“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.  Why not he?

The auctioneer paused.

“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?”

“The same soap?”

“Yes, sir.”