The Pit | Page 4

CURTIS JADWIN, capitalist and speculator. SHELDON CORTHELL,

an artist. LANDRY COURT, broker's clerk. SAMUEL GRETRY, a
broker. CHARLES CRESSLER, a dealer in grain. MRS. CRESSLER,
his wife. LAURA DEARBORN, protege of Mrs. Cressler. PAGE
DEARBORN, her sister. MRS. EMILY WESSELS, aunt of Laura and
Page.

The Trilogy of The Epic of the Wheat includes the following novels:
THE OCTOPUS, a Story of California. THE PIT, a Story of Chicago.
THE WOLF, a Story of Europe.
These novels, while forming a series, will be in no way connected with
each other save only in their relation to (I) the production, (2) the
distribution, (3) the consumption of American wheat. When complete,
they will form the story of a crop of wheat from the time of its sowing
as seed in California to the time of its consumption as bread in a village
of Western Europe.
The first novel, "The Octopus," deals with the war between the wheat
grower and the Railroad Trust; the second, "The Pit," is the fictitious
narrative of a "deal" in the Chicago wheat pit; while the third, "The
Wolf," will probably have for its pivotal episode the relieving of a
famine in an Old World community.
The author's most sincere thanks for assistance rendered in the
preparation of the following novel are due to Mr. G. D. Moulson of
New York, Whose unwearied patience and untiring kindness helped
him to the better understanding of the technical difficult J ies of a Very
complicated subject. And more especially he herewith acknowledges
his unmeasured obligation and gratitude to Her Who Helped the Most
of All.
F. N.
NEW YORK June 4, 1901.

I

At eight o'clock in the inner vestibule of the Auditorium Theatre by the
window of the box office, Laura Dearborn, her younger sister Page, and
their aunt--Aunt Wess'--were still waiting for the rest of the
theatre-party to appear. A great, slow-moving press of men and women
in evening dress filled the vestibule from one wall to another. A

confused murmur of talk and the shuffling of many feet arose on all
sides, while from time to time, when the outside and inside doors of the
entrance chanced to be open simultaneously, a sudden draught of air
gushed in, damp, glacial, and edged with the penetrating keenness of a
Chicago evening at the end of February.
The Italian Grand Opera Company gave one of the most popular pieces
of its repertoire on that particular night, and the Cresslers had invited
the two sisters and their aunt to share their box with them. It had been
arranged that the party should assemble in the Auditorium vestibule at
a quarter of eight; but by now the quarter was gone and the Cresslers
still failed to arrive.
"I don't see," murmured Laura anxiously for the last time, "what can be
keeping them. Are you sure Page that Mrs. Cressler meant
here--inside?"
She was a tall young girl of about twenty-two or three, holding herself
erect and with fine dignity. Even beneath the opera cloak it was easy to
infer that her neck and shoulders were beautiful. Her almost extreme
slenderness was, however, her characteristic; the curves of her figure,
the contour of her shoulders, the swell of hip and breast were all low;
from head to foot one could discover no pronounced salience. Yet there
was no trace, no suggestion of angularity. She was slender as a willow
shoot is slender--and equally graceful, equally erect.
Next to this charming tenuity, perhaps her paleness was her most
noticeable trait. But it was not a paleness of lack of colour. Laura
Dearborn's pallour was in itself a colour. It was a tint rather than a
shade, like ivory; a warm white, blending into an exquisite, delicate
brownness towards the throat. Set in the middle of this paleness of
brow and cheek, her deep brown eyes glowed lambent and intense.
They were not large, but in some indefinable way they were important.
It was very natural to speak of her eyes, and in speaking to her, her
friends always found that they must look squarely into their pupils. And
all this beauty of pallid face and brown eyes was crowned by, and
sharply contrasted with, the intense blackness of her hair, abundant,
thick, extremely heavy, continually coruscating with sombre, murky
reflections, tragic, in a sense vaguely portentous,--the coiffure of a
heroine of romance, doomed to dark crises.
On this occasion at the side of the topmost coil, a white aigrette

scintillated and trembled with her every movement. She was
unquestionably beautiful. Her mouth was a little large, the lips firm set,
and one would not have expected that she would smile easily; in fact,
the general expression of her face was rather serious.
"Perhaps," continued Laura, "they would look for us outside." But