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Had let his cigarette go out he wore one in his face as regularly as some fellows wear a pink in their buttonhole and it was drooping from his lower lip, instead of sticking up under his nose in the old sporty, sassy way. "Oh, gov'ner!" he cried as he slammed the door behind him; "the market's gone to hell."
The world's market's waitin' on us. It's ours before we start. Why? Our power don't cost us one cent a unit. We're able to hand our folks a standard of living through the nature of things that leaves wages easy. The river's wide, and full, and it's our own. Then our sea passage to Europe's just eighteen hundred miles instead of three thousand.
Three thousand went out over the ice hittin' the high places, an' half ez many again went down to the caches, and the market's loosened some considerable. Jest what Welse figgered on, everybody speculated on a rise and held all the grub they could lay hand to. That helped scare the shorts, and away they stampeded fer Salt Water, the whole caboodle, a-takin' all the dogs with 'em.
Their detached air and genial smiles gave them the appearance of successful hosts. White recognized Sommers and nodded, with one eye on the board. "Rag's acting queer," he said casually in the doctor's ear. "Are you in the market? Rag is Carson's latest ain't gone through yet, and there are signs the market's glutted. Look at that thing slide, waltz! Gee, there'll be sore heads to-morrow!"
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