ell filled. There were several village storekeepers,
some traveling men from the hotel, and railroad men off duty.

Nearly a dozen country rigs drove up to the platform, and the rural
population was well represented.

At three o'clock prompt, as advertised, Bart ascended the little
platform and took up the gavel.

Just then he nodded at a newcomer who entered the doorway and quietly
took a seat. It was Mr. Baker.

Bart was more pleased than surprised to see him. He had anticipated his
arrival the last two days.

Bart tapped the table to call the crowd to order and silence.

Then he looked again at the doorway, and this time with vivid interest.

He saw Lem Wacker shuffle into view, glance keenly around, fix his eye
on Baker, and steal into the room and sit down directly behind that
mysterious individual.

CHAPTER XXIII

"GOING, GOING, GONE!"

Bart made a first-class auctioneer--everybody said so after the sale was
over, and the pleased grins and the good-natured attention of his
audience assured the young novice of this as he concluded the
introductory speech.

He had prepared a simple, witty preface to actual business, telling many
truths of people who had spent a few cents for what had turned out to be
worth many dollars, and inviting a good many guesses by hinting what
might be in the heap upon which all eyes were fixed intently.

"Number 1129," said Bart, after taking a brief breathing spell.

Bob Haven lifted a box about two feet square to the table.

"Shipped to William Brothers, Ross Junction," announced Bart, reading
the tag, "not found. Come, gentlemen! what am I bid for lot 1129?"

"What's in it?" inquired a big farmer sitting near the front.

"You will have to guess that," answered Bart pleasantly. "Ah! some kind
of liquid, I should imagine," and he shook the box, its contents echoing
out a mellow, gurgling sound.

"Mebbe it's paint, Samantha?" suggested the farmer to his wife. "There'd
be two gallons of it--enough to cover the smokehouse. Ten cents."

"The charges are eighty-five," explained Bart--"can't start it any
lower."

A blear-eyed, unsteady individual, whom Bart recognized as a member of
the Sharp Corner contingent, advanced to the table.

He was thirsty-looking and eager as he poked at the box and tried to
peer into it.

"A demijohn!" he muttered, his mouth watering. "Two gallons--probably
prime old stuff. Eighty-five cents."

"Eighty-five--eighty-five!" repeated