e 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."
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.