Philadelphia Stock Exchange.
There wasn't the clamor of New York, which prided itself on being the nation's center.
But the smell of money, greed, and sweat in the air was exactly the same.
Arthur, a local broker with thinning hair but eyes as sharp as an eagle's, was looking impatiently at the blackboard in the center of the trading floor, where prices moved as slowly as a crawling snail.
"Sir, an urgent telegram from Mr. Hayes in New York."
His assistant respectfully handed him a thin slip of paper.
Arthur took the telegram, quickly scanned it, and muttered to himself.
"Gold certificates, gold certificates again! What in the world is Tom Hayes, that old fox, up to?"
Seeing this, the assistant asked with a hint of inquiry, "Sir, should we continue to buy? This is the third telegram we've received. Our account is almost full of those paper slips."
"The market isn't reacting to gold at all. Everyone is still discussing the bond market crash from the day before yesterday."
