daylights out of Fed. Tel.” He went about it calmly, just as he played roulette—selling it methodically, ceaselessly, depressingly. And the price wilted. Greener, unsuccessful in other quarters of the Street, decided it was time to do something to save himself. He needed only $5,000,000. At a pinch $3,000,000 might do; or, for the moment, even $2,500,000. But he must have the money at once. Delay meant danger and danger meant Dittenhoeffer and Dittenhoeffer might mean death. Of a sudden, rising from nowhere, fathered by no one, the rumor whirled about the Street that Greener was in difficulties. Financial ghouls ran to the banks and interviewed the presidents. They asked no questions in order to get no lies. They simply said, as though they knew: “Greener is on his uppers.” The bank presidents smiled, indulgently, almost pityingly: “Oh, you’ve just heard it, have you? We’ve known it for six weeks!” Back to the Stock Exchange rushed the ghouls to sell the Greener stocks—not Federal Telegraph which was really a good property, but his reorganized roads, whose renascence was so recent that they had not grown into full strength. Down went prices and up went the whisper: “Dittenhoeffer’s got Greener at last!” A thousand brokers rushed to find their dear friend Dan to congratulate him—Napoleon’s conqueror, the hero of the hour, the future dispenser of liberal commissions, but dear Dan could not be found. He was not on the “floor” of the Exchange nor at his office. Some one had sought Dittenhoeffer before the brokers thought of congratulating him—some one who was the greatest gambler of all, greater even than Dutch Dan—a little man with furtive brown eyes and a squeaky voice; also a wonderful forehead: Mr. John F. Greener. “Mr. Dittenhoeffer, I sent for you to ask you a question,” he squeaked, calmly. He stood beside a garrulous ticker. “Certainly, Mr. Greener.” And Dittenhoeffer instantly had a vision of humble requests to “let up.” And he almost formulated the very words of a withering refusal. “Would you execute an order from me?” “Certainly, Mr. Greener. I’ll execute anybody’s orders. I’m a broker.”