the centre of that crowd of men, fast becoming
panic-stricken, if the fate of nations had depended on my errand. I had
witnessed such a scene before. It represented a certain phase of
Stock-Exchange-gambling procedure, where one man apparently has every
other man on the floor against him. I understood: Bob against them
all--he trying to stay the onrushing current of dropping prices; they
bent on keeping the sluice-gates open. He was backed up against
the rail--not the Bob of the morning; not a vestige of that cold,
brain-nerve-and-body-in-hand gambler remained. His hat was gone, his
collar torn and hanging over his shoulder. His coat and waistcoat were
ripped open, showing the full length of his white shirt-front, and his
eyes were fairly mad. Bob was no longer a human being, but a monarch of
the forest at bay, with the hunter in front of him, and closing in upon
him, in a great half-circle, the pack of harriers, all gnashing their
teeth, baring their fangs, and howling for blood. The hunter directly
facing Bob, was Barry Conant--very slight, very short, a marvellously
compact, handsome, miniature man, with a fascinating face, dark olive in
tint, lighted by a pair of sparkling black eyes and framed in jet-black
hair; a black mustache was parted over white teeth, which, when he was
stalking his game, looked like those of a wolf. An interesting man at all
times was this Barry Conant, and he had been on more and fiercer
battle-fields than any other half-score members combined. The scene was a
rare one for a student of animalised men.

While every other man in the crowd was at a high tension of excitement,
Barry Conant was as calm as though standing in the centre of a ten-acre
daisy-field cutting off the helpless flowers' heads with every swing of
his arm. Switching stock-gamblers into eternity had grown to be a pastime
to Barry Conant. Here was Bob thundering with terrific emphasis "78 for
5,000," "77 for 5,000," "75 for 5,000," "74 for 5,000," "73 for 5,000,"
"72 for 5,000," seemingly expecting through sheer power of voice to crush
his opponent into silence. But with the regularity of a trip-hammer Barry
Conant's right hand, raised in unhurried gesture, and his clear calm
"Sold" met Bob's every retreating bid. It was a battle royal--a king on
one side, a Richelieu on the other. Though there was frantic buying and
selling all around these two generals, the trading was gauged by the
trend of their battle. All knew that if B