A DAY IN WHEAT. 
BY Wi 
WITH PICTURES BY 
VICTORIA drawn by shining bays, the 
coachman in drab livery faced with 
yellow, wheeled up to the curb on the east 
side of the Board of Trade. 
Miss Thatcher did not at once offer to 
alight. She reefed her gaudy little parasol, 
and looked deliberately up the craggy bulk 
of granite that towered overhead. She was 
aware, as parts of the picture, of the win- 
dowed broadside of the bank blocking their 
dingy bit of street just to the north, and of 
the awkward mass of the elevated-road sta- 
tion shutting off the view to the south. An 
inarticulate roaring of human voices came 
out of the broad, open windows above. 
“How much noise they make!” she com- 
mented, gathering her skirts. 
“They ’re always at the boiling-point,” 
said Miss Gund, briskly, with the advantage 
of her experience. “I hope they ’ll boil over 
for you. Maybe Arthur can get them to. 
We may as well get out.” 
Miss Thatcher’s eye had been quick to 
catch the gilt signs on the two windows and. 
the door across the sidewalk: “Gund, Ran- 
dall & Morehouse: Stocks, Bonds, Grain, 
Provisions.” That, and the mere glimpse be- 
yond of a big bare room full of lounging men, 
were rather disappointing—not so sugges- 
tive of money and excitement as she had 
supposed. 
She alighted in a leisurely way. Shorter 
and plumper Miss Gund followed her witha 
bounce which seemed rather due to the en- 
vironment. Everybody hurried there, even 
those passing men who turned briefly chal- 
lenging eyes upon the tall, alluring figure 
beside the carriage. Miss Thatcher did not 
mind the glances here more than elsewhere. 
It was an advantage of her size and beauty 
that she could stand calmly aloof. 
But Miss Gund was less serene. 
the office,” she said. “Oh!” 
The office door opened, and a large young 
man came hurrying out to them. His big, 
loose frame moved with a kind of awkward- 
ness, and he took off his straw hat, some- 
way as though he wished to hide it, disclos- 
ing a long, narrow brow, and a thinness in 
the lightish hair over the top of his head. 
340 
/hisis 
PAYNE. 
THOMAS FOGARTY. 
But his long, smooth face was distinguished 
in a way by the amiable mouth and the 
mutely eloquent brown eyes. He briefly, 
even hurriedly, shook the neatly gloved 
hand which Miss Thatcher extended. 
“Ts it a good day for us, Arthur?” Dora 
cut in at once; and his one tiny hope that, 
after all, they were not going to stay fell to 
pieces. 
“Why, no; it is n’t really a very good day,” 
he began. His troubled eyes even made an 
appeal to Miss Thatcher. 
“Perhaps you’re too busy,” she suggested. 
She mentally drew herself up. 
“Oh, I’m sure it’s a good day,” said Dora, 
with sisterly privilege. “I read the ‘Trib- 
une’s’ Board of Trade column to Margaret 
before we started, and it says the market is 
‘wildly nervous.’ That ’s good for us, is n’t 
it? We want it to be lively.” 
“But if you re busy—” Miss Thatcher in- 
sisted. His was not the attitude which she 
had reason to expect. 
But Arthur had come out of his helpless- 
ness. It was apt to be that way with hin— 
as.though it took his machinery a few min- 
utes.to get into running order. 
“T meant the gallery will be crowded,” he 
explained, lamely but amiably. “Of course 
I’m not too busy. I’m only a sort of flour- 
ish in the office as yet, anyway.” 
They started across the flagging. 
“Oh, and will the ‘ bull clique’ be up there 
—the one the ‘Tribune’ says is running the 
market? How will we know it? Can you 
point it out?” x 
Dora paused at the door to put these ques- 
tions with a touch of excitement. 
“T hope it will come out and perform for 
us,” said Miss Thatcher. “What is it they 
do? ‘Go broke’? Will it do that?” 
A little panicky constriction caught the 
young man’s heart. 
“Perhaps; I “ll ask them to!” he cried in 
nervous recklessness. But Miss Thatcher 
was passing him to enter the door. Her 
beauty was too near; it was too real. His 
eyebrows drew together. “I hope they won’t 
‘go broke’ anywhere, Miss Thatcher,” he 
said in a sort of hurried aside. 
