I shut off, and turned to Miss Sands: 

“This is no time to stand on ceremony, Miss Sands.  Barry Conant is Camemeyer’s and ‘Standard Oil’s’ head broker.  His being on the floor means mischief.  He never goes into a big whirl personally unless they are out for blood.  Bob has exhausted his buying power, and though I tell you frankly that I never speculate, don’t believe in speculation and am in this deal only for Bob—­and for you—­I swear I don’t intend to let them wipe the floor with him without at least making them swallow some of the dust they kick up.  Please don’t object to my helping out, Miss Sands.  Ordinarily I would defer to your wishes, but I love Bob Brownley only second to my wife, and I have money enough to warrant a plunge in stock.  If they should turn Bob over in this deal, he—­well, they’re not going to, if I can prevent it,” and I started for the Exchange on the run.

When I got there the scene beggared description.  That of the morning was tame in comparison.  A bull market, however terrific, always is tame beside a bear crash.  In the few moments it took me to get to the floor, the battle had started.  The greater part of the Exchange membership was in a dense mob wedged against the rail behind the Sugar-pole.  I could not have got within yards of the centre of that crowd of men, fast becoming panic-stricken, if the fate of nations had depended on my errand.  I had witnessed such a scene before.  It represented a certain phase of Stock-Exchange-gambling procedure, where one man apparently has every other man on the floor against him.  I understood:  Bob against them all—­he trying to stay the onrushing current of dropping prices; they bent on keeping the sluice-gates open.  He was backed up against the rail—­not the Bob of the morning; not a vestige of that cold, brain-nerve-and-body-in-hand gambler remained.  His hat was gone, his collar torn and hanging over his shoulder.  His coat and waistcoat were ripped open, showing the full length of his white shirt-front, and his eyes were fairly mad.  Bob was no longer a human being, but a monarch of the forest at bay, with the hunter in front of him, and closing in upon him, in a great half-circle, the pack of harriers, all gnashing their teeth, baring their fangs, and howling for blood.  The hunter directly facing Bob, was Barry Conant—­very slight, very short, a marvellously compact, handsome, miniature man, with a fascinating face, dark olive in tint, lighted by a pair of sparkling black eyes and framed in jet-black hair; a black mustache was parted over white teeth, which, when he was stalking his game, looked like those of a wolf.  An interesting man at all times was this Barry Conant, and he had been on more and fiercer battle-fields than any other half-score members combined.  The scene was a rare one for a student of animalised men.