he recalled, his mother was paying twenty-eight cents a pound. He drew
nearer, his books tucked under his arm, and watched these operations
closely. The starch, as he soon heard, was valued at ten dollars a
barrel, and it only brought six. Some kegs of vinegar were knocked down
at one-third their value, and so on. He began to wish he could bid; but
he had no money, just a little pocket change. The auctioneer noticed
him standing almost directly under his nose, and was impressed with the
stolidity--solidity--of the boy's expression.

"I am going to offer you now a fine lot of Castile soap--seven cases,
no less--which, as you know, if you know anything about soap, is now
selling at fourteen cents a bar. This soap is worth anywhere at this
moment eleven dollars and seventy-five cents a case. What am I bid?
What am I bid? What am I bid?" He was talking fast in the usual style
of auctioneers, with much unnecessary emphasis; but Cowperwood was not
unduly impressed. He was already rapidly calculating for himself. Seven
cases at eleven dollars and seventy-five cents would be worth just
eighty-two dollars and twenty-five cents; and if it went at half--if it
went at half--

"Twelve dollars," commented one bidder.

"Fifteen," bid another.

"Twenty," called a third.

"Twenty-five," a fourth.

Then it came to dollar raises, for Castile soap was not such a vital
commodity. "Twenty-six." "Twenty-seven." "Twenty-eight." "Twenty-nine."