ROCKERVELT settled with John Steele by drawing his cheque for three hundred and ninety-eight thousand six hundred dollars, and it was the circumvented Blair himself who carried through the negotiations. Steele asked half a million at the beginning, but had made up his mind to accept three hundred thousand dollars. As he wished to net this sum clear, he added to it the amount he paid for the stock, including Miss Slocum’s ten thousand dollars, and the percentage, which came to nearly forty thousand more. Then he informed Blair he was forced to add ten thousand dollars for that kick, which he did. He told Blair that he remembered the kick on an average of once a day, and that this thought humiliated him. Therefore he would be compelled to charge one hundred dollars a day for thinking of the assault while negotiations were pending. Whether this time-penalty hastened negotiations or not will never be known, but it accounts for the odd figures on the Rockervelt cheque, and, after paying all liabilities, Steele found himself with more than his minimum sum in hand.

The station-master of Slocum Junction was given the position of travelling man on the Wheat Belt Line, at a salary of fifty dollars a week, which seemed to him princely. Miss Dorothy Slocum insisted on finishing her year at the Bunkerville school, but during the Christmas holidays she married the station-master, and they set up housekeeping in Chicago with a nice little bank account of nearly fifty thousand dollars. The young lady’s dream of life was now realised. She enjoyed the privilege of being an inhabitant of the Western metropolis, in comfortable circumstances, with everything at her disposal that a large city had to bestow. John Steele, in the New Year, had the pleasure of escorting the young woman to a matinee, and when he asked her if the few weeks’ experience of Chicago had changed her mind regarding the delights of the place, she replied that Chicago was heavenly; which called up a smile to the young man’s lips as he remembered the story of a Chicago man who had died and gone to the other place, and told an inmate thereof that his new residence was preferable to Chicago. But John didn’t tell the story to his companion. He complained pathetically that she had broken his heart by marrying the station-master, but she laughed and said she had broken his heart no more than Blair had broken his neck by precipitating him down the railway embankment from the running train—which, by the way, was true enough.

As time went on, he saw less and less of his Bunkerville friends. He was rising rapidly in the financial world, had resigned his position on the Wheat Belt Line, important as it was, and had set up an office for himself. The newspapers made a great deal of his encounter with old Rockervelt and his victory over the magnate, but Steele was a clear-headed man who indulged in no delusions on the score of that episode. He had spent some very anxious days while negotiations were pending, and no one knew better than he that if Rockervelt had decided to fight, it might have cost the great railway king more than he had paid, but Steele would have been bankrupt when the battle was ended. He resolved never again to combat a force so many thousand times stronger than himself. He would be content with a smaller game and less risk. John attributed the few grey hairs at his temple to those anxious days while Rockervelt was making up his mind, keeping silent and giving forth no sign.

But grey hairs do not necessarily bring wisdom, and so little does a man suspect what is ahead of him that a few tears from a pretty woman sent him into a contest without knowing who his adversary was, to find himself at last face to face with the most formidable financial foe that the world could offer.

He had almost forgotten his friends from the West, when one day the young woman’s card was brought up to him as he sat in his office, planning an aggression which was still further to augment his ever-increasing bank account. He looked up with a smile as Dorothy entered, but it was stricken from his lips when he saw how changed she was. All colour had left her cheeks, and her eyes were red as if with weeping.

“Good gracious!” he cried, springing to his feet, “what is the matter? Have you been ill?”

“No,” she said, with a catch in her voice, sinking into the chair he offered, “but I am nearly distracted. Oh, Mr. Steele! you said once that the country was sweet and soothing after the turmoil of the city, and I told you I was tired of the country’s dullness. It was a foolish, foolish remark. I wish we were back there, and done with this dreadful town!”

“Why, what has happened? Is it your husband, then, who is ill?”

“No—yes, he is—or, rather, yes and no; for, like myself, he is at his wits’ end, and doesn’t know what to do; therefore I have come to seek your advice,” and with this she broke down and wept.

John thought at first that her husband had been dismissed; and if that were the case, Steele, being no longer connected with the railway, would be powerless to aid. Still, he did not see why such an event should cause so much distress, for a young couple in good health, with fifty thousand dollars in the bank, are not exactly paupers, even in Chicago.

“My husband,” sobbed the woman at last, “has invested everything we possess in wheat, and since that time the price of wheat has been falling steadily. Now we are on the verge of ruin.”

“What on earth did he meddle with wheat for? It is more dangerous than dynamite.”

“I don’t know,” wept the young woman; “but Tom thought it was sure to rise.”

“Yes. They always think that. How much did he purchase?”

“One million bushels.”

“Good gracious! Do you happen to know the price?”

“Yes, seventy-eight cents.”

“Great Scott! Do you mean to say that you two silly young people took on an obligation of seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, when you possess less than fifty thousand? When he made the deal, how much of a margin did he put up?”

“You mean the money he gave the broker? Ten thousand dollars.”

“Ah, then a decline of a cent a bushel would wipe that out.”

“Yes, it did, and ever since wheat has been falling, until now it is seventy-four and a quarter. We have given the brokers so far thirty-seven thousand five hundred dollars, and if wheat drops another cent, we have not the money to meet the call and will lose everything. These last three weeks have been the most anxious time of my life.”

“I can well believe it. Now, what do you want me to do?”

“Mr. Steele, I want you to take over this wheat. It can’t possibly go much lower, and Tom says it is bound to rise. This time last year it was eighty-nine, and if it went up to that now we would net over a hundred thousand dollars. You see, you would not need to take the risk we have done, for we bought at seventy-eight, and you will be buying at seventy-four and a quarter.”

“But I don’t see how my taking it over would help you.”

“Why if it went up to over eighty—and Tom says it is sure to do that before many weeks are past—you would make a good profit and could give us back our money.”

Serious as was the situation John could scarcely refrain from a smile at such a beautiful specimen of feminine logic. Of course, if he wished to dabble in wheat, he could buy at seventy-four now, and if it went to eighty, secure the whole profit without paying anything to anyone.

“Is Tom at home just now?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you ask him to call this afternoon, and we will talk the situation over.”

The young woman rose and beamed on him through her tears.

“Oh, I am sure you two will hit upon a plan. When I told Tom this morning of the scheme I have just outlined to you he scoffed at me; but you see its feasibility, don’t you?”

“Yes, I think I do. Anyhow, Tom and I will consult this afternoon about it, and he’ll let you know at what decision we arrive.”

He shook hands with his visitor and was very glad to see her depart.

“Good gracious!” he said to himself when the door was shut, “how fatuously silly she is! And to think that a little more than a year ago I proposed to her! Poor girl! Beauty almost gone, too, at the first whiff of trouble. Still, the situation is serious enough; but it is easier to refuse a man than a woman. I’ll tell Tom what I think of him when he comes. Imagine the cursed fool marching into Chicago like a hayseed from the backwoods, and losing fifty thousand dollars inside of three weeks. What he needs is a guardian; yet I’d like to help the little woman, too, although I don’t see how I can. I wonder if wheat’s going any lower. Hold up, Jack, my boy, don’t get thinking about the price of wheat. That way madness lies. No, I’ll confine myself to giving Tom a piece of my mind when I see him which will make him angry, so we’ll quarrel, and then it’ll be easy to refuse him.”

At three o’clock the ex-station-master of Slocum Junction was shown into John Steele’s private office. His face was so gaunt and haggard that for a moment Steele felt sorry for him; but business is business, and sympathy has no place in the wheat-pit. Tom shook hands and sat down without a word; all his old jauntiness had left him.

“Well, my Christian friend,” began Steele in his severest manner, “when I was the means of getting you transferred from Slocum Junction to Chicago, and also had something to do towards endowing your wife-that-was-to-be with nearly fifty thousand dollars, hang me if I thought you would act the giddy farmer-come-to-town and blow it all away in the wheat-pit! God bless my soul! haven’t you sense enough to know that the biggest men in Chicago have been crumpled up in the grain-market? How could you expect to win where the richest and shrewdest dealers in the city have failed? Don’t you read the papers? Haven’t you any brains in your head at all? Is it only an intellectual bluff that you are putting up before the public, pretending to be a man of sense? Why, a ten-year-old boy born in Chicago would know better! Wheat may be the staff of life when it leaves the flour-mill, but it’s the cudgel of death in the speculative market!”

“So I’ve been told,” said Tom quietly.

“Well, you haven’t profited much by the telling. What in the name of all the saints made you speculate in wheat?”

“I didn’t speculate.”

“I understand you bought a million bushels?”

“I did.”

“What’s that but speculating, then?”

“Look here, Mr. Steele, are you quite done with your abuse of me? Isn’t there something more that you could say? That I wear a woollen shirt, and haven’t any collar; that my trousers are turned up, and there’s mud on my shoes? Do you see any straw out of the farmyard on my hair? If you do, why don’t you mention it?”

John Steele laughed.

“Bravo, Tom,” he said; “that’s quite your Slocum Junction manner. I supposed you were up a tree—that you had bought a million bushels of wheat, spent thirty thousand dollars odd upon margins, and that now you couldn’t carry it any longer. Am I right?”

“Quite right. That’s exactly the situation. Now, are you in the frame of mind to listen to the biggest thing that there is in America to-day? Are you in a financial position to take advantage of an opportunity that may not recur for years? If you are, I’ll talk to you. If not, I’ll bid you ‘Good-bye,’ and go to someone else.”

“All right, Tom, I’m ready to listen, and willing to act if you can convince me.”

“I can convince you quick enough, but are you able to act, as well as ready?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, Tom, if you mean going in for a big wheat speculation, I’m able, but not willing.”

“I told you I wasn’t speculating. Wheat will be over a dollar a bushel before three months are past.”

“Is there going to be a war?”

“I don’t know; but this I do know, that the wheat crop of the entire West is practically a failure—that is to say, late frosts this spring, and the wet weeks we have had since, will knock off anywhere from thirty to forty per cent, of the output. The Chicago wheat-pit is a pretty big thing, but it isn’t the Almighty, neither is it the great and growing West. It can do many things, but it can’t buck up against nature. Wheat now we’ll say, is seventy-five cents a bushel, because of the belief that there’s going to be an abundant crop; but if twenty-five per cent, of that crop fails, it means that twenty-five per cent, is going to be added to the present price of wheat. It means dollar wheat, that’s what it means, and a man who knows this fact to-day can make unlimited millions of money if he’s got the capital behind him. Of course, my mistake was in biting off more than I could chew. If I had gone in modestly, I could have carried it, and would have made a moderate profit; but I was too greedy, and too much afraid Chicago would learn the real state of the crops. I expected the news to be out long before now; but instead of that the papers are blowing about full crops, which either shows that they don’t know what they are talking about, or there’s a nigger in the fence somewhere.”

“What makes you so very sure the crop’s a partial failure?”

“Because it’s my business to know, for one thing. I have travelled from Chicago clear through to the Pacific coast; south as far as wheat is grown; and up north into Canada. I don’t need to ask a farmer what crop he expects; I can see with my own eyes the state of affairs. I was brought up on wheat; I ploughed the fields and sowed the grain, and I may say I was cradled in wheat, if you’ll forgive a farmer’s pun. Wheat? Why, I know all about wheat on the field, even if I don’t recognise it in the Chicago pit. You see, my business is looking after freight, and the chief freight of our road is wheat. Therefore, wherever wheat grows I must visit that spot, and I have done so. I give you my oath that wheat is bound to be a dollar a bushel before two months are past. It’s under seventy-five cents now, and it doesn’t take much figuring to show the possibilities of the situation. Three things are wanted: knowledge, courage, money. I have given you the knowledge; do you possess the other two requisites?”

“Tom, I esteem you very much—more so now than when you came in; but, after all’s said and done, I’d be simply banking on one man’s word. Suppose I go in half a million dollars? You say that knowledge is the first requisite. Have I got that knowledge? I have not. I have merely your word that you have the knowledge.”

“Yes, that’s a good point to make,” said Tom imperturbably. “You don’t know me well enough to risk it. That’s all right. Now, I see on your wall the big map of our road, which I suppose you have kept as a relic of your connection with the Wheat Belt Line. It’s a lovely map, with the Wheat Belt Line in heavy black as the great thing, and the United States sort of hung around it as a background. There,” continued Tom, waving his hand towards the huge map on the wall, “coloured yellow by Rand, McNally and Co., are the wheat-producing districts of the United States and Canada. Now, I’ve been all over that yellow ground. I assert that in no part of it is the wheat crop normal. You pick out at random five or six spots in that yellow ground, and I’ll tell you just what percentage of failure there’ll be in those places you select. Then get on the train and visit them, question the farmers, and find out if they corroborate my statement. If they do, the chances are strong I am right about every other district.”

John Steele got up and began pacing the floor, his hands thrust in his trousers pockets, his forehead wrinkled with a frown.

“Tom, that’s pretty straight talk,” he said at last. “I haven’t been following the wheat-market—it’s out of my line; but I dimly remember seeing in the papers not very long ago an estimate that we were going to have the most profitable wheat crop of recent years. Of course, that may be newspaper talk; but if recollection serves, it was backed up by telegrams from all over the West. How do you account for that?”

“I don’t account for it. I am merely stating what I know. If the papers made such an estimate they were wrong, that’s all.”

Steele stopped in his walk and touched an electric button on his desk. A young man appeared in response.

“Holmes,” said Steele, “there was an account of the wheat crop all over the country in the papers the other day—occupied a page, I think. Go to the nearest newspaper office and get a copy. As you go out, tell Bronson to come in here.”

When Bronson appeared, Steele said sharply: “Find out for me, from some reliable source, the lowest price of wheat for the last ten years.”

In an amazingly short space of time Holmes reappeared with a newspaper a week old, and laid it on Mr. Steele’s desk, and Bronson brought in an array of figures.

“Here we are!” cried Steele, jerking open the crackling sheet. “‘Wonderful harvests ahead! Tremendous wheat crops!’ Of course, it must be remembered that prophesying prosperity is always popular, and newspapers like that sort of news. Now, I shall select twenty-five places named in this paper. The useful Bronson will find out for me a reliable man in each place, and I will telegraph him. By to-morrow we should have replies from some fifteen or twenty of them; and if the majority say that the wheat crop is a failure, then I think we may rely on your forecast. Now, let us see what Bronson’s figures are. Sixty-five, sixty-two and a half, sixty-four and an eighth, fifty-three and five-eighths, forty-eight and three-quarters—gee-whillikins, that’s getting down to bedrock!—fifty, fifty-four and nine-eighths, sixty-nine and one-eighth, eighty-five—ah! that’s something like—seventy-four and a quarter, and so on. Why, it seems from this that no man is safe in buying for a rise if he pays more than fifty cents a bushel, while you have bought at seventy-eight! Septimus Severus! I admire your nerve, but not your judgment. Well, drop in to-morrow, about two, and we’ll see what the telegrams bring us.”

“Suppose, meanwhile, wheat falls another cent or two, what am I to do?”

“Oh, they can’t hurt you to-day—it’s after four o’clock; and to-morrow we’ll see what is best to be done. It is useless to conceal from you the fact that there is an unholy gulf between seventy-eight at which you bought, and fifty, to which wheat has on more than one occasion fallen. That means a little deficit of two hundred and eighty thousand dollars on your gentle flutter.”

“The truth must come out soon, Mr. Steele, and it may be published any morning. When that happens, wheat will go up like a balloon.”

“All right, Tom, I can say nothing further just now. To-morrow you will find me brimful of information, and quite decided as to the course I shall take.”

With this the visitor had to be content. Next day he arrived at Steele’s office in a more cheerful frame of mind. Wheat had closed the day before one-eighth stronger than it was in the morning. The conference this time was short, sharp, and decisive. Steele was thoroughly the man of business.

“I received seventeen replies,” he said, “and they all corroborate your forecast. Now, what do you wish me to do with the little parcel of wheat standing against your name?”

“I thought that in return for the tip you might relieve me of three-quarters of it.”

“I’ll relieve you of it all. I’ve given orders to my brokers to buy a pretty large slice of the wheat crop. This purchase may perhaps send up the price to the seventy-eight at which you purchased. If it does, I’ll sell out your lot and send you the money, which I advise you to invest in gilt-edged securities and leave wheat alone.”

“All right,” said Tom. “I know when I’ve had enough. Nevertheless, it’s a sure thing, and I hate to let go.”

“If it’s a sure thing,” said Steele, “I’ll hand over to you a percentage of what I win, in return for the information you have given me. You go straight home, taking this newspaper with you. Write out a report similar in length to these Press Alliance telegrams, giving name of locality and the actual state of the crop in each district. Let nobody know what you are doing, and work all night, if necessary, until the report is complete. Then bring it to me, and I’ll have it typewritten in this office. Now, this is my busy day. Clear out. Goodbye.”

Steele’s buying took the market by surprise. No one knew, of course, who the purchaser was, but the price rose rapidly, point by point, until seventy-eight was again reached, and then Steele instantly gave orders for the sale of the million bushels that stood in Tom’s name, for the double purpose of getting the man his money, and lowering the price so that his own purchases might be accomplished at a less figure than seventy-eight. The sale took place an hour before the closing of business, and chanced to be just in the nick of time. Orders to sell came in from somewhere—supposedly from New York, and wheat was offered in any quantity at practically any price the buyers liked to pay. Someone was hammering down the market. A fight was on between two unknowns, and pandemonium was let loose in Chicago. The pit went wild, and prices came down with a run. Steele had already stopped his buyers, and he stood from under. Closing prices for wheat were sixty-five, three-eighths. John Steele did some deep thinking and close figuring that night. In spite of his purchases of the day, he had still a million dollars left to gamble with.

“My friend the bear,” he said to himself, “is very likely to keep up his antics to-morrow, to frighten the opposition. If he squeezes down prices to sixty, I’ll buy five million bushels. Every cent of a drop will mean a loss of fifty thousand dollars. It reached fifty in ‘94, and next year a cent and a quarter less, but this price has never on any other occasion been touched in the last forty years. Even if it drops to that, I’ll have lost half a million or so, but I can still hang on. I’m not trying to corner the market; so, Mr. Bruin, go ahead, and let us see what happens.”

Next day the panic and the slump continued. Wheat fell to fifty-nine, and between that price and sixty-one John Steele secured his five million bushels.

Who were the operators? That was what the papers wanted to know. Was it, as surmised, a contest between New York and Chicago? All the well-known dealers were interviewed, but each and every one insisted he was merely an interested spectator, holding an umbrella over his head. There was going to be a blizzard, so everybody had his eye on the cyclone cellar. Experts said it was a good time to seek cover.

Of course, John Steele might have rested on his oars. He was reasonably safe—in fact, he was perfectly safe if he merely held on, which was a good position to be in. But he had a plan of his own, although he resolved not to buy further unless wheat reached the low limit of half a dollar. In that case he feared he would plunge. This night, however, he proceeded to carry out his plan, which led to amazing results. He put Tom’s report of the wheat crop’s condition, now nicely typewritten, into his inside pocket, and locked up his office.

All the upper windows of a commodious business block were aglow with electric light. It was the home of the Press Alliance, with telegraphic nerves reaching to the furthermost parts of the earth. Its business was to gather news, which it furnished to journals belonging to the Alliance. John Steele was acquainted with Simmonds, the manager, and resolved to pay him an evening call at what was certainly a most inopportune moment. The great hive was a-hum with activity. The wild day on the Stock Exchange was enough of itself to keep it throbbing. Simmonds was a busy man, but he received John Steele, who came in cool and self-possessed, with courtesy and respect.

“Well, Simmonds, I suppose you’re just rushed to death, so I’ll not detain you a moment. I want to see one of your men who is less busy, if, indeed, he is here to-night.”

“We’re all here to-night, Steele. I hope you’ve not been dabbling in wheat?”

“Me? No fear. Wheat’s rather out of my line.”

“Somebody’s going to get badly hurt before the week is out.”

“So I understand,” said Steele nonchalantly, as if it were none of his affair. “By the way, talking of wheat, you gather statistics of the crops from all over the country, don’t you—your company, I mean?”

“Oh, yes, several times a year.”

“From what office is that done, New York or Chicago?”

“Chicago, of course.”

“Who is in charge of that department?”

“Nicholson. Why?”

“I should like to have a chat with him if he’s not too busy.”

“Well, you’ve mentioned the one man who isn’t busy to-night. You see, his work is a daylight job.”

“What sort of a fellow is he?”

“He’s a new man—at least, he’s been with us only six months—that is, at this office. He came on from New York. Splendid fellow, though, and well up to his work.”

“Good. May I see him?”

“I’ll find out if he’s in his room.”

Simmonds spoke through a telephone, and then said:

“Yes, Mr. Nicholson will see you; but I say, Steele, don’t meddle with wheat. If you want any information from him, remember he can’t give it out, except to the morning papers.”

“Oh, I shan’t buy a bushel of wheat; don’t be frightened.”

“This boy will take you to Mr. Nicholson’s room. Good night.”

Nicholson proved to be a man of uncertain age. His hair was closely cropped, his face smoothly shaven, bearing a look of determination and power, which one might not have expected to find in a mere subordinate.

“Is this Mr. John Steele,” he asked pleasantly, “the Napoleon of finance who stood out against Rockervelt?”

“Well, I don’t know about the Napoleon part of it, Mr. Nicholson, but Rockervelt and I had a little negotiation a while ago which I trust ended in our mutual advantage. Now, Mr. Nicholson,” continued Steele, sitting down in the chair offered him, “if you are not too busy I should like to ask you a few questions.”

“I am not very busy, Mr. Steele, and shall be pleased to answer any question you ask, so long as the information sought belongs to me, and not to my employers.”

“Who is your employer, Mr. Nicholson?”

“My employer? Why, the Press Alliance, of course.”

“The Press Alliance is one of your employers, I know. Your nominal employer, let us say. It pays you to collect accurate information. Who pays you for disseminating false news in the daily journals of this country?”

If John Steele expected a start of guilty surprise or a flash of anger or a demand for explanation, he was disappointed. The impassive face remained impassive. The piercing eyes narrowed a little, perhaps, but he could have sworn that the faint glimmer of a smile hovered about the firm lips. The voice that spoke was under perfect control.

“They say that all things come to him who waits, and here is an illustration of it. The man for whom every reporter in Chicago is searching, and whom I am most desirous to meet, walks right into my office. How many million bushels of wheat did you buy to-day, Mr. Steele?”

John Steele was a much more genial person than this man from New York. He threw back his head and laughed.

“Mr. Nicholson, I am delighted to have made your acquaintance. Your wild guess that I am the buyer of wheat is really flattering to me. Yet your own reference to my little contest with Rockervelt should have reminded you that I deal in railways, and not in grain.”

“The reason I wished to meet you,” went on Mr. Nicholson, as if the other had not spoken, “is because I have a message to you from my chiefs.”

“Yes, but you have not mentioned who your chiefs are.”

“There is no need to mention them, Mr. Steele. When I tell you they own banks in every city in the United States; that the income of the head of our combination is fifty million dollars a year from merely one branch of his activity; that we have employees in the United States Treasury powerful enough to cause the funds of this country to be placed for safety in our banks; that my principals can, if they wish, gamble with the savings of the people of the United States deposited in their keeping; that they have agents in every part of the world, and that there is not a country in Europe, Asia, or Africa which does not pay tribute to them; when I have said all this, Mr. Steele, I think two things may be taken for granted—first: no names need be mentioned; second: you are opposed to a power infinitely greater than that of Mr. Rockervelt or any other financial force which the world contains.”

“You are right in both surmises, Mr. Nicholson, and I experience that keen joy which warriors feel with foemen worthy of their steel—if you will excuse the apparent pun on my own name. I am really quoting from Scott, not the railway man of that name, but the poet. And now for your message, Mr. Nicholson.”

“You admit, then, that you are the buyer?”

“I’ll admit anything in the face of such a formidable rival.”

“Very well. My chiefs are the most generous of men.”

“Oh, we all know that.”

“If you have lost money these last two days, they will refund it. They are even willing to allow you a reasonable profit, and I am empowered to negotiate regarding the figures.”

“And all this for pure philanthropy, Mr. Nicholson?”

“All this if you will merely stand aside and not interfere in a market you do not understand, and complicate a situation that is already somewhat delicate.”

“And if I refuse to stand aside?”

“If you refuse, they will crush you, as they have crushed many a cleverer man.”

“Ah! that’s not tactful, Nicholson, and I’m sure it would not meet the approval of your employers. Your last remark is apt to provoke opposition rather than compliance. Would it surprise you to know that I possess a more potent backer than even your distinguished chief?”

“More potent? Yes, it would surprise me. Have you any reluctance in mentioning the name?”

“Not the slightest—it’s a lady.”

“A lady?”

“Yes. Dame Nature—a charming old woman if you stand in with her; a blue terror if you go against her. The wheat crop in America this year will be only three-quarters of the normal yield, if it is that much. You can juggle with the fact for a little time, but you can’t conceal it. Even the great firm on Broadway cannot make a blade of wheat grow where one has been killed by the frost—not in the same year, at least. So you may telegraph to your distinguished principals and tell them that John Steele and Dame Nature are going to dance a minuet with those two Corsican brothers of New York, and your fraternal friends will find some difficulty in keeping pace with the music. And so good-bye, Mr. Nicholson.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Steele. I am very sorry we cannot come to terms.”

Once outside, Steele hailed a cab and drove to the Chicago Daily Blade building. Here, as at the Press Alliance, everyone was hard at work; but Steele’s name was good for entrance almost anywhere in Chicago, and the managing editor did not keep him waiting.

“Good evening, Stoliker,” began Steele. “I have got in my pocket the greatest newspaper ‘beat’ that has ever been let loose on Chicago since the night of the Brooklyn Theatre Fire.”

“Then, Steele, you’re as welcome as flowers that bloom in the spring. Out with it.”

“There’s been a gigantic conspiracy to delude the Press and people of the United States.”

“Oh, they’re always trying that,” said Stoliker indifferently.

“Yes, but this time they’ve succeeded, up to this evening. Just cast your eye over this document.”

A managing editor is quick to form an accurate estimate of the proportions of a piece of news submitted to him.

“If anyone else had brought this in,” said Stoliker slowly, “do you know what I should have thought?”

“Yes, you would think it an attempt of the bulls to get in out of the rain.”

“Exactly. You’ve hit it the first time. Can you vouch for the accuracy of this?”

“I can.”

“You won’t be offended, Steele, if I ask you one more question, only one?”

“I know what the question is.”

“What is it?”

“You are going to ask if I have been buying wheat?”

“Well, you seem to know exactly what’s in my mind. Conversation is rather superfluous with so sharp a man as you are. Have you been buying wheat?”

“Yes, I’m the person who caused the flutter in the market these last two days.”

“If I publish this, the price of wheat will instantly jump up.”

“No, it won’t.”

“Oh, that’s the evident object of the whole thing. If I prove that the wheat crop of America is from twenty-five to thirty per cent, short, up goes the price of wheat.”

“My dear Stoliker, your paper will sell like hot cakes, but no one will believe a word you say. Everyone on ’Change will think exactly as you do—that this is a device of the bulls, and so the price of wheat is likely to remain stationary for some hours. But this sensational and categorical statement is bound to make everybody uneasy, and there will be a good deal of telegraphing going on during the forenoon. By the time the evening papers are out, it will begin to dawn on commercial Chicago that you’ve done the biggest thing that’s been done for years. After that, every moment will enhance your reputation.”

“Quite so, if—and that ‘if’ is the biggest word in the dictionary just now—if this article is accurate. If it isn’t, then the reverse of all you have predicted will happen.”

“My dear Stoliker, I was quite prepared for this unbelief, I therefore took the precaution before the bank closed to get a certified cheque for a hundred thousand dollars, and here it is. Pay this into your bank tomorrow, and offer in your paper a hundred thousand dollars to anyone who will prove the report inaccurate. It has been compiled by a man I can vouch for, in the employ of the Wheat Belt Line, who has visited every spot mentioned in the report. Now, time is precious; I give you five minutes in which to make up your mind.”

“I don’t need them; my mind is made up. I’ll print it.”

Next day, events proved that Steele was no false prophet. Wheat fluctuated for a time up and down, then began to rise steadily, and at last shot up like a rocket, ending at eighty-three and a quarter. Before the week was out it was well over the dollar mark, and John Steele was richer by more than three millions of dollars. The night of the day in which he sold out he strolled into the Press Alliance offices and visited his perturbed friend Simmonds.

“I would like to see Mr. Nicholson again,” he said.

“Oh, curse him!” cried Simmonds, “he’s gone to New York; and I wish he had never left there. I suppose you don’t know what a hole he put us into, because you’re not interested in wheat.”

“Really? Why, I was tremendously impressed by Nicholson’s manner and appearance!”

“Oh, his manner and appearance were all right. He came here with the very highest recommendations—in fact, he was the one man in our employ of all the hundreds here that I had orders from headquarters not to dismiss on any account. I was as much taken with his looks as you were. I would have sworn he was true to his employers, yet I have not the slightest doubt he sold them as if they were a flock of sheep.”

“You are mistaken, Simmonds. He was perfectly true to his employers.”