“Step up and pay your money!” ordered the auctioneer.  “Don’t keep us waiting all day.”

“Won’t a deposit do?” demanded Fred, coming forward.

“Yes; we’ll take fifteen dollars, and hold your purchase until one hour after the sale closes,” replied the auctioneer.  “Then, if you don’t come along fast with the remainder, your deposit will be forfeited.”

“I’ll raise the money all right,” drawled Ripley, with an important air, as he passed up three five dollar bills.  “Give me a receipt for this, please.”

“You’ve money enough there to pay it all,” said the auctioneer.

“Yes; but I may bid on something else,” Fred replied.

“Good luck to you,” laughed the auctioneer.

Presently along came a miscellaneous lot of the weapons that had been used by cowboys and Indians connected with the show.  The auctioneer tried to close these out in one lot, but there were no bids.

Several of the younger men did brisk, but not high bidding for the rifles.  These were disposed of.

Then tomahawks were offered for sale, singly.  The first ones offered went at an average of twenty-five cents each.  At last Dan Dalzell secured one for a nickel, paid his money and proudly tucked his purchase under his arm.

“Bring out the grand war canoe!” called the auctioneer at last.

Now every drop of blood in Dick Prescott’s body tingled.  His chums, too, were equally aroused.  It was this that they had hope of securing—–­if it went off at a price next to nothing!

So intensely interested were the six young high school athletes in the proceedings now that each one steeled himself to prevent betraying the fact.  All were aware that Fred Ripley’s malicious eyes were watching them.  If he suspected that they wanted the canoe he could put the bidding up to a figure that would make their wishes impossible of fulfillment.

Dick yawned.  He looked intensely bored.

“Come along,” proposed Dave in an audible voice.  “There’s nothing here we can get.”

“Yes; it’s getting tedious,” hinted Tom Reade.

Dalzell and Hazelton also appeared to lose all interest in the auction.

“I was in hopes they’d want that canoe,” muttered Fred Ripley, feeling as though he had been cheated out of a great pleasure.  “As it happens I know all about that canoe.  Wow!  Wouldn’t they groan if they put up all their money for the canoe—–­and then found out!”

Just then the canoe was brought out.  It was bolstered up on a long truck, drawn by a pair of horses.  Twenty-eight feet long, slender and of graceful lines, this canoe, with its oiled birch bark glistening in the sun, was a thing of beauty.  It was one of the genuine articles that the show had carried—–­of real Indian model and workmanship.

“Gaze upon it, gentlemen!” cried the auctioneer enthusiastically.  “Did you ever see the like of this grand war canoe?  History in every line of it!  Picture to yourselves the bygone days in which such a canoe, filled with painted braves, stole along in the shadows fringing the bank of some noble stream.  Portray to your own minds such a marauding band stealing down stream upon some settlement, there to fall upon our hardy pioneers and put them to the death!”