Indiman capped the bid promptly. "Seven dollars," he said.
The crimp scowled. "Make it eight," he retorted.
"Ten."
The Italian hesitated again. This had the appearance of a contest, and he was not of the sort who love a fight for its own sake. But his cupidity had been powerfully aroused. There was a pretty profit in advance money to be made if he could get this young fool's signature on the ship's papers of the Southern Cross, outward bound for Shanghai, on the morrow. He must make at least another try. It might be that the intrusive stranger from the silk-stocking district was only amusing himself and would presently withdraw.
"Twelve," he said, and "fifteen," answered Indiman.
The crowd laughed, and Joe Bardi's vanity was sorely touched. It was not pleasant to be badgered in this unseemly manner while engaged in beating one's own preserves. Discretion forsook him forthwith.
"Twenty-five," he bellowed.
"Fifty."
"A hundred, and be damned to you!"
"Two hundred."