Friday, the Thirteenth: A Novel

The sound of my voice, as I dropped the receiver, seemed to part the mists of five years and usher me into the world of Then as though it had never passed on.

The following week saw Miss Sands, of Virginia, private secretary to the head of Randolph & Randolph, established in a little office between mine and Bob’s. She had not been the...

He Listened a moment, then answered, “Stand on it at 80 for 12,000 shares. I will be there in a second.” He dropped the receiver. “Jim, we have struck a snag. Arthur Perkins, wh...

The following week Bob returned to the office. He had not changed, and yet he had changed greatly. Rest had apparently done much for him. His colour was good, his step elastic a...

Thursday, November 12th, was a memorable day in Wall Street. As the gong pealed its the-game’s-closed-till-another-day, the myriad of tortured souls that are supposed to haunt t...

“Yes, Beulah, I have done it single-handed. I have crucified Camemeyer, ‘Standard Oil,’ and the ‘System’ that spiked me to the cross a few weeks ago. You have three millions, an...

An old gambler, whose life had been spent listening to the rattle of the drop-in-bound-out little roulette ball, was told by a fellow victim, as his last dollar went to the rele...

A number of times during the following year, and finally on the anniversary of the Sands tragedy, Bob carried the Exchange to the verge of panic, only to turn the market and sav...

“One word, gentlemen,” he called. “I have more trades outstanding, both buys and sells, than any other member or house. Before deciding whether to adjourn in an attempt to save...

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...