“Hippy,” commanded Grace, “will you please take this gong and announce that the auction is about to begin!”

“Certainly, certainly,” answered Hippy.  “Anything to oblige the ladies.”

He mounted a chair and beat on the Japanese gong.

“This way, ladies and gentlemen.  Come right this way!  The ’Mystery Auction’ will now commence.  It is a sale of surprises.  You never know what you are going to draw, but it’s sure to be something nice.  Everybody step this way, please.  These interesting and mysterious packages are to be sold each to the highest bidder.  But no man knoweth what he draweth.  It is the way of life, ladies, but that’s where the fun comes in, and it’s sportsmanlike to take your chances, gentlemen.”

By this time Hippy had drawn a crowd of curious people about the booth devoted to that purpose, in which were piled dozens of packages of various shapes and sizes, all done up in white tissue paper and tied with red ribbons.

Hippy picked up the first bundle.

“Is there anyone here who will make a bid on this interesting package?” he cried.  “It may contain treasure.  Who knows?  It may contain fruits from the tropics, or the spices of Araby, or—­”

“I’ll bid ten cents,” called a voice.

“Ten cents!” exclaimed Hippy in mock horror.  “I ask you, dear friend, can our gymnasium be builded upon ten cents?  Is there no one here who is thinking of our late, lamented gymnasium?  Have we already forgotten that dear, departed hall of youthful pleasures, cut down in the flower of its youth so tragically?”

Hippy’s voice rang out like an old-time orator’s, and some one bid twenty-five cents.  But the bidding ended there, and Farmer Benson got the package, which on being opened, was found to contain a beautiful little lacquer box.  This was a lucky beginning.  If the packages all held such treasures they were well worth bidding on.  Then the fun grew fast and furious.  Everybody began bidding, and a pound of sugar actually went for five dollars, to old Mr. McDonald, who had obstinately refused to give up to his opponent, Mr. Barber, in the bidding contest.  Mr. Harlowe paid heavily for a cook book, while David Nesbit, for fifty cents, drew a splendid big fruit cake.

“It is so fortunate that that fruit cake fell into the hands of one of my friends,” remarked Hippy, as David was about to walk off, his prize under his arm.  “I adore fruit cake.”

“That’s no sign that you will ever get a chance at this one,” replied David calmly.

“I shall, I know I shall,” retorted Hippy, “You wouldn’t betray my young confidence and dispel my fond hopes by eating it all yourself.  You deserve an awful case of indigestion if you do.”

“Children, children, stop squabbling,” laughed Anne who, looking like a very demure little gypsy, had slipped up unnoticed.  “Don’t worry, Hippy, I’ll see that you are remembered when the famous cake is cut.”