At that moment an automobile stopped out in the road.

“Beg your pardon, Mr. Dodge,” called the chauffeur, “but are you going to want me soon?”

“I want you at once,” called back the banker, adding in a lower voice to Fred: 

“Flannery, my new chauffeur, was a coachman for many years.  He’s a fine judge of horseflesh.”

Flannery came up, an inquiring look on his face.

“I want you to look this pony over and tell me just what you think of him,” directed the banker.

Flannery went over the pony’s “lines” with the air of an expert, as, indeed, he was.

“Fine-looking little beast,” said Flannery.  “He has been well fed and groomed.”

Then he looked into the pony’s mouth, examining the teeth with great care.

“Used to be a nice animal once,” decided Flannery, “but he was that a long time ago.  He’s about twenty-five or twenty-six years old.”

“What!” exploded young Ripley, growing very red in the face.

“Thinking of buying him, sir?” asked the chauffeur respectfully.”

“I’ve already bought him,” confessed Fred ruefully.

Flannery whistled softly.  Then he took the pony by the bridle, dragging him along over the ground at a trot, the crowd making way for him.

“Wind-broken,” announced the ex-coachman, leading the trembling animal back.  “Bad case, too.”

“A veterinary can cure that,” Fred declared, speaking more airily than his feelings warranted.

“Hm!” replied Flannery dryly.  “You find the veterinary, Master Fred, and I’ll show the gentleman how to make his fortune if he can cure wind-broken horses.”

“Then what good is the pony?” demanded Fred in exasperation.

“Well, the hide ought to fetch three dollars, and there are a good many pounds of soap fat in him,” replied Flannery slowly.

“And is that all the good there is in this pony?” cried Ripley.  He felt like screaming.

“It’s all the good I can see in him, sir,” replied Flannery.

“Then I won’t take this pony,” young Ripley declared, flushing hotly.  “It’s a downright swindle.  Here, my man, hand my money back and take your old soap box.”

“Not to-day,” declared the auctioneer briefly.  He and his clerk were now preparing to depart.

“You’d better!” warned Fred.

“I won’t.”

“Then I’ll have you arrested.”

“Try it.”

“Run and get a policeman,” Fred ordered, turning to a crowd of small boys.

“All right,” smiled the auctioneer.  “If you’ll be quick about it I’ll wait for your policeman.”

But Mr. Dodge, who had shaken his head toward three boys who had shown signs of being willing to run for a policeman, now led young Ripley to one side.

“No use making any fuss about it, I’m afraid, Fred. You saw the pony when it was offered for sale, didn’t you?”