Willie lost no time about going. But he stopped running the instant he was off the pier. His heart was beating wildly, but he took a grip on himself and presently returned to the street end of the pier. Not so very far from the group of men were stacked the boxes among which Sheridan had been concealed the day before. Willie slowly edged his way toward these boxes, and finally gained their protection unobserved. Snuggled down among them he was safe from discovery. He could hear most of what was said, for the gang soon forgot their caution in the heat of competitive bidding. The auction had started.
“Twenty-five cents,” was the first word Willie heard.
“Twenty-six,” another voice said.
“Raise you a cent,” came another voice.
“Twenty-eight,” said the first voice, after a short pause.
The bidding continued fairly brisk until forty cents was reached. Then no more offers were forthcoming.
Larsen swore roundly. “What do you take me for? A sucker?” he said. “I can read the papers as well as anybody, and wool was selling for fifty-five cents on the market to-day. You don’t get my wool for no forty cents.”
“And we ain’t buyin’ no bled wool at market prices, neither,” retorted a truculent voice. “The risk we have to take is worth the difference in price. Forty cents is the limit. You can take that or keep your wool.”
Larsen swore loudly. “You needn’t think you can put up no job on me,” he said. “You know well enough the wool’s worth more than that. If you fellows don’t want it, there’s others that do. And I can get my price, too.”
“If them Secret Service guys don’t get it first,” said a voice with a hint of threat in the tone. “Somebody’s liable to peach on you any minute.”