my letters—not now. I was when I wrote them. I made money hand over fist as long as I stuck to legitimate trading; but I wasn’t content with that. I wanted it to come easier, so like all the rest of the idiots, I tried speculation. It was funny, too. I’d always been dead set against that form of gambling before. I guess there’s still enough of the farmer in me to make me feel squeemish about Wheat Pits. But I got into it just the same, and it seemed as if I never had a chance to get out. Oh, I won all right! Several times I’ve been almost a millionaire—on paper—and then come down to earth again with a bump. Finally the strain was too much. I got disgusted with myself and made up my mind to get out and come home and forget it and really live again. I got out—with just a quarter of a million dollars more than I’d had when I landed there five years before. [He gives a harsh laugh.] And now comes the funny part. The day before the steamer sailed I saw what I thought was a chance to become a millionaire again. [He snaps his fingers.] That easy! I plunged. Then, before things broke, I left—I was so confident I couldn’t be wrong—and I left explicit orders to friends. [Bitterly.] Friends! Well, maybe it wasn’t their fault. A fool deserves what he gets. Anyway, when I landed in New York—I wired you I had business to wind up, didn’t I? Well, it was the business that wound me up! [He smiles grimly, pacing up and down, his hands in his pockets.]
