No one said a hundred. No one said anything for a few moments, during which time the auctioneer dwelt upon the beautiful proportions of the craft, and repeated his jokes for a third time.
“Only twenty-five dollars is bid for the Belle! Why, gentlemen, that would not pay for one of her sails.”
“Thirty dollars,” I added.
“Thirty dollars!” repeated the auctioneer, glancing curiously at me. “Perhaps I ought to say that the conditions of this sale are cash on delivery. Thirty dollars! Shall I have a hundred?”
Waddie glanced furiously at me, and I saw that his fists were clenched.
“Thirty-five,” said he.
“Forty.”
“Forty-five,” snapped he.
“Fifty,” I added quietly.
I had hardly uttered the word before Waddie’s fist was planted squarely on the end of my nose, and the blood spurted from it. He was about to follow it up with another, when I deemed it necessary to do something. I parried his stroke, and hit him so fairly in the eye that he reeled, lost his balance, and went over backwards into the lake with a fearful splash.