MATT ATTENDS A SALE.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, what am I offered for this elegant vase, imported direct from Italy, a most marvelous piece of workmanship, worth every cent of twenty-five dollars? Who will start it at five dollars? Start it at four? Start it at three? At two? At one dollar? What is that—fifty cents? Rather low, lady, but as I said before, these goods must be sold, regardless of the prices obtained. Fifty cents, it is! Fifty—fifty! Who will make it one dollar?"
"Sixty!"
"What, only sixty? Well, well, well! Never mind, the goods must go, and sixty cents is better than nothing. Sixty—sixty——"
"Seventy-five!"
"Eighty!"
"One dollar!"
"At last I am offered one dollar! Think of it! One dollar for a beautiful vase such as might well adorn the home of a Gould, or a Vanderbilt! But such is life. One dollar—one dollar——"
"One and a quarter!"
"One and a half!"
"One and a half is offered! Oh, what a shame, ladies and gentlemen; a paltry dollar and a half for an article worth, at the very lowest estimate, twenty-five dollars. Who makes it two dollars?"
"Two!"
"Two and a half!"
"Three!"
"Three and a quarter!"
"Three and a quar—Ah, four dollars? Four dollars! Who says five? Going at four—at four—at four. Four and a half—four and a quarter—this is your last chance, remember. Did you say five, sir? No? Well, four it is, then. Going—going—the last chance, ladies and gentlemen! Going—going—gone, to the lady in the brown dress, Andrew, for four dollars!"
The scene was a small store on Nassau street near Fulton street, in New York City. Outside of the open doorway hung a red flag, indicative of an auction sale. The single window of the place was crowded with vases, imitation marble statues, plated tableware, and gorgeous lamps of highly-polished metal.
Among these articles was a sign in black letters on white cardboard bearing these words:
ROYAL CONSIGNMENT AUCTION CO.,
Sales Daily from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m.
Inside, toward the rear, there was a small raised platform, and upon this stood the auctioneer, a tall, thin-faced man, with sharp black eyes, and rather a squeaky voice. To one side was his assistant, a much younger and much more pleasant-looking individual, who wrapped up the articles sold and collected for them.
It was between twelve and one o'clock in the day, and the auction store was crowded with business people, who, during their lunch-time, had dropped in to see what was going on, and, possibly, make a purchase. There were middle-aged business men, young clerks, and several young ladies, and all appeared interested in the mild excitement attending the disposal of the goods.
Among the young people present was a boy of fifteen, whose clothing, although not of a fashionable cut, was, nevertheless, neat and clean. He had dark curly hair, and his face was as honest in appearance as it was fearless and handsome.
The youth was as much interested in the sale as though he was buying half the articles auctioned off, although he had not enough in his trousers pocket to even start bidding, for no bid of less than twenty-five cents was recognized by the auctioneer in beginning a sale.
The vase disposed of, the auctioneer's assistant brought forth from a side shelf a piece of imitation marble statuary, representing three doves bearing a wreath of flowers between them. The bit of bric-a-brac looked quite nice, but as it was but imitation marble, it was not worth more than two dollars, if as much.
"Now, here we have as fine a piece of Italian marble as was ever brought to New York," began the auctioneer, holding up the piece in question. "And the work upon it cannot to-day be excelled by any sculptors on this side of the Atlantic. How beautiful are those three doves, and how natural that wreath! Examine the piece for yourselves, ladies and gentlemen. It is genuine Italian marble, and will not go to pieces in your hands. There you are, sir."
The bit of statuary was handed to a gentleman who stood directly in front of the auctioneer. He gave it a hasty glance and then started to hand it back.
"Pass it through the crowd, please. I want every one to be convinced of its quality before I attempt to sell it!" bawled the auctioneer, and the gentleman handed it to the man next to him.
Thus started, the bit of bric-a-brac traveled from one hand to another until it reached a heavy-set man with red mustache, who stood but a couple of yards from the doorway.
"Humph!" muttered the man, as he turned over the article in contempt. "I wouldn't give a dollar a cartload for them. Here you are!"
As he finished, he thrust the piece of bric-a-brac toward a young lady who had just entered. She drew back in surprise, not knowing what his action meant. The statuary left the man's hand, touched the young lady's arm, and then fell to the floor with a crash, and was broken into a dozen pieces.
The young lady uttered a slight shriek of surprise at the accident, and instantly the crowd looked toward her, and then at the auctioneer.
"Here, who broke that?" demanded the auctioneer, in an entirely different tone of voice, as he left his stand and hurried to the spot.
"That young lady," replied a fellow who had not seen the movements of the man with the red mustache.
"No! no! I did not do it!" cried the young lady, shrinking back. "I did not touch the piece, sir."
"Well, but it's right at your feet, madam; you must have let it fall," said the auctioneer harshly.
"I did not, sir."
"Well, who did, then?"
"A man who ran out as soon as the statuary was broken."
"Oh, pshaw! It isn't likely a man would run away like that."
"The young lady speaks the truth, sir," put in the boy previously mentioned. "The man shoved the statue toward her, and when she drew back it slipped from his hand to the floor. She was not in the least responsible."
"Thank you for that, Matt Lincoln," said the young lady, with a grateful nod. "I shall not forget this service."
"Oh, that's all right, Miss Bartlett," returned the boy, blushing. "I like to be of service to you."
"You evidently seem to know this young lady?" said the auctioneer, turning to Matt Lincoln.
"I do; she is the stenographer at our office. That's how I came to notice her when she came in."
"No wonder you try to shield her!" sneered the auctioneer. "But I can't afford to let this matter pass. You will have to pay for the damages done, madam. The cost price of that piece of bric-a-brac was ten dollars, but I'll throw off two dollars and call it eight."
CHAPTER II.
A LIVELY DISCUSSION.
At the intimation that she must pay eight dollars, the face of the young lady stenographer grew pale, while that of Matt Lincoln flushed up.
"I—I cannot pay the money!" gasped Ida Bartlett. "I have no such amount with