"She's loose in New York--a regular mob in New Orleans--and--hark!--By God! there's something doing here. Damn it--I wish we'd got another million bales. Let's see, we've got--" He figured while the wheel whirred--"7--7-1/2--8--8-1/2."
Cresswell listened, staggered to his feet, his face crimson and his hair wild.
"My God, Taylor," he gasped. "I'm--I'm a half a million ahead--great heavens!"
The ticker whirred, "8-3/4--9--9-1/2--10." Then it stopped dead.
"Exchange closed," said Taylor. "We've cornered the market all right--cornered it--d'ye hear, Cresswell? We got over half the crop and we can send prices to the North Star--you--why, I figure it you Cresswells are worth at least seven hundred and fifty thousand above liabilities this minute," and John Taylor leaned back and lighted a big black cigar.
"I've made a million or so myself," he added reflectively.
Cresswell leaned back in his chair, his face had gone white again, and he spoke slowly to still the tremor in his voice.
"I've gambled--before; I've gambled on cards and on horses; I've gambled--for money--and--women--but--"
"But not on cotton, hey? Well, I don't know about cards and such; but they can't beat cotton."
"And say, John Taylor, you're my friend." Cresswell stretched his hand across the desk, and as he bent forward the pistol crashed to the floor.