On Saturday morning, the speculators were back on the Atchison Board of Trade floor—to a man. The rain had washed their faces clean of all animation. Mr. Roper, working with telegraph instrument, rose and faced the weary-laden boys. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I’ve got good news — for nobody.” The death-like quiet for a fraction of a moment, as if we were standing in the Salt Lake Mormon tabernacle waiting for the usual pin-dropping demonstration, gave way to a concerted sigh. It had rained everywhere. I sold 50,000 bushels at the opening. My profits were wiped out clean. The extra 10,000 bushels short sale made me $63.75 in about three minutes. And this, added to the return of my $100—and relief from liability—made me feel rich. Though little or no wheat was grown here at that time, the Kansas wheat farmer was considered the biggest gambler of them all. Even so, having just got out of a big wheat deal, by “the skin of my teeth,” would it not be good business for me to take a “flyer” in some wheat land, and try growing the stuff? Land in the wheat country was going begging at $300 a quarter—the same land that is now selling up to $200 an acre. Land agents were actually fighting over prospective buyers. Bill Talley, born in Indiana and reared here, was at this time operating a drink emporium in Wetmore, but had lived, and dealt in land, at Cimarron, in Gray County. At the depot, the day I started for the west, Bill told me to go to his friend, Johnny Harper. When I got off the train at Cimarron at 2 o’clock at night, Johnny was there to meet me. We by-passed the leading hotel—a rival agent, F. M. Luther, lived at the hotel—and Johnny took me to a restaurant three blocks away. The next morning Johnny and his partner, Mr. Emery, ate breakfast with me at the restaurant. Mr. Emery was to drive me across the river to look at land. Every parcel of land shown was priced at $300 a quarter. And at every booster stop we visited, the farmer would reply to Mr. Emery’s inquiry: “I would not take $25 an acre for mine.” A few sandhill plums, a dilapidated barn, and weather-beaten three-room house—made the difference. We got back to Cimarron about four o’clock in the afternoon. As if he were sure I had seen a plenty to interest me on the side of a quick purchase, Johnny produced a map, saying, “Now, which piece have you decided on?” I had made no decision. Mr. Emery then thought I might like to see a big alfalfa field four miles up the river—not that it was for sale, but just to show me how good it was. In truth, it was just to get me out of town. The alfalfa looked good, but you know my mind was fixed on wheat, and this big field did not interest me.