He was ruined anyhow. If he failed without further ado, that is, without increasing his liabilities, he would be cursed by twenty-five of his customers and by fifteen of his fellow-brokers who were “lending” stocks to him. But if he made one last desperate effort, he might pull out of the hole; or, at the worst, why, the number of cursing customers would remain the same, but the fellow-brokers would rise to twenty or thirty. He took another stiff drink. The market had become undoubtedly a bull market. The bears had been fighting the advance, and there still remained a stubborn short interest in certain stocks, as, for example, in American Sugar Company stock. Now if that short interest could be stampeded it might mean an eight or ten-point advance. If he bought 10,000 or 15,000 shares and sold them at an average profit of four or five points, he would put off the disaster, and if he made ten points he would be a great operator. He had, to be sure, no business to buy even 1,000 shares of Sugar; but then he had no business to be on the verge of bankruptcy. The liquor was potent. Sally said to himself, aggrievedly: “I might as well be hung for a flock as for one measly old mutton.” He walked a trifle unsteadily from “Fred’s” across the narrow asphalted New Street to the Stock Exchange. He paused at the entrance. There was no escape. Unless he could make a lucky strike, he would fail ignominiously. “Pike’s Peak or bust!” he muttered to himself, and walked into the big room. “Good-morning, Mr. Hayward,” said the doorkeeper. Hayward nodded absently, caught himself repeating, “Pike’s Peak or bust!” and walked straight toward the Sugar post.