"Hiram Driggs
is an awfully high-priced man," sighed Tom Reade.
"Perhaps his mere advice won't come high," young Prescott answered.
"If it does, we'll begin right by telling him that we have no
money---that we've nothing in fact but a birchbark white elephant
on our hands."
Driggs came over promptly, his keen, shrewd eyes twinkling.
"So you boys have been buying away from my shop, and have been
'stung,' eh!" queried Driggs, a short, rather stout man, of about
forty.
"Robbed, I'd call it," replied Dave Darrin.
"Same thing, at a horse trade or an auction sale," hinted Hiram
dryly as he got up on the truck. "Let's have a look at your steam
yacht."
For a few moments Driggs looked the canoe over in grim silence.
"Whew!" was time final comment.
"Pretty bad, isn't it?" Dick inquired.
"Well, for my part, I'd sooner buy a real wreck," Driggs announced.
"This may be an auctioneer's idea of honor. What was his name?"
"The auctioneer's name? Caswell," Dick answered.
"I'll make a note of that name," said Driggs, drawing out notebook
and pencil, "and keep away from any auction that has a man named
Caswell on the quarter-deck. Now, boys, what do you want to know
about this canoe that your eyes don't tell you?"
"About how much would it cost us to fix her?" asked Prescott.
"Thirty dollars---maybe thirty-two," said Driggs, after another
casual look at the canoe.
"Let's announce the bonfire for to-night," urged Greg.
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