Chapter I: Front Matter

Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.

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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 15, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.

VOL. XVIII.--NO. 894. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.

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THE MYSTERY OF THE SWAMP.

BY JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.

I.

Once upon a time there lived on a large plantation in Middle Georgia a boy who was known as Little Crotchet. It was a very queer name, to be sure, but it seemed to fit the lad to a T. When he was a wee bit of a chap he fell seriously ill, and when, many weeks afterwards, the doctors said the worst was over, it was found that he had lost the use of his legs, and that he would never be able to run about and play as other children do. When he was told about this he laughed, and said he had known all along that he would never be able to run about on his feet again; but he had plans of his own, and he told his father that he wanted a pair of crutches made.

"But you can't use them, my son," said his father.

"Anyhow, I can try," insisted the lad.

The doctors were told of his desire, and these wise men put their heads together.

"It is a crotchet," they declared, "but it will be no harm for him to try."

"It is a little crotchet," said his mother, "and he shall have the crutches."

Thus it came about that the lad got both his name and his crutches, for his father insisted on calling him Little Crotchet after that, and he also insisted on sending all the way to Philadelphia for the crutches. They seemed to be a long time in coming, for in those days they had to be brought to Charleston in a sailing-vessel, and then sent by way of Augusta in a stage-coach; but when they came they were very welcome, for Little Crotchet had been inquiring for them every day in the week, and Sunday too. And yet when they came, strange to say, he seemed to have lost his interest in them. His mother brought them in joyously, but there was not even a glad smile on the lad's face. He looked at them gravely, weighed them in his hands, laid them across the foot of the bed, and then turned his head on his pillow, as if he wanted to go to sleep. His mother was surprised, and not a little hurt, as mothers will be when they do not understand their children; but she respected his wishes, darkened the room, kissed the boy, and closed the door gently.

When everything was still, Little Crotchet sat up in bed, seized his crutches, and proceeded to try them. He did this every day for a week, and at the end of that time surprised everybody in the house, and on the place as well, by marching out on his crutches, and going from room to room without so much as touching his feet to the floor. It seemed to be a most wonderful feat to perform, and so it was; but Providence, in depriving the lad of the use of his legs, had correspondingly strengthened the muscles of his chest and arms, so that within a month he could use his crutches almost as nimbly and quite as safely as other boys use their feet. He could go up stairs and down stairs and walk about the place with as much ease apparently as those not afflicted, and it was not strange that the negroes regarded the performance with wonder akin to awe, declaring among themselves that their young master was upheld and supported by "de sperits."

And indeed it was a queer sight to see the frail lad going boldly about on crutches, his feet not touching the ground. The sight seemed to make the pet name of Little Crotchet more appropriate than ever. So his name stuck to him, even after he got his gray pony, and became a familiar figure in town and in country, as he went galloping about, his crutches strapped to the saddle, and dangling as gayly as the sword of some fine general. Thus it came to pass that no one was surprised when Little Crotchet went cantering along, his gray pony snorting fiercely, and seeming never to tire. Early or late, whenever the neighbors heard the short sharp snort of the gray pony and the rattling of the crutches, they would turn to one another and say, "Little Crotchet!" and that would be explanation enough. There seemed to be some sort of understanding between him and his gray pony.

Anybody could ride the gray pony in the pasture or in the grove around the house, but when it came to going out by the big gate, that was another matter. He could neither be led nor driven beyond that boundary by any one except Little Crotchet. It was the same when it came to crossing water. The gray pony would not cross over the smallest running brook for any one but Little Crotchet; but with the lad on his back he would plunge into the deepest stream, and, if need be, swim across it. All this deepened and confirmed the idea in the minds of the negroes that Little Crotchet was upheld and protected by "de sperits." They had heard him talking to the gray pony, and they had heard the gray pony whinny in reply. They had seen the gray pony with their little master on his back go gladly out at the big gate and rush with a snort through the plantation creek--a bold and at times a dangerous stream. Seeing these things, and knowing the temper of the pony, they had no trouble in coming to the conclusion that something supernatural was behind it all.

II.

Thus it happened that Little Crotchet and his gray pony were pretty well known through all the country-side, for it seemed that he was never tired of riding, and that the pony was never tired of going. What was the rider's errand? Nobody knew. Why should he go skimming along the red road at day dawn? And why should he come whirling back at dusk--a red cloud of dust rising beneath the gray pony's feet? Nobody could tell.

This was almost as much of a puzzle to some of the whites as it was to the negroes; but this mystery, if it could be called such, was soon eclipsed by a phenomenon that worried some of the wisest dwellers in that region. This phenomenon, apparently very simple, began to manifest itself in early fall, and continued all through that season and during the winter and on through the spring, until warm weather set in. It was in the shape of a thin column of blue smoke that could be seen on any clear morning or late afternoon rising from the centre of Spivey's Canebrake. This place was called a canebrake because a thick, almost impenetrable, growth of canes fringed the edge of a mile-wide basin lying between the bluffs of the Oconee River and the uplands beyond. Instead of being a canebrake, it was a vast swamp, the site of cool but apparently stagnant ponds and of treacherous quagmires, in which cows, and even horses, had been known to disappear and perish. The cowitch grew there, and the yellow plumes of the poison-oak vine glittered like small torches. There, too, the thunderwood tree exuded its poisonous milk, and long serpentlike vines wound themselves around and through the trees and helped to shut out the sunlight. It was a swamp, and a very dismal one. The night birds gathered there to sleep during the day, and all sorts of creatures that shunned the sunlight or hated man found a refuge there. If the negroes had made paths through its recesses to enable them to avoid the patrol, nobody knew it but themselves.

Why, then, should a thin but steady stream of blue smoke be constantly rising upwards from the centre of Spivey's Canebrake? This was a mystery to those who first discovered it, and it soon grew to be a neighborhood mystery. During the summer the smoke could not be seen, but in the fall and winter its small thin volume went curling upward continually. Little Crotchet often watched it from the brow of Turner's Hill, the highest part of the uplands. Early in the morning or late in the afternoon the vapor would rise from the Oconee; but the vapor was white and heavy, and was blown about by the wind, while the smoke in the swamp was blue and thin, and rose straight in the air above the tops of the trees in spite of the wayward winds.

Once when Little Crotchet was sitting on his pony watching the blue smoke rise from the swamp he saw two of the neighbor farmers coming along the highway. They stopped and shook hands with the lad, and then turned to watch the thin stream of blue smoke. The morning was clear and still, and the smoke rose straight in the air, until it seemed to mingle with the upper blue. The two farmers were father and son--Jonathan Gadsby and his son Ben. They were both very well acquainted with Little Crotchet--as, indeed, everybody in the county was--and he was so bright and queer that they stood somewhat in awe of him.

"I reckin if I had a pony that wasn't afeard of nothin' I'd go right straight and find out where that fire is and what it is," remarked Ben Gadsby.

This stirred his father's ire apparently. "Why, Benjamin! Why, what on the face of the earth do you mean? Ride into that swamp! Why, you must have lost what little sense you had when you was born! I remember, jest as well as if it was day before yesterday, when Uncle Jimmy Cosby's red steer got in that swamp, and we couldn't git him out. Git him out, did I say? We couldn't even git nigh him. We could hear him beller, but we never got where we could see ha'r nor hide of him. If I was thirty years younger I'd take my foot in my hand and wade in there and see where the smoke comes from."

Little Crotchet laughed. "If I had two good legs," said he, "I'd soon see what the trouble is."

This awoke Ben Gadsby's ambition. "I believe I'll go in there and see where the fire is."

"Fire!" exclaimed old Mr. Gadsby, with some irritation. "Who said anything about fire? What living and moving creature could build a fire in that thicket? I'd like mighty well to lay my eyes on him."

"Well," said Ben Gadsby, "where you see smoke there's obliged to be fire. I've heard you say that yourself."

"Me?" exclaimed Mr. Jonathan Gadsby, with a show of alarm in the midst of his indignation. "Did I say that? Well, it was when I wasn't so much as thinking that my two eyes were my own. What about foxfire? Suppose that some quagmire or other in that there swamp has gone and got up a ruction on its own hook? Smoke without fire? Why, I've seed it many a time. And maybe that smoke comes from an eruption in the ground. What then? Who's going to know where the fire is?"

Little Crotchet laughed, but Ben Gadsby put on a very bold front. "Well," said he, "I can find bee-trees, and I'll find where that fire is."

"Well, sir," remarked Mr. Jonathan Gadsby, looking at his son with an air of pride, "find out where the smoke comes from, and we'll not expect you to see the fire."

"I wish I could go with you," said Little Crotchet.

"I don't need any company," replied Ben Gadsby. "I've done made up my mind, and I'm a-going to show the folks around here that where there's so much smoke there's obliged to be some fire."

The young man, knowing that he had some warm work before him, pulled off his coat, and tied the sleeves over his shoulder, sash fashion. Then he waved his hand to his father and to Little Crotchet, and went rapidly down the hill. He had undertaken the adventure in a spirit of bravado. He knew that a number of the neighbors had tried to solve the mystery of the smoke in the swamp and had failed. He thought, too, that he would fail; and yet he was urged on by the belief that if he should happen to succeed, all the boys and all the girls in the neighborhood would regard him as a wonderful young man. He had the same ambition that animated the knights of old, but on a smaller scale.

III.

Now it chanced that Little Crotchet himself was on his way to the smoke in the swamp. He had been watching it, and wondering whether he should go to it by the path he knew, or whether he should go by the road that Aaron, the runaway, had told him of. Ben Gadsby interfered with his plans somewhat; for, quite by accident, young Gadsby, as he went down the hill, struck into the path that Little Crotchet knew. There was a chance to gallop along the brow of the hill, turn to the left, plunge through a shallow lagoon, and strike into the path ahead of Gadsby, and this chance Little Crotchet took. He waved his hand to Mr. Jonathan Gadsby, gave the gray pony the rein, and went galloping through the underbrush, his crutches rattling, and the rings of the bridle-bit jingling. To Mr. Jonathan Gadsby it seemed that the lad was riding recklessly, and he groaned and shook his head as he turned and went on his way.

But Little Crotchet rode on. Turning sharply to the left as soon as he got out of sight, he went plunging through the lagoon, and was soon going along the blind path a quarter of a mile ahead of Ben Gadsby. This is why young Gadsby was so much disturbed that he lost his way. He was bold enough when he started out, but by the time he had descended the hill and struck into what he thought was a cattle-path his courage began to fail him. The tall canes seemed to bend above him in a threatening manner. The silence oppressed him. Everything was so still that the echo of his own movements as he brushed along the narrow path seemed to develop into ominous whispers, as if all the goblins he had ever heard of had congregated in front of him to bar his way.

The silence, with its strange echoes, was bad enough, but when he heard the snorting of Little Crotchet's gray pony as it plunged through the lagoon, the rattle of the crutches and the jingling of the bridle-bit, he fell into a panic. What great beast could it be that went helter-skelter through this dark and silent swamp, swimming through the water and tearing through the quagmires? And yet, when Ben Gadsby would have turned back, the rank undergrowth and the trailing vines had quite obscured the track. The fear that impelled him to retrace his steps was equally powerful in impelling him to go forward. And this seemed the easiest plan. He felt that it would be just as safe to go on, having once made the venture, as to turn back. He had a presentiment that he would never find his way out anyhow, and the panic he was in nerved him to the point of desperation.

So on he went, not always trying to follow the path, but plunging forward aimlessly. In half an hour he was calmer, and pretty soon he found the ground firm under his feet. His instincts as a bee-hunter came back to him. He had started in from the east side, and he paused to take his bearings. But it was hard to see the sun, and in the recesses of the swamp the mosses grew on all sides of the trees. And yet there was a difference, which Ben Gadsby did not fail to discover and take account of. They grew thicker and larger on the north side, and remembering this, he went forward with more confidence.

He found that the middle of the swamp was comparatively dry. Huge poplar-trees stood ranged about, the largest he had ever seen. In the midst of a group of trees he found one that was hollow, and in this hollow he found the smouldering embers of a fire. But for the strange silence that surrounded him he would have given a whoop of triumph; but he restrained himself. Bee-hunter that he was, he took his coat from his shoulders and tied it around a small slim sapling standing near the big poplar where he had found the fire. It was his way when he found a bee-tree. It was a sort of guide. In returning he would take the general direction, and then hunt about until he found his coat; and it was much easier to find a tree tagged with a coat than it was to find one not similarly marked.

Thus, instead of whooping triumphantly, Ben Gadsby simply tied his coat about the nearest sapling, nodding his head significantly as he did so. He had unearthed the secret and unravelled the mystery, and now he would go and call in such of the neighbors as were near at hand and show them what a simple thing the great mystery was. He knew that he had found the hiding-place of Aaron the runaway. So he fixed his "landmark," and started out of the swamp with a lighter heart than he had when he came in.

To make sure of his latitude and longitude, he turned in his tracks when he had gone a little distance and looked for the tree on which he had tied his coat. But it was not to be seen. He retraced his steps, trying to find his coat. Looking about him cautiously, he saw the garment after a while, but it was in an entirely different direction from what he supposed it would be. It was tied to a sapling, and the sapling was near a big poplar. To satisfy himself, he returned to make a closer examination. Sure enough, there was the coat, but the poplar close by was not a hollow poplar, nor was it as large as the tree in which Ben Gadsby had found the smouldering embers of a fire.

He sat on the trunk of a fallen tree and scratched his head, and discussed the matter in his mind the best he could. Finally he concluded that it would be a very easy matter, after he found his coat again, to find the hollow poplar. So he started home again. But he had not gone far when he turned around to take another view of his coat.

It had disappeared. Ben Gadsby looked carefully around, and then a feeling of terror crept over his whole body--a feeling that nearly paralyzed his limbs. He tried to overcome this feeling, and did so to a certain degree. He plucked up sufficient courage to return and try to find his coat; but the task was indeed bewildering. He thought he had never seen so many large poplars with small slim saplings standing near them, and then he began to wander around almost aimlessly.

IV.

Suddenly he heard a scream that almost paralyzed him--a scream that was followed by the sound of a struggle going on in the thick undergrowth close at hand. He could see the muddy water splash above the bushes, and he could hear fierce growlings and gruntings. Before he could make up his mind what to do, a gigantic mulatto, with torn clothes and staring eyes, rushed out of the swamp, and came rushing by, closely pursued by a big white boar, with open mouth and fierce cries. The white boar was right at the mulatto's heels, and his yellow tusks gleamed viciously as he ran with open mouth. Pursuer and pursued disappeared in the bushes with a splash and a crash, and then all was as still as before. In fact, the silence seemed profounder for this uncanny and appalling disturbance. It was so unnatural that half a minute after it occurred Ben Gadsby was not certain whether it had occurred at all. He was a pretty bold youth, having been used to the woods and fields all his life, but he had now beheld a spectacle so out of the ordinary, and of so startling a character, that he made haste to get out of the swamp as fast as his legs, weakened by fear, would carry him.

More than once, as he made his way out of the swamp, he paused to listen; and it seemed that each time he paused an owl, or some other bird of noiseless wing, made a sudden swoop at his head. Beyond the exclamation he made when this occurred the silence was unbroken. This experience was unusual enough to hasten his steps, even if he had no other motive for haste.

When nearly out of the swamp, he came upon a large poplar, by the side of which a small slim sapling was growing. Tied around this sapling was his coat, which he thought he had left in the middle of the swamp. The sight almost took his breath away.

He examined the coat carefully, and found that the sleeves were tied around the tree just as he had tied them. He felt in the pockets. Everything was just as he had left it. He examined the poplar; it was hollow, and in the hollow was a pile of ashes.

"Well!" exclaimed Ben Gadsby. "I'm the biggest fool that ever walked the earth. If I 'ain't been asleep and dreamed all this, I'm crazy; and if I've been asleep, I'm a fool."

His experience had been so queer and so confusing that he promised himself he'd never tell it where any of the older people could hear it, for he knew that they would not only treat his tale with scorn and contempt, but would make him the butt of ridicule among the younger folks. "I know exactly what they'd say," he remarked to himself. "They'd declare that a skeer'd hog run across my path, and that I was skeer'der than the hog."

So Ben Gadsby took his coat from the sapling, and went trudging along his way toward the big road. When he reached that point he turned and looked toward the swamp. Much to his surprise, the stream of blue smoke was still flowing upward. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but there was the smoke. His surprise was still greater when he saw Little Crotchet and the gray pony come ambling up the hill in the path he had just come over.

"What did you find?" asked Little Crotchet, as he reined in the gray pony.

"Nothing--nothing at all," replied Ben Gadsby, determined not to commit himself.

"Nothing?" cried Little Crotchet. "Well, you ought to have been with me! Why, I saw sights! The birds flew in my face, and when I got in the middle of the swamp a big white hog came rushing out, and if this gray pony hadn't have been the nimblest of his kind, you'd have never seen me any more."

"Is that so?" asked Ben Gadsby, in a dazed way. "Well, I declare! 'Twas all quiet with me. I just went in and come out again, and that's all there is to it."

"I wish I'd been with you," said Little Crotchet, with a curious laugh. "Good-by!"

With that he wheeled the gray pony and rode off home. Ben Gadsby watched Little Crotchet out of sight, and then, with a gesture of despair, surprise, or indignation, flung his coat on the ground, crying, "Well, by jing!"

V.

That night there was so much laughter in the top story of the Abercrombie house that the old Colonel himself came to the foot of the stairs and called out to know what the matter was.

"It's nobody but me," replied Little Crotchet. "I was just laughing."

Colonel Abercrombie paused, as if waiting for some further explanation, but hearing none, said, "Good-night, my son, and God bless you!"

"Good-night, father dear," exclaimed the lad, flinging a kiss at the shadow his father's candle flung on the wall. Then he turned again into his own room, where Aaron the Arab (son of Ben Ali) sat leaning against the wall, as silent and as impassive as a block of tawny marble.

Little Crotchet lay back on his bed, and the two were silent for a time. Finally Aaron said:

"The white grunter carried his play too far. He nipped a piece from my leg."

"I never saw anything like it," remarked Little Crotchet. "I thought the white pig was angry. You did that to frighten Ben Gadsby."

"Yes, little master," responded Aaron, "and I'm thinking the young man will never hunt for the smoke in the swamp any more."

Little Crotchet laughed again, as he remembered how Ben Gadsby looked as Aaron and the white pig went careening across the dry place in the swamp. There was a silence again, and then Aaron said he must be going.

"And when are you going home to your master?" Little Crotchet asked.

"Never!" replied Aaron the runaway, with emphasis. "Never! He is no master of mine. He is a bad man."

Then he undressed Little Crotchet, tucked the cover about him--for the nights were growing chilly--whispered good-night, and slipped from the window, letting down the sash gently as he went out. If any one had been watching, he would have seen the tall Arab steal along the roof until he came to the limb of an oak that touched the eaves. Along this he went nimbly, glided down the trunk to the ground, and disappeared in the darkness.

A POPULAR SCHOOL.

When Jacky got his new club skates he tried the old Dutch roll,
And in the course of several weeks attained his humble goal.

Then practising three hours a day, when there was ice to skate,
He learned, a fortnight later on, to cut the figure eight.

By this success encouraged, he essayed a loftier flight,
And, in a month, upon the ice his name could fairly write.

When Jacky's teacher heard of this, in truth he marvelled much,
For he had found that Jacky knew but little of the Dutch.

"In half the time you took to learn the figure eight," said he,
"You might in your arithmetic have learned the Rule of Three.

"And though your name you deftly trace with educated feet,
The penmanship you do by hand, alas! is far from neat.

"But since 'tis clear that unrequired tasks you quickest learn,
My school to an athletic club I now propose to turn;

"And then, perhaps, when tired of the stunts I'll make you do,
You'll turn for recreation to the books you now eschew."

H. G. PAINE.

THE NEW YORK STOCK EXCHANGE.

BY HUBERT EARL.

A little gathering of men met under a buttonwood-tree in 1792, opposite what is now No. 60 Wall Street, and formed an association for the purpose of exchange and more ready current transaction of business. From this crude organization has grown the present New York Stock Exchange with its immense capital. Installed in a dignified edifice between Broad and New streets, with an entrance on Wall Street, its eleven hundred members transact business daily between 10 A.M. and 3 P.M. No transactions are allowed before or after these hours, a heavy fine being the penalty for each offence, and such contracts not being recognized by the governing committee of the Exchange.

A membership in the Stock Exchange is worth a small fortune, for the seats have sold as high as $32,500, though at present they do not bring over $18,000. The brokers are both rich and poor, but adding the value of the memberships to an estimated average capital of $100,000 for each member, $150,000,000 is a conservative figure of the capital invested.

To the casual visitor who finds himself leaning over the handsome balcony rail looking down upon the immense floor of the Board-Room the howling gesticulating crowd of brokers appears like a mob of lunatics, and the occasional half-clipped calls that rise to his ears justify the comparison. Sign-posts are placed about the floor, bearing the names of the different stocks dealt in, and around these posts the brokers gather to buy and sell. When a particular stock is what is termed active, the brokers dealing in it surge madly around the post assigned to it, and amid deafening yells make their contracts. An ideal broker is one whose face never betrays any emotion, but remains perfectly passive, whether his stock transactions net him an enormous gain or lose him a fortune.

Many brokers act as agents for firms, but most firms have their own representative always on the floor. At times, though, to prevent the discovery of a big deal or an attempt to corner the market in some particular stock, it is necessary to call in the service of more brokers. A percentage is paid for such service, the minimum being $2 for every hundred shares that are valued at $100 each.

The members know each other, and frequently in the crowd a broker will stand with his slips in one hand, his eyes glued upon his memoranda, and with his other hand emphasizing his calls with lunging jerks, as he sends forth such yells as "One hundred at 84." Again and again he repeats his yell, and then changes it to 83-3/4 for a hundred. "Take 'em," comes the cry, to which he answers, "Sold"; and then jots down the transaction, never once looking to see who the buyer was, but relying upon the voice, which he knows. These transactions are invariably fulfilled to the letter, and there is no record during the existence of the Exchange of such a contract being disacknowledged. If this broker wants the transaction sent to his firm, he jots it down on a slip, and before he can turn around, one of the fifty-odd gray-uniformed messengers on the floor takes it, and runs off to the side of the room to that broker's telephone, and hands the memorandum to the operator, who telephones his firm.

Should a firm want to talk with their representative over the telephone, it is necessary to call him off the floor. As none but members are allowed on the floor, and no voice is strong enough to be heard calling above the fearful screech of bids and offers, a number system was devised for this purpose. Each broker has a number, and a rack on one of the walls has a corresponding number. A call is sent to the boy who works the annunciator to put up, say, 48. He pulls a knob, and instantly that number is exposed on the rack. Every now and then each broker glances at his rack, and when he sees his number he goes out either to the telephone or to the messenger or person who may want to see him. This silent call is discontinued after it has served its purpose.

There are a large number of telephones required, and a number of alleyways are partitioned off at the sides of the floor, in which line after line of telephones are placed, each one with its operator, who never leaves it. Then there is the telegraph service. Every transaction of any importance is sent over the wires. It has hardly taken place before the anxious watcher at some ticker reads its record on the tape, whether it be one hundred yards from the floor of the Exchange or a thousand miles away. If he is holding any particular stock that has advanced, and wishing to take advantage of the fact, he decides to sell, he telegraphs his New York brokers to sell for him. They telephone their representative on the floor of the Exchange, and in a very short time these shares are being offered, and the owner, probably miles away, watching the tape of his ticker, notes with a smile of satisfaction the records unfolding before him: 100 shares at 87-3/8, 300 shares 87-1/4, 200 shares at 87, and so on. These shares may have been purchased by him around 79 or 80, or possibly much less, and the transaction nets him a neat profit. It is often the reverse, though, and almost fortunes are made and lost daily by such speculations.

The stock-brokers do not like long words, as is evidenced in the terms they have regulated into a dialect of their own. To the uninitiated it is very confusing to hear such remarks as "long of stocks," "holding for a raise," "ballooning a stock," "saddling the market," "gunning a stock," etc., etc. Many of these terms are pithy, and very much to the point.

The stock-broker is generally a generous, genial, happy sort of person, well dressed, and, for a life of mental strain, with a reverse of fortune liable to strike him at any time, he keeps in wonderfully good spirits.

The Exchange is most interesting during a panic, when prices are dropping all around, and when stocks that are as solid as foundation-stones begin to drop below par. It is then that the broker grows frenzied--sometimes with fear, sometimes with rage. Fiercely he elbows, jostles, or fights his way through the mad crowd. Shout after shout ascends to the ceiling as the prices fall, and out on the street the quiet retired business man who has come down to watch his shares, only to see them rapidly falling, bites his finger-nails nervously in the anxious crowd that has gathered, listening to the roar. Messengers dart here and there, and mad haste prevails. Suddenly a silence comes over the Exchange, and the crowd on the floor have packed closely around the chairman's platform. He gravely and sadly announces the failure of some well-known firm. This will probably drag down into the vortex two or three smaller houses; and when the full import is realized by the members a deafening yell is heard, and again they dash into the fray to make, save, or lose a fortune.

Strongly contrasted to this are the jollity and merrymaking on the floor of the Exchange before the holidays. High carnival then reigns supreme, and fun and mirth grow furious. Clothes are torn, hats smashed, all in good humor. Gray-haired brokers waltz with each other, play leap-frog, sing, and carry on as wildly as the younger ones. Sometimes, but not often, the chairman imposes a fine on the members for their fun, but it is cheerfully paid. After such toil day in and day out through the long months a little exuberance of spirit is excusable.

THE BOY WRECKERS.

BY W. O. STODDARD.