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gangways and got in the way of those who were transacting business at other boxes. Underwriters frequently mistook the broker at their elbow for someone who had come to see them, when they were actually in line for Goldsack. If two brokers were in conversation and one of them edged away, it was likely that he was one step closer to getting in with Bullion Bill.
    But no matter how many eager petitioners there were waiting for him, Goldsack was never “a bad wait”: his line moved faster than powder up a junkie’s nostril. One had better be ready with one’s story prepared when no fewer than three people back, for he had an uncanny ability to tell bad and underpriced risks from those that were good and paying the right rate or better. Even as he barked with dismissive disgust, without turning his head the tentacle of an arm would be shooting back to grab the first offering out of the next broker’s hand.
    Woe betide that person if he was reading the newspaper or holding the wrong slip, one that he had not intended to offer. Goldsack was no respecter of a pedlar’s plans: he had been known to rip a slipcase from someone’s grasp, rifle through it until he found something to his liking, and cover it with more stamps—he had a lot of so-called “baby” syndicates, very large babies who shaved twice a day—than Romeo planted kisses on Juliet’s lips.
    It was also a mistake to try and “broke” or negotiate with Bullion Bill. Instead of getting angry he would sulk and announce that he had closed one’s account for several days. Goldsack sulked a lot, and any intermediary whom he held a grudge against for long was at a serious disadvantage in generating commissions for his firm during his period of banishment. The man devoured slips, however lengthy and complicated, with his supposedly myopic eyes and picked out the salient facts without having them drawn to his attention.
    If he had a question, and he never asked more than two, the broker had a brief opportunity to spit out a handful of carefully chosen words. Then, if he was lucky, there would be a series of thumps from Bullion Bill’s battery of stamps. The lines went down on the slips without regard for accuracy or tidiness. Then he would seize a blunt quill from an inkwell and scrawl his percentage or dollar participations. Goldsack got through pints of black ink in a week, and a person better have his hand out of the way when Bill went into action, for whatever happened to be underneath the pen got written, including cuffs and sleeves. Jackson Pollock-like blots sprayed in all directions, and, while the underwriter himself remained spotless, brokers often came away covered with as much ink as their slips.
    When Bullion Bill especially liked a piece of business, without asking permission he might whack down a line of one hundred per cent. This was an embarrassment to the broker, because to accept such a line from any underwriter, unless it was on a very small risk or one that could be replaced elsewhere the following year without difficulty should one not be able to agree terms and the underwriter “came off”, was inadvisable. Because the underwriter had control of the placement, the last thing that one wanted Goldsack to have, he could demand as much money as he wanted on renewal.
    But the size of Bullion Bill’s lines were not negotiable, and the only thing one could do, if a single underwriter swallowed the lot, was proceed to see more underwriters, because at Lloyd’s additional participations that resulted in overplacement were signed down proportionately. Thus if Goldsack took a hundred per cent and three more underwriters, alerted to the game that was being played, did the same, they would each end up with twenty-five per cent when the lines were “signed down” pro rata.
    Of course, when Goldsack saw the slip the following year and discovered the trick that had been played on him, he would sulk and come off the risk altogether and ban the broker