Ever noticed the scar on his right cheek, Kendrick?"
"Often," the stockbroker replied. "He told me it was done in a saloon
fight out in the Far West."
"I did it in the Far East," Wingate declared grimly, "as far east, at
least, as the drawing-room of his Fifth Avenue house. He'll never lose
that scar. He'll never lose his hatred of the man who gave it to him.--So
he wants me to sell him wheat!"
"It's a pretty dangerous thing to introduce feelings of this sort into
business," Kendrick remarked.
"You're right," Wingate admitted. "It makes one careful. I'm not selling
any wheat to-day, Kendrick."
"It will be a disappointment to the office," the other remarked.
"Personally, I'm glad."
"Oh, I'll keep your office busy," Wingate promised. "I'm not coming into
the City for nothing, I can assure you. There are five commissions for
you," he went on, drawing a sheet of paper from the rack and writing on
it rapidly. "That will keep your office busy for a time. I'll give you a
cheque for fifty thousand pounds. Don't ring me up unless you want more
margin. Closing time prices are all I'm interested in, and I can get
those on the tape anywhere."
The stockbroker's eyes glistened as he looked through the list.
"You're a good judge, Wingate," he said. "You'll make money on most
of these."
"I expect I shall," Wingate acknowledged.
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