“I didn’t know he was going to bid,” thought Tom.  “He may go above me.  He’s got plenty of money, and, while I have too, I’m not going to pay too much for a damaged boat.”

“Sixty I’m bid, sixty—­sixty!” cried Mr. Wood in a sing-song tone, “who’ll make it seventy?”

“Sixty-five!” spoke a quiet voice at Tom’s elbow, and he turned to see the mysterious man who had joined the crowd at the edge of the lake.

“Sixty-five from the gentleman in the white straw hat!” called Mr. Wood with a smile at his wit, for there were many men wearing white straw hats, the day being a warm one in June.

“Here, who’s bidding above me?” exclaimed Andy, as if it was against the law.

“I guess you’ll find a number going ahead of you, my young friend,” remarked the auctioneer.  “Will you have the goodness not to interrupt me, except when you want to bid?”

“Well, I offered sixty,” said the squint-eyed bully, while his crony, Sam Snedecker, was vainly, pulling at his sleeve.

“I know you did, and this gentleman went above you.  If you want to bid more you can do so.  I’m offered sixty-five, sixty-five I’m offered for this boat.  Will any one make it seventy-five?”

Mr. Wood looked at Tom, and our hero, thinking it was time for him to make a bid, offered seventy.  “Seventy from Tom Swift!” cried the auctioneer.  “There is a lad who knows a motor-boat from stem to stern, if those are the right words.  I don’t know much about boats except what I’m told, but Tom Swift does.  Now, if he bids, you people ought to know that it’s all right.  I’m bid seventy—­seventy I’m bid.  Will any one make it eighty?”

“Eighty!” exclaimed Andy Foger after a whispered conference with Sam.  “I know as much about boats as Tom Swift.  I’ll make it eighty.”

“No side remarks.  I’ll do most of the talking.  You just bid, young man,” remarked Mr. Wood.  “I have eighty bid for this boat—­eighty dollars.  Why, my friends, I can’t understand this.  I ought to have it up to three hundred dollars, at least.  But I thank you all the same.  We are coming on.  I’m bid eighty—­”

“Ninety!” exclaimed the quiet man at Tom’s elbow.  He was continually fingering his upper lip, as though he had a mustache there, but his face was clean-shaven.  He looked around nervously as he spoke.

“Ninety!” called out the auctioneer.

“Ninety-five!” returned Tom.  Andy Foger scowled at him, but the young inventor only smiled.  It was evident that the bully did not relish being bid against.  He and his crony whispered together again.

“One hundred!” called Andy, as if no one would dare go above that.

“I’m offered an even hundred,” resumed Mr. Wood.  “We are certainly coming on.  A hundred I am bid, a hundred—­a hundred—­a hundred—­”

“And five,” said the strange man hastily, and he seemed to choke as he uttered the words.

“Oh, come now; we ought to have at least ten-dollar bids from now on,” suggested Mr. Wood.  “Won’t you make it a hundred and ten?” The auctioneer looked directly at the man, who seemed to shrink back into the crowd.  He shook his head, cast a sort of despairing look at the boat and hurried away.