Chapter III

It was in his thirteenth year that young Cowperwood entered into his first business venture.  Walking along Front Street one day, a street of importing and wholesale establishments, he saw an auctioneer’s flag hanging out before a wholesale grocery and from the interior came the auctioneer’s voice:  “What am I bid for this exceptional lot of Java coffee, twenty-two bags all told, which is now selling in the market for seven dollars and thirty-two cents a bag wholesale?  What am I bid?  What am I bid?  The whole lot must go as one.  What am I bid?”

“Eighteen dollars,” suggested a trader standing near the door, more to start the bidding than anything else.  Frank paused.

“Twenty-two!” called another.

“Thirty!” a third.  “Thirty-five!” a fourth, and so up to seventy-five, less than half of what it was worth.

“I’m bid seventy-five!  I’m bid seventy-five!” called the auctioneer, loudly.  “Any other offers?  Going once at seventy-five; am I offered eighty?  Going twice at seventy-five, and”—­he paused, one hand raised dramatically.  Then he brought it down with a slap in the palm of the other—­“sold to Mr. Silas Gregory for seventy-five.  Make a note of that, Jerry,” he called to his red-haired, freckle-faced clerk beside him.  Then he turned to another lot of grocery staples—­this time starch, eleven barrels of it.

Young Cowperwood was making a rapid calculation.  If, as the auctioneer said, coffee was worth seven dollars and thirty-two cents a bag in the open market, and this buyer was getting this coffee for seventy-five dollars, he was making then and there eighty-six dollars and four cents, to say nothing of what his profit would be if he sold it at retail.  As he recalled, his mother was paying twenty-eight cents a pound.  He drew nearer, his books tucked under his arm, and watched these operations closely.  The starch, as he soon heard, was valued at ten dollars a barrel, and it only brought six.  Some 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—­