“If it goes to six,” he kept murmuring,
“we’re ruined—if it goes to
six—if—”
“Tick,” sounded the wheel and the sound
reverberated like sudden thunder in his ears.
His hand was iron, and he raised it slightly.
“Six,” said the wheel—his finger
quivered—“and a half.”
“Hell!” yelled Taylor. “She’s
turned—there’ll be the devil to pay
now.” A messenger burst in and Taylor scowled.
“She’s loose in New York—a
regular mob in New Orleans—and—hark!—By
God! there’s something doing here. Damn
it—I wish we’d got another million
bales. Let’s see, we’ve got—”
He figured while the wheel whirred—“7—7-1/2—8—8-1/2.”
Cresswell listened, staggered to his feet, his face
crimson and his hair wild.
“My God, Taylor,” he gasped. “I’m—I’m
a half a million ahead—great heavens!”
The ticker whirred, “8-3/4—9—9-1/2—10.”
Then it stopped dead.
“Exchange closed,” said Taylor. “We’ve
cornered the market all right—cornered
it—d’ye hear, Cresswell? We got
over half the crop and we can send prices to the North
Star—you—why, I figure it you
Cresswells are worth at least seven hundred and fifty
thousand above liabilities this minute,” and
John Taylor leaned back and lighted a big black cigar.
“I’ve made a million or so myself,”
he added reflectively.
Cresswell leaned back in his chair, his face had gone
white again, and he spoke slowly to still the tremor
in his voice.
“I’ve gambled—before; I’ve
gambled on cards and on horses; I’ve gambled—for
money—and—women—but—”
“But not on cotton, hey? Well, I don’t
know about cards and such; but they can’t beat
cotton.”
“And say, John Taylor, you’re my friend.”
Cresswell stretched his hand across the desk, and
as he bent forward the pistol crashed to the floor.
Rich! This was the thought that awakened Harry
Cresswell to a sense of endless well-being. Rich!
No longer the mirage and semblance of wealth, the
memory of opulence, the shadow of homage without the
substance of power—no; now the wealth was
real, cold hard dollars, and in piles. How much?
He laughed aloud as he turned on his pillow. What
did he care? Enough—enough. Not
less than half a million; perhaps three-quarters of
a million; perhaps—was not cotton still
rising?—a whole round million! That
would mean from twenty-five to fifty thousand a year.
Great heavens! and he’d been starving on a bare
couple of thousand and trying to keep up appearances!
today the Cresswells were almost millionaires; aye,
and he might be married to more millions.
