"This is Peter Phipps, from right away opposite. Say, I am told that John
Wingate of New York is a client of yours."
Kendrick passed across the spare receiver to Wingate and paused for a
moment whilst the latter held it to his ear.
"He is," Kendrick admitted.
"Well, I am given to understand that he is coming into the City to do
business," Phipps continued. "If he is in any way disposed to be a
seller, we are buyers of wheat for autumn delivery at market price,
perhaps even a shade over."
"Any quantity?" Kendrick enquired.
"A hundred thousand--anything up to a million bushels, if Mr. Wingate
feels like coming in big. Anyway, we're ready to talk business. Will you
put it up to your client?"
"I will."
"Shall you be seeing him soon?"
"This morning, probably."
"Thought you might," the voice at the other end of the telephone
observed, "as I saw him step into your office half an hour ago. Give him
my compliments and say I hope we may make a deal together."
"Certainly," Kendrick promised. "Good morning."
The two men laid down their receivers. Kendrick's eyes twinkled.
"Well, that fellow's a sport, anyway," he declared.
"I suppose in one sense of the word he is," Wingate admitted. "So he
wants me to sell him wheat, eh? It looks a good thing at these
prices, Kendrick, doesn't it, and a normal harvest coming along on
the other side?"
"That's for you to say," was the cautious reply.
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