"Thirty-two!"

"Thirty-four!" called Ripley briskly.

Greg opened his mouth, but Dick nudged him. "Don't bid, Greg.
You'd feel cheap if you had to take the pony and couldn't produce
the money," Dick admonished him.

"Thirty-five!" called the man who had raised the bidding before.

"Thirty-six," from Ripley.

"Thirty-eight!" called the man.

"Thirty-nine!" offered Fred, though he was beginning to perspire
freely.

"Forty!" promptly offered the man.

"Forty-one!" said Fred.

And there it hung. After three minutes more of hard work on the
auctioneer's part the pony went to Ripley at forty-one dollars.

"I don't know what my father will say to me for this," groaned
the lawyer's son. "But, anyway, Prescott and his crew didn't
get the chestnut pony, and this is the last piece of live stock,
so there's none left for them."

He cast a triumphant look in the direction of those whom he termed