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Updated: June 26, 2025
The two friends stood a moment under the portico, their coat collars turned up, watching the scurrying in the street. "Well," said Cressler, at last, "I see we got 'dollar wheat' this morning." "Yes," answered Jadwin, nodding, "'dollar wheat." "I suppose," went on Cressler, "I suppose you are sorry, now that you're not in it any more." "Oh, no," replied Jadwin, nibbling off the end of a cigar.
But when she had played as much as she could remember of the music, she rose and closed the piano, and pushed back the folding doors between the room she was in and the "back library," a small room where Mrs. Cressler kept her books of poetry. As Laura entered the room she was surprised to see Mr. Cressler there, seated in his armchair, his back turned toward her.
"He was in the Crookes' ring, and we never knew it I've killed him, Sam. I might as well have held that pistol myself." He stamped his foot, striking his fist across his forehead, "Great God my best friend Charlie Charlie Cressler! Sam, I shall go mad if this if this " "Steady, steady does it, J.," warned the broker, his hand upon his shoulder, "we got to keep a grip on ourselves to-day.
You don't realise what it's been. Do you suppose you can say 'no' to that man?" "Of course not of course not!" declared Mrs. Cressler joyfully. "That's 'J' all over. I might have known he'd have you if he set out to do it." They were married on the last day of June of that summer in the Episcopalian church.
Cressler threw his cigar from him with vast impatience. "Oh, rot!" he muttered. "He took it terribly, seriously, Charlie, just the same." "I'd like to take that young boy in hand and shake some of the nonsense out of him that you women have filled him with. He's got a level head. On the floor every day, and never yet bought a hatful of wheat on his own account.
"Well," said the little voice of the man-within-the-man, who in the person of Calvin Hardy Crookes sat listening to the ticker in his office, "well, let it roar. It sure can't hurt C. H. C." "Can you see Mr. Cressler?" said the clerk at the door. He came in with a hurried, unsteady step. The long, stooping figure was unkempt; was, in a sense, unjointed, as though some support had been withdrawn.
He put his hands in his pockets and looked at Cressler. "Does he know?" faltered Cressler. "Do you suppose he could have heard that I was in this clique of yours?" "Not unless you told him yourself." Cressler stood up, clearing his throat. "I have not told him, Mr. Crookes," he said. "You would do me an especial favor if you would keep it from the public, from everybody, from Mr.
Cressler lit another cigar, and the filaments of delicate blue smoke hung suspended about his head in the moveless air. Far off, from the direction of the mouth of the river, a lake steamer whistled a prolonged tenor note. Somewhere from an open window in one of the neighbouring houses a violin, accompanied by a piano, began to elaborate the sustained phrases of "Schubert's Serenade."
"And I said another eighth would bust me," Cressler remarked, with a short laugh. "Well," he added, grimly, "it looks as though I were busted. I suppose, though, we must all expect to get the knife once in a while mustn't we? Well, there goes fifty thousand dollars of my good money." "I can tell you who's got it, if you care to know," answered Crookes.
He hung up the receiver and leaned back in his chair. "They'll report the trade in a minute," he said. "Better wait and see." Cressler stood at the window, his hands clasped behind his back, looking down into the street. He did not answer. The seconds passed, then the minutes.
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