lannel shirt, and to whose
outcries no one ever paid the least attention. Fairchild, Paterson, and
Goodlock, the inseparable trio who represented the Porteous gang,
silent men, middle-aged, who had but to speak in order to buy or sell a
million bushels on the spot. And others, and still others, veterans of
sixty-five, recruits just out of their teens, men who--some of them--in
the past had for a moment dominated the entire Pit, but who now were
content to play the part of "eighth-chasers," buying and selling on the
same day, content with a profit of ten dollars. Others who might at
that very moment be nursing plans which in a week's time would make
them millionaires; still others who, under a mask of nonchalance,
strove to hide the chagrin of yesterday's defeat. And they were there,
ready, inordinately alert, ears turned to the faintest sound, eyes
searching for the vaguest trace of meaning in those of their rivals,
nervous, keyed to the highest tension, ready to thrust deep into the
slightest opening, to spring, mercilessly, upon the smallest undefended
spot. Grossmann, the little Jew of the grimy flannel shirt, perspired
in the stress of the suspense, all but powerless to maintain silence
till the signal should be given, drawing trembling fingers across his
mouth. Winston, brawny, solid, unperturbed, his hands behind his back,
waited immovably planted on his feet with all the gravity of a statue,
his eyes preternaturally watchful, keeping Kelly--whom he had divined
had some "funny business" on hand--perpetually in sight. The Porteous
trio--Fairchild, Paterson, and Goodlock--as if unalarmed, unassailable,
all but turned their backs to the Pit, laughing among themselves.

The official reporter climbed to his perch in the little cage on the
edge of the Pit, shutting the door after him. By now the chanting of
the messenger boys was an uninterrupted chorus. From all sides of the
building, and in every direction they crossed and recrossed each other,
always running, their hands full of yellow envelopes. From the
telephone alcoves came the prolonged, musical rasp of the call bells.
In the Western Union booths the keys of the multitude of instruments
raged incessantly. Bare-headed young men hurried up to one another,
conferred an instant comparing despatches, then separated, darting away
at top speed. Men called to each other half-way across the building.
Over by the bulletin boards clerks and agents made careful memoranda of