"Four."
Bart looked fixedly at Lem Wacker, for it was he who had spoken. Darry Haven dropped the cover of the cash box, and also stared at Wacker. There was something suggestive in the sensation of the moment.
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—"