Wall Street was crowded long before nine o'clock that Thursday morning
with a jostling, shouting mob of men; the gallery of the exchange was
packed; the curb outside was thronged. The London quotations were on
every tongue, and suspense and terror on every face, in the very air.
All knew that the crisis of the combat had come, that one way or other
all would now soon be known.
Through this crowd Robert van Rensselaer pushed his way. Nobody heeded
him, nobody knew him; his clothing was soiled and muddy, his hat broken
and jammed down upon his head. His face was inflamed, his eyes
blood-shot, and he reeled and groped about him as he walked. He was
drunk.
He made his way up to his office, staggered in, and sunk into a chair.
"Get me some whiskey," he panted to his secretary. "Hurry up!"
The latter was staring at him in amazement. "Some whiskey!" he shouted
again. "Don't you hear? And shut the door, and don't let any one come in
here. Quick!"
The man turned and vanished, and van Rensselaer sat in the chair,
staring in front of him with his wild eyes. He had made his way down
town like a man in a dream; one idea had possessed him and driven
him--he muttered it to himself as he walked: "Wall Street! Wall Street!
Ten o'clock!"
Now he turned suddenly and looked at the ticker, then rose and staggered
to it and leaned there, swaying. He read the early reports, and then
glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes to ten.
"Ah!" he panted. "Safe!"
The secretary returned, and the other seized the bottle he brought and
drank from it. Then he said: "I wrote Jones and Co. yesterday to turn
three millions over to my brokers. See that it's done. And tell the
brokers to sell T. & S., and sell it just as fast as they can, until
it's every cent gone. And then you come back here, and don't let any one
into this room--not a soul, mind you, not a soul. Do you understand?"
"I understand," said the man, and went away, lost in wonder. The first
thing he did was to order his own broker to cover some T. & S. of his
own; the secretary had never seen van Rensselaer lose his nerve before.
And meanwhile van Rensselaer was kneading his hands and muttering, his
eyes fixed upon the creeping clock, and the bottle of liquor on the
table by his side. So the minutes passed by, and the hands passed the
stroke of ten.