The High School Boys Canoe Club | Page 5

glistening in the sun,
was a thing of beauty. It was one of the genuine articles that the show
had carried---of real Indian model and workmanship.
"Gaze upon it, gentlemen!" cried the auctioneer enthusiastically. "Did
you ever see the like of this grand war canoe? History in every line of it!
Picture to yourselves the bygone days in which such a canoe, filled
with painted braves, stole along in the shadows fringing the bank of
some noble stream. Portray to your own minds such a marauding band
stealing down stream upon some settlement, there to fall upon our
hardy pioneers and put them to the death!"
"I'm glad I'm living now, instead of in those days," called a man from
the crowd, raising a laugh.
"Gentlemen, before you are through," suggested the auctioneer, "one of
you will be the proud and happy possessor of this magnificent war
canoe. It is a priceless gem, especially when considered in the light of
good old American history. Now, who will start the bidding? Who will
say, clearly and distinctly, thirty dollars?"
"We're not brave enough in these days!" called a voice from the crowd.
"That's right, friends---have fun with me," retorted the perspiring
auctioneer. "But don't let this valuable, beautiful trophy get away from
you."
Yet, though the auctioneer labored for a full five minutes he couldn't
raise a bid.
"Take it away! Take it back!" ordered the auctioneer wearily. "I was in
hopes it would appeal to the artistic sense of this town, but it doesn't!
Take it away."

"If no one else wants it," drawled Dick Prescott, "I'll offer two dollars."
"Thank you for good intentions, anyway," replied the salesman on the
platform. "Two dollars I'm bid. Who says ten? Now, do wake up,
friends!"
But the bidding lagged.
"This beautiful war canoe!" cried the auctioneer desperately. "It was the
pride of the show. A real Indian canoe, equipped with gunwale seats
and six Indian paddles. And only two dollars offered. Gentlemen, do I
hear three? No! Last call! It's pitiful---two dollars!"
Dick Prescott and all his friends were now in the seventh heaven of
prospective delight. It seemed unreal, that they could get this treasure
for any such sum.
"If I must do it, I must," groaned the auctioneer. "Two I'm offered.
Does anyone say more. Make it four! No? Make it three! No? Last call!
Going, going-----"
In another instant the big war canoe would have been knocked down to
young Prescott at two dollars. Dick was "all on edge," though he strove
to conceal the fact.
"At two dollars, then!" groaned the auctioneer. "Two dollars! All right,
then. Going, going-----"
Just then the word "gone" would have been uttered, and the canoe gone
to Dick & Co.
"Three dollars!" called Fred Ripley.
There was a pause, while the auctioneer exhorted the crowd to wake
up.
"Four," said young Prescott, at last, but he spoke with pretended
indifference.

"Five," chimed in a man who now seemed to take an interest. The
bidding now went up slowly, a dollar at a time, with these three bidders,
until twelve dollars was reached. Then the man dropped out. Dick was
outwardly calm, though his chums shivered, for they knew that their
combined capital did not reach the amount now being offered.
"I'm afraid that canoe is going to Dick's head," whispered Harry
Hazelton anxiously to Tom Reade.
"Let him alone," retorted Tom in a low voice. "It's one of Dick
Prescott's good points that he generally knows what he's doing."
"But we have only-----"
"Never mind if we're worth a million, or only a single dollar,"
interrupted Reade impatiently. "Watch the battle between our leader
and Rip, the Mean!"
Now the bidding became slower, fifty cents at a time being offered,
bids coming only when the auctioneer threatened to "knock down."
"I don't want to get this confounded canoe fastened onto me," grumbled
Fred Ripley to himself. "I want to stick Prescott and his crowd for all I
can, but I must look out that I don't get stung. I know better than to
want that canoe, no matter how good it looks!"
"Sixteen," said Dick at last, feeling more desperate inwardly than his
face showed.
"Sixteen-fifty," from Ripley.
"Seventeen," offered Dick, after a pause.
"Seventeen-fifty," announced Fred, after another long bait.
"Eighteen!" followed up young Prescott. He was in a cold perspiration
now, lest the fight be forced too far.
To his astonishment, Fred Ripley, an ugly sneer on his face, turned his

back on the bidding.
"Are you through, gentlemen?" demanded the auctioneer, after a keen
look in the direction of the lawyer's son.
"I am," Ripley growled over his shoulder.
"I am offered eighteen! Eighteen! Eighteen! Who says nineteen? Make
it eighteen-fifty! Who says eighteen-fifty? Eighteen and a quarter! Are
you through,