In less than a minute the dollar-battle of the age was on, a
battle such as no man had ever seen before. It required no supernatural
wisdom for any man on the floor to see that Bob Brownley's seed had fallen
in superheated soil, that his until now secret hellite was about to be
tested. It needed no expert in the mystic art of deciphering the wall
hieroglyphics of Old Hag Fate to see that the hands on the clock of the
"System" were approaching twelve. It needed no ear trained to hear human
heart and soul beats to detect the approaching sound of onrushing doom to
the stock-gambling structure. The deafening roar of the brokers that had
broken the stillness following Robert Brownley's fateful speech had
awakened echoes that threatened to shake down the Exchange walls. The
surging mob on the outside was roaring like a million hungry lions in an
Arbestan run at slaughter time.
Chapter X.
The instant after the gong sounded Bob Brownley was alone on the floor at
the foot of the president's desk. His form was swaying like a reed on the
edge of the cyclone's path. I jumped to his side. His brother, who had
during Bob's harangue been vainly endeavouring to beat his way through the
crowd, was there first.
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