o telephone to their broker rose and quickly left the court-room. A
brief period was consumed in signing receipts, certificates, and other
legal papers, and then the performance was over. Addicks rose and went
out among his henchmen in the rear, who eagerly surrounded him. In the
bustle Braman and Foster, each with his own booty, fled.

Let us see what was happening at the Boston end of the wire while all
this dumb show was being enacted in the Wilmington court-house. My
directors and officials were lined up against the walls of the
directors' room in the Boston Gas Light Company's office like so many
members of young John D. Rockefeller's Sunday-school class, inasmuch as
they were prepared to listen, sing, or shout "Amen!" at any time they
received the nod of the class-leader. In an adjoining room Rogers'
counsel had a similar line-up, with the difference that my men were
about to shed the crowns which the others were waiting to receive, and
which would transform them from humble business men into royal gas
kings. Through the open wire I was in such close touch with the scene in
the Wilmington court-room that I was almost sure I heard the subdued
weeping of the blindfolded Lady of the Scales on the bills which
occupied such a prominent part in the disreputable proceedings. Nothing
now could impede the course of events, so I concluded to take Time by
the headgear and secure what Bay State stock was in the market before
Braman and Foster got in their work. Over another wire which was at my
elbow I gave the word "go!" to my own brokers in Boston and New York,
and when a few minutes later they told me they were securing thousands
of shares, and that the stock was climbing toward 10, I could not
repress an inward chuckle at the thought that the money we had so
reluctantly parted with would spread over only one-half or one-third the
surface it was originally intended to cover.

It was all over in a few minutes, and when my partner said, "It's done,"
and "By Jove, there go Dwight Braman and Roger Foster on the dead run
with a dress-suit case apiece!" I held my sides as Parker Chandler in
his inimitable way bawled: "Tom, let's leave our straw hats on the pegs,
for we'll probably be back next spring figuring out how to pump air
enough through the gas-measuring meters to pay for that money we've just
loaned Braman and Foster for a day or two."

Braman and Foster, as I have observed before, knew their business. The
danger to wh