“Made in Centre street,” interrupted Matt.
“And it is worth every cent of ten dollars——”
“Ten dollars a carload, you mean,” went on the boy. “Come, let go of me; I’ve got to go to work.”
“You’ll go to the Tombs!”
“No, I won’t. I have done nothing wrong, and I want you to let go of me.”
Matt began to struggle, much to the delight of the spectators, who refused to listen to what the assistant auctioneer might have to say from the stand.
“I’ll teach you a lesson!” fumed Caleb Gulligan. “How do you like that?”
He swung Matt around and caught him by the throat and the collar. But only for an instant was he able to hold the boy in that fashion. Matt squirmed and twisted like an eel, and suddenly gave 18 the old auctioneer a push which sent him sprawling upon his back. Before Caleb Gulligan could recover, Matt was out of the door and running like a deer up Nassau street.
“Hi! hi! stop him!” roared the old auctioneer. “He must not get away.”
“Stop him yourself, then,” said one of the bystanders heartlessly. “We have nothing to do with your quarrel with the boy.”