Lem Wacker's face was as bold as brass. He was dressed pretty well and
looked prosperous, and there was a mean sneer on his lips as he
shamelessly returned the glance of the boy he had wronged, defiantly
relying, apparently, on some reserved power he fancied he possessed.
Baker did not even look at the rival bidder. His very soul seemed
centered on the package in Bart's hand.
"Five," he uttered with an effort--"six, seven!"
"Eight," said Wacker calmly, striking a cigarette between his lips.
"Ten."
"Twelve."
Baker was silent. A frightful spasm crossed his face. He swayed from
side to side. Then, grasping at the bench rails to steady himself, he
came up to the platform.
"Stirling!" he panted hoarsely, "I have no more money, but I must--must
have that package! Lend me--"
"Whatever you wish," answered Bart promptly.
"Fifteen dollars!" said Baker.
Lem Wacker jumped to his feet, excited. He shot a hand into a pocket,
drew it out again holding a pocketbook, ran over its contents, and
shouted!
"Sixteen dollars!"
"Twenty!" cried Baker.
"I am offered twenty dollars," said Bart, outwardly cool as a cucumber,
inwardly greatly perturbed over the incident in hand, and hastening to
close it in favor of a friend.
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