seemed to protrude more aggressively, as his indolent manner dropped
from him and his eyes kindled. He brushed back the white lock on his
forehead and defiantly shouted, "168 for any part of 10,000," but before
the words had come to conclusion on his lips, the rifle-like retort had
met him from the throat of Hardinge, "Sold!"

"165 for any part of 10,000!"--"Sold!" This time the deep-lunged
monosyllable burst volcanically from the lips of Len Haswell, and it
rang across the floor and echoed between the walls like a thunderclap
between the cliffs of a mountain gorge.

Instantly crowds surged forward and elbowed their ways to the Generals
post. Where five minutes back there had been scant dozens there were now
full hundreds who shouldered and shoved and fought, struck by a sudden
wild realization that a fight was on. At the center of the vortex they
could see the sandy head of Len Haswell high above the crowns of other
men and in his face they read the gage of battle. No longer was this the
heartsick face which of late had avoided the gaze of his fellows. It was
the fighting face of one who hurls himself into the thick of a
struggle, seeking forgetfulness in the ferocity of combat.

"163 for any part of 10,000"--"SOLD!"

With each repetition the unchanged formula took on an added ferocity--a
deeper meaning. It was a three-cornered duel. Jack Staples leaned
eagerly forward, his eyes burning and keen with aggressive alertness
like a boxer facing opponents in a battle royal. Len Haswell seemed
bending to meet him, his long arm raised and his face afire, while
Hardinge, whose place had been for the moment preëmpted, mopped his
brow, already perspiring, and smiled grimly like a relay racer waiting