he two
gripped their hands in excitement. Had the time come?

Apparently it had. A minute later the stock leaped to 61, on large
buying. Then it went three-eighths more. A buzz of excitement ran
through the office, and the old-timers sat up in their seats. The stock
went another quarter.

Montague heard a man behind him say to his neighbour, "What does it
mean?"

"God knows," was the answer; but Oliver whispered in his brother's ear,
"I know what it means. The insiders are buying."

Somebody was buying, and buying furiously. The ticker seemed to set all
other business aside and give its attention to the trading in
Transcontinental. It was like a base-ball game, when one side begins to
pile up runs, and the man in the coacher's box chants exultantly, and
the dullest spectator is stirred--since no man can be indifferent to
success. And as the stock went higher and higher, a little wave of
excitement mounted with it, a murmur running through the room, and a
thrill passing from person to person. Some watched, wondering if it
would last, and if they had not better take on a little; then another
point would be scored, and they would wish they had done it, and
hesitate whether to do it now. But to others, like the Montagues, who
"had some," it was victory, glorious and thrilling; their pulses leaped
faster with every new change of the figures; and between times they
reckoned up their gains, and hung between hope and dread for the new
gains which were on the way, but not yet in sight.

There was little lull, and the boys who tended the board had a chance
to rest. The stock was above 66; at which price, owing to the device of
"pyramiding." Montague was on "velvet," to use the picturesque phrase
of the Street. His earnings amounted to sixty thousand dollars, and
even if the stock were to fall and he were to be sold out, he would
lose nothing.

He wished to sell and realize his profits; but his brother gripped him
fast by the arm. "No! no!" he said. "It hasn't really come yet!"

Some went out to lunch--to a restaurant where they could have a
telephone on their table, so as to keep in touch with events. But the
Montagues had no care about eating; they sat picturing the directors in
session, and speculating upon a score of various eventualities. Things
might yet go wrong, and all their profits would vanish like early
snow-flakes--and all their capital with them. Oliver shook like a leaf,
but he would not stir. "Stay game!"