., at
the bottom of the big clock the blood-red figure 5 indicates the
opening of the market at $1.45 even. With a mad swirl the trading
begins in a roar of voices. A small forest of arms waves wildly above
jostling bodies. Traders dive for each other, clutch each other and
watch the clock. The red figure 5 has gone out and 7/8 has in turn
vanished in favor of 5/8--1/2--3/8--4--(?) Instead of going up, she's
falling fast. Before the market closes the price may rebound to $1.55.
Somebody will make a "clean-up" to-day and many speculators will
disappear; for margins are being wiped out every minute.

To the Gallery it is a pandemonium of noise, unintelligible in the
volume of it that beats against the void of the high chamber. Only one
shrill voice flings up out of the roar:

"Sell fifty Oc, sev'-eights!" He offers 50,000 bushels of wheat for
October delivery at $1.43 7/8 per bushel. It's that fellow down there
with the blazing red tie half way up his collar. He hits out with both
hands at the air as he yells. A surge of buyers overwhelms him. They
scribble notes upon their sales cards and go at it again.

Down there in the melee those men are thinking fast. With every flash
of the clock the situation changes for many of them. Some pause,
watching, listening; others who have been quiet till now suddenly break
in with a bellow, seemingly on the point of punching the noses of the
men with whom they are doing business. Lightning calculation;
instantaneous decisions! "Use your discretion" many of them have been
cautioned by their firms and they are using it. A moment's hesitation
may cost a thousand dollars. Trading in the Pit is no child's play;
rather is it a severe strain even upon those who know every trick,
every firm and the character of its dealings, every trader and his
individuality, his particular methods--who know every sign and its
meaning, who can read the coming shout by the first movement of the
lips. And always, in and out, are darting the telegraph messenger boys
with yellow slips that cause upheavals.

"Why don't they take their time and do their trading more quietly and
systematically?" ventures Friend Wife up in the gallery.

"And lose a cent a bushel while they're turning around, eh?" laughs
Friend Husband. "On a hundred thousand bushels that'd only be a
thousand dollars. Of course that's mere car-fare!"

The dear old lady from the quiet eddies of Shelterville is shaking her
he