"I want you to loan me thirty-two dollars! Will you?"

"Why, yes, I might. What do you want to do with it?"

"I want to buy some soap--seven boxes of Castile soap. I know where I
can get it and sell it. Mr. Dalrymple will take it. He's already offered
me sixty-two for it. I can get it for thirty-two. Will you let me have
the money? I've got to run back and pay the auctioneer."

His father smiled. This was the most business-like attitude he had seen
his son manifest. He was so keen, so alert for a boy of thirteen.

"Why, Frank," he said, going over to a drawer where some bills were,
"are you going to become a financier already? You're sure you're not
going to lose on this? You know what you're doing, do you?"

"You let me have the money, father, will you?" he pleaded. "I'll show
you in a little bit. Just let me have it. You can trust me."

He was like a young hound on the scent of game. His father could not
resist his appeal.

"Why, certainly, Frank," he replied. "I'll trust you." And he counted
out six five-dollar certificates of the Third National's own issue and
two ones. "There you are."

Frank ran out of the building with a briefly spoken thanks and returned
to the auction room as fast as his legs would carry him. When he came
in, sugar was being auctioned. He made his way to the auctioneer's
clerk.