than his face showed.

"Sixteen-fifty," from Ripley.

"Seventeen," offered Dick, after a pause.

"Seventeen-fifty," announced Fred, after another long bait.

"Eighteen!" followed up young Prescott. He was in a cold perspiration
now, lest the fight be forced too far.

To his astonishment, Fred Ripley, an ugly sneer on his face, turned
his back on the bidding.

"Are you through, gentlemen?" demanded the auctioneer, after a
keen look in the direction of the lawyer's son.

"I am," Ripley growled over his shoulder.

"I am offered eighteen! Eighteen! Eighteen! Who says nineteen?
Make it eighteen-fifty! Who says eighteen-fifty? Eighteen and
a quarter! Are you through, gentlemen? Then going, going---gone!
Sold to Master Prescott at eighteen dollars. Young man, I congratulate
you. Walk right up and pay your money! All, or a deposit?"

Dick, who had been collecting loose change from his chums, now
came forward.

"I'll pay a deposit of seven dollars," he announced.