"Thirty-two once! Am I bid thirty-three? Thirty-two twice! Am I bid
thirty-three? Thirty-two three times! Seven fine cases of soap. Am I bid
anything more? Once, twice! Three times! Am I bid anything more?"--his
hand was up again--"and sold to Mr.--?" He leaned over and looked
curiously into the face of his young bidder.

"Frank Cowperwood, son of the teller of the Third National Bank,"
replied the boy, decisively.

"Oh, yes," said the man, fixed by his glance.

"Will you wait while I run up to the bank and get the money?"

"Yes. Don't be gone long. If you're not here in an hour I'll sell it
again."

Young Cowperwood made no reply. He hurried out and ran fast; first, to
his mother's grocer, whose store was within a block of his home.

Thirty feet from the door he slowed up, put on a nonchalant air, and
strolling in, looked about for Castile soap. There it was, the same
kind, displayed in a box and looking just as his soap looked.

"How much is this a bar, Mr. Dalrymple?" he inquired.

"Sixteen cents," replied that worthy.

"If I could sell you seven boxes for sixty-two dollars just like this,
would you take them?"