"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, gentlemen? Then going, going---gone!
Sold to Master Prescott at eighteen dollars. Young man, I congratulate
you. Walk right up and pay your money! All, or a deposit?"
Dick, who had been collecting loose change from his chums, now
came forward.
"I'll pay a deposit of seven dollars," he announced.
"Hand it here, then. Seven dollars; thank you. Here's your receipt.
Now, remember, Prescott, you have until the end of one hour after
the sale closes. Then, if you're not here with the other eleven
dollars, you must expect to forfeit this deposit."
"I know," Dick nodded.
Then he hurried off to his chums.
"Come along," he said, with desperate energy, as he led them away
from the field. On the sidewalk he halted.
"We've got it, fellows!" he exulted. "We've got it! Hooray!"
"Yes; we've got it, if we've got eleven dollars more---which we
haven't," Greg remarked.
"We've eleven dollars more to raise," Prescott went on hurriedly.
"Roughly, that's two dollars apiece. We must hustle, too."
"No hustle for mine," yawned Dan Dalzell. "I'll just step down
to my bank and get the money.
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