One day, in New Street, he overheard a very well-known broker tell another that Mr. Sharpe was “going to move up Pennsylvania Central right away.” The overhearing of the conversation was a bit of rare good luck that raised Gil-martin from his sodden apathy and made him hasten to his brother-in-law, who kept a grocery store in Brooklyn. He implored Griggs to go to a broker and buy as much Pennsylvania Central as he could—that is, if he wished to live in luxury the rest of his life. Sam Sharpe was going to put it up. Also, he borrowed ten dollars.

Griggs was tempted. He debated with himself many hours, and at length yielded with misgivings. He took his savings and bought one hundred shares of Pennsylvania Central at 64, and began to neglect his business in order to study the financial pages of the newspapers. Little by little Gilmartin’s whisper set in motion within him the wheels of a ticker that printed on his day-dreams the mark of the dollar. His wife, seeing him preoccupied, thought business was bad; but Griggs denied it, confirming her worst fears. Finally, he had a telephone put in his little shop, to be able to talk to his broker.

Gilmartin, with the ten dollars he had borrowed, promptly bought ten shares in a bucket shop at 63%; the stock promptly went to 62%; he was promptly “wiped”; and the stock promptly went back to 64%.

On the next day a fellow-customer of Gilmartin of old days invited him to have a drink. Gil-martin resented the man’s evident prosperity. He felt indignant at the ability of the other to buy hundreds of shares. But the liquor soothed him, and in a burst of mild remorse he told Smithers, after an apprehensive look about him as if he feared some one might overhear: “I’ll tell you something, on the dead q. t., for your own benefit.”

“Fire away!”

“Pa. Cent, is going ‘way up.”

“Yes?” said Smithers, calmly.

“Yes; it will cross par sure.”

“Umph!” between munches of a pretzel.

“Yes. Sam Sharpe told”—Gilmartin was on the point of saying a “friend of mine,” but caught himself and went on, impressively—“told me, yesterday, to buy Pa. Cent., as he had accumulated his full line, and was ready to whoop it up. And you know what Sharpe is,” he finished, as if he thought Smithers was familiar with Sharpe’s powers.

“Is that so,” nibbled Smithers.

“Why, when Sharpe makes up his mind to put up a stock, as he intends to do with Pa. Cent., nothing on earth can stop him. He told me he would make it cross par within sixty days. This is no hearsay, no tip. It’s cold facts, I don’t hear it’s going up; I don’t think it’s going up; I know it’s going up. Understand?” And he shook his right forefinger with a hammering motion.

In less than five minutes Smithers was so wrought up that he bought 500 shares and promised solemnly not to “take his profits,” s. o. sell out, until Gilmartin said the word. Then they had another drink and another look at the ticker.

“You want to keep in touch with me,” was Gilmartin’s parting shot. “I’ll tell you what Sharpe tells me. But you must keep it quiet,” with a sidewise nod that pledged Smithers to honorable secrecy.

Had Gilmartin met Sharpe face to face, he would not have known who was before him.

Shortly after he left Smithers he buttonholed another acquaintance, a young man who thought he knew Wall Street, and therefore had a hobby—manipulation. No one could induce him to buy stocks by telling him how well the companies were doing, how bright the prospects, etc. That was bait for “suckers,” not for clever young stock operators. But any one, even a stranger, who said that “they”—the perennially mysterious “they,” the “big men,” the mighty “manipulators” whose life was one prolonged conspiracy to pull the wool over the public’s eyes—“they” were going to “jack up” these or the other shares, was welcomed and his advice acted upon. Young Freeman believed in nothing but “their” wickedness and “their” power to advance or depress stock values at will. Thinking of his wisdom had given him a chronic sneer.

“You’re just the man I was looking for,” said Gilmartin, who hadn’t thought of the young man at all.

“Are you a deputy sheriff?”

“No.” A slight pause for oratorical effect. “I had a long talk with Sam to-day.”

“What Sam?”

“Sharpe. The old boy sent for me. He was in mighty good humor too. Tickled to death. He might well be—he’s got 60,000 shares of Pennsylvania Central. And there’s going to be from 50 to 60 points profit in it.”

“H’m!” sniffed Freeman, sceptically, yet impressed by the change In Gilmartin’s attitude from the money-borrowing humility of the previous week to the confident tone of a man with a straight tip. Sharpe was notoriously kind to his old friends—rich or poor.

“I was there when the papers were signed,” Gilmartin said, hotly. “I was going to leave the room, but Sam told me I needn’t. I can’t tell you what it is about; really I can’t. But he’s simply going to put the stock above par. It’s 64 1/2 now, and you know and I know that by the time it is 75 the newspapers will all be talking about inside buying; and at 85 everybody will want to buy it on account of important developments; and at 95 there will be millions of bull tips on it and rumors of increased dividends, and people who would not look at it thirty points lower will rush in and buy it by the bushel. Let me know who is manipulating a stock, and to h—l with dividends and earnings. Them’s my sentiments,” with a final hammering nod, as if driving in a profound truth.

“Same here,” assented Freeman, cordially. He was attacked on his vulnerable side.

Strange things happen in Wall Street. Sometimes tips come true. It so proved in this case. Sharpe started the stock upward brilliantly—the movement became historic in the Street—and Pa. Cent, soared dizzily and all the newspapers talked of it and the public went mad over it and it touched 80 and 85 and 88 and higher, and then Gilmartin made his brother-in-law sell out and Smithers and Freeman. Their profits were: Griggs, $8,000; Smithers, $15,100; Freeman, $2,750. Gilmartin made them give him a good percentage. He had no trouble with his brother-in-law. Gilmartin told him it was an inviolable Wall Street custom and so Griggs paid, with an air of much experience in such matters. Freeman was more or less grateful. But Smithers met Gilmartin, and full of his good luck repeated what he had told a dozen men within the hour: “I did a dandy stroke the other day. Pa. Cent. looked to me like higher prices and I bought a wad of it. I’ve cleaned up a tidy sum,” and he looked proud of his own penetration. He really had forgotten that it was Gilmartin who had given him the tip. But not so Gilmartin, who retorted, witheringly:

“Well, I’ve often heard of folks that you put into good things and they make money and afterward they come to you and tell how damned smart they were to hit it right. But you can’t work that on me. I’ve got witnesses.”

“Witnesses?” echoed Smithers, looking cheap. He remembered.

“Yes, wit-ness-es,” mimicked Gilmartin, scornfully, “I all but had to get on my knees to make you buy it. And I told you when to sell it, too. The information came to me straight from headquarters and you got the use of it, and now the least you can do is to give me twenty-five hundred dollars.”

In the end he accepted eight hundred dollars. He told mutual friends that Smithers had cheated him.