There was a pause. "Thirty," observed young Cowperwood, decisively.

The auctioneer, a short lean faced, spare man with bushy hair and an
incisive eye, looked at him curiously and almost incredulously but
without pausing. He had, somehow, in spite of himself, been impressed by
the boy's peculiar eye; and now he felt, without knowing why, that the
offer was probably legitimate enough, and that the boy had the money. He
might be the son of a grocer.

"I'm bid thirty! I'm bid thirty! I'm bid thirty for this fine lot of
Castile soap. It's a fine lot. It's worth fourteen cents a bar. Will
any one bid thirty-one? Will any one bid thirty-one? Will any one bid
thirty-one?"

"Thirty-one," said a voice.

"Thirty-two," replied Cowperwood. The same process was repeated.

"I'm bid thirty-two! I'm bid thirty-two! I'm bid thirty-two! Will
anybody bid thirty-three? It's fine soap. Seven cases of fine Castile
soap. Will anybody bid thirty-three?"

Young Cowperwood's mind was working. He had no money with him; but his
father was teller of the Third National Bank, and he could quote him as
reference. He could sell all of his soap to the family grocer, surely;
or, if not, to other grocers. Other people were anxious to get this soap
at this price. Why not he?

The auctioneer paused.