“But we have only-----”

“Never mind if we’re worth a million, or only a single dollar,” interrupted Reade impatiently.  “Watch the battle between our leader and Rip, the Mean!”

Now the bidding became slower, fifty cents at a time being offered, bids coming only when the auctioneer threatened to “knock down.”

“I don’t want to get this confounded canoe fastened onto me,” grumbled Fred Ripley to himself.  “I want to stick Prescott and his crowd for all I can, but I must look out that I don’t get stung.  I know better than to want that canoe, no matter how good it looks!”

“Sixteen,” said Dick at last, feeling more desperate inwardly than his face showed.

“Sixteen-fifty,” from Ripley.

“Seventeen,” offered Dick, after a pause.

“Seventeen-fifty,” announced Fred, after another long bait.

“Eighteen!” followed up young Prescott.  He was in a cold perspiration now, lest the fight be forced too far.

To his astonishment, Fred Ripley, an ugly sneer on his face, turned his back on the bidding.

“Are you through, gentlemen?” demanded the auctioneer, after a keen look in the direction of the lawyer’s son.

“I am,” Ripley growled over his shoulder.

“I am offered eighteen!  Eighteen!  Eighteen!  Who says nineteen?  Make it eighteen-fifty!  Who says eighteen-fifty?  Eighteen and a quarter!  Are you through, gentlemen?  Then going, going—–­gone!  Sold to Master Prescott at eighteen dollars.  Young man, I congratulate you.  Walk right up and pay your money!  All, or a deposit?”

Dick, who had been collecting loose change from his chums, now came forward.

“I’ll pay a deposit of seven dollars,” he announced.

“Hand it here, then.  Seven dollars; thank you.  Here’s your receipt.  Now, remember, Prescott, you have until the end of one hour after the sale closes.  Then, if you’re not here with the other eleven dollars, you must expect to forfeit this deposit.”

“I know,” Dick nodded.

Then he hurried off to his chums.

“Come along,” he said, with desperate energy, as he led them away from the field.  On the sidewalk he halted.

“We’ve got it, fellows!” he exulted.  “We’ve got it!  Hooray!”

“Yes; we’ve got it, if we’ve got eleven dollars more—–­which we haven’t,” Greg remarked.

“We’ve eleven dollars more to raise,” Prescott went on hurriedly.  “Roughly, that’s two dollars apiece.  We must hustle, too.”

“No hustle for mine,” yawned Dan Dalzell.  “I’ll just step down to my bank and get the money.  Will two dollars be enough, Dick?”

“Stop that talk,” ordered Dave Darrin, getting a grip on Dan’s shirt collar.  “If you don’t, I’ll thrash you!  Dick has a scheme.  Out with it, old chap!”