Meantime in the office of Richards & Tuttle Mr. Robison was carefully following the course of the stock-market. The lower Steel went the higher Robison rose in the estimation of the firm, the customers, and the office-boys.
In one of the interludes between the slumps George B. Richards asked in a voice which one might say sweated respect:
The office had been doing a great business and the big room with the quotation-board that took one side was crowded with customers. These customers, with eyes that shone greedily, drew near and frankly listened to the colloquy. They were all happy because they were all short of Steel, and they were all short of Steel because a mysterious stranger had scented a strange mystery ten minutes ahead of Wall Street.
"What do I think now?" repeated Mr. Robison, mechanically.
"Yes, sir," said George B. Richards, in the tone of voice of an office-boy about to ask for a day off. Robison stared unseeingly at the broker. Then, with a little start, he said so distinctly that every listening customer heard very plainly:
"I have not changed my opinion. When I do I'll let you know."
"It looks to me," persisted Richards, fishing for information, "that they can't keep on going down forever."
"No--not forever," assented Mr. Robison, calmly.
"Still, until we know just what is back of this break it isn't safe to go long."
"In that case," said Mr. Robison, with a polite nod of the head, "don't buy 'em."
Richards did not persist, and with an effort subdued the desire to say "Thank you!" in a most sarcastic tone of voice. The disappointed customers drifted away. To be told when to begin making money is great, but any experienced stock speculator will tell you that it is even more important to be told when to stop making it. The tale of the Untaken Profit is the jeremiad of the ticker-fiend.
Con. Steel was down to fifty-five and beginning to show "resiliency," as financial writers used to say, when an office-boy rushed to Mr. Robison's side. The lad's face shone with pride at being the bearer of money-making news to-the most distinguished of the firm's customers, whose paper profits at that moment were about one hundred thousand dollars.
"Mr. Robison!" he said in the distinct, low voice of one who is accustomed to repeating confidential messages in a crowded room. The other customers, who were still hopeful of getting the tip when to cover, looked at the boy's lips and listened strainingly to catch his whispered words.