ix and one-half," clicked the machine.

Cresswell arose from his chair by the window and came slowly to the wide
flat desk where Taylor was working feverishly. He sat down heavily in
the chair opposite and tried quietly to regain his self-control. The
liabilities of the Cresswells already amounted to half the value of
their property, at a fair market valuation. The cotton for which they
had made debts was still falling in value. Every fourth of a cent fall
meant--he figured it again tremblingly--meant one hundred thousand more
of liabilities. If cotton fell to six he hadn't a cent on earth. If it
stayed there--"My God!" He felt a faintness stealing over him but he
beat it back and gulped down another glass of fiery liquor.

Then the one protecting instinct of his clan gripped him. Slowly,
quietly his hand moved back until it grasped the hilt of the big Colt's
revolver that was ever with him--his thin white hand became suddenly
steady as it slipped the weapon beneath the shadow of the desk.

"If it goes to six," he kept murmuring, "we're ruined--if it goes to
six--if--"

"Tick," sounded the wheel and the sound reverberated like sudden thunder
in his ears. His hand was iron, and he raised it slightly. "Six," said
the wheel--his finger quivered--"and a half."

"Hell!" yelled Taylor. "She's turned--there'll be the devil to pay now."
A messenger burst in and Taylor scowled.

"She's loose in New York--a regular mob in New Orleans--and--hark!--By
God! there's something doing here. Damn it--I wish we'd got another
million bales. Let's see, we've got--" He figured while the wheel
whirred--"7--7-1/2--8--8-1/2."

Cresswell listened, staggered to his feet, his face crimson and his hair
wild.

"My God, Taylor," he gasped. "I'm--I'm a half a million ahead--great
heavens!"

The ticker whirred, "8-3/4--9--9-1/2--10." Then it stopped dead.

"Exchange closed," said Taylor. "We've cornered the market all
right--cornered it--d'ye hear, Cresswell? We got over half the crop and
we can send prices to the North Star--you--why, I figure it you
Cresswells are worth at least seven hundred and fifty thousand above
liabilities this minute," and John Taylor leaned back and lighted a big
black cigar.

"I've made a million or so myself," he added reflectively.

Cresswell leaned back in his chair, his face had gone white again, and
he spoke slowly to still the tremor in his voice.

"I've gambled--before; I've gambled on cards and on hor