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Others than Ike Bloomstein remarked upon the fact that Bob Brownley had hung close to the Sugar-pole all day, but when the close had come and gone without his having anything to do with the Sugar skyrockets, he dropped out of his fellow-brokers' minds. Wall Street has no use for any but the "doer."
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.
Nineteen years ago I was graduated from Harvard. My classmate and chum, Bob Brownley, of Richmond, Va., was graduated with me. He was class poet, I, yard marshal. We had been four years together at St. Paul's previous to entering Harvard. No girl and lover were fonder than we of each other. My people had money, and to spare, and with it a hard-headed, Northern horse-sense.
Of course I won't put it in just that blunt way, but it seems to me I should begin to prepare him for the blow. I have not talked over any more plunging with you, Mr. Brownley, since the unlucky one in Sugar, and " "Miss Sands, I understand what you mean," Bob broke in, "and I should apologise for not having consulted with you about your business affairs.
Nearly every man in that crowd was calm, but Bob Brownley was the calmest of them all. It's the Exchange code that at any cost of heart or nerve-tear a man must retain good form until the gong strikes. Then, that he must be as near the uncaged tiger as human mind and body can be made. Only I realised what volcano raged inside my chum's bosom.
I agreed that his campaign was perfect, and Beulah Sands said in her usual quiet way, "It is entirely in your hands, Mr. Brownley. I don't see how any advice from us can help." Bob went back to the Exchange and I into my office. Bob had been right again. In ten minutes the tape began to scream Sugar.
You cannot deceive Stock Exchange men, at least not the kind that Bob Brownley employed on panic days, but his coolness reassured them, and when they saw me it was odds-on that they guessed to a man why Bob had ignored his wires guessed that I had been pleading for the life of "the Street." "Well, where do you stand?" Frank Swan answered for the crowd: "The panic is in full swing.
Brownley, when I went away from Randolph & Randolph's office I married John Chase; you may remember him as delivery clerk. I had such a happy home and my husband was so good; I did not have to typewrite any longer. These are our two children." "What are you doing here?" The tears sprang to her eyes; she dropped them, but did not answer. "Don't mind me, woman.
Again his voice rang out, "What brings you here? Do you come to plead again for that dastard Reinhart after the warning I gave you?" I clenched both hands until I felt the nails cut the flesh of my palms. I loved Bob Brownley.
I was after him while the astonished bystanders stared in wonder. As we neared Bob's house I could see people on the stoop. I heard Bob's secretary shout, "Thank God, Mr. Brownley, you have come. She is in the office. I found her there, quiet and recovered. She did not ask a question. She said, 'Tell Mr.
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