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was a pause.

      “Thirty,” observed young Cowperwood, decisively.

      The auctioneer looked at him curiously and almost incredulously but without pausing. He had, somehow, in spite of himself, been impressed by the boy's peculiar eye; and now he felt, without knowing why, that the boy had the money. He might be the son of a grocer.

      “I'm bid thirty! I'm bid thirty! I'm bid thirty for this fine lot of Castile soap. It's a fine lot. It's worth fourteen cents a bar. Will any one bid thirty-one? Will any one bid thirty-one? Will any one bid thirty-one?”

      “Thirty-one,” said a voice.

      “Thirty-two,” replied Cowperwood. The same process was repeated.

      “I'm bid thirty-two! I'm bid thirty-two! I'm bid thirty-two! Will anybody bid thirty-three? It's fine soap. Seven cases of fine Castile soap. Will anybody bid thirty-three?”

      Young Cowperwood's mind was working. He had no money with him; but his father was teller of the Third National Bank, and he could quote him as reference[16]. He could sell all of his soap to the family grocer, surely; or, if not, to other grocers. Other people were anxious to get this soap at this price. Why not he?

      The auctioneer paused.

      “Thirty-two once! Am I bid thirty-three? Thirty-two twice! Am I bid thirty-three? Thirty-two three times! Seven fine cases of soap. Am I bid anything more? Once, twice! Three times! Am I bid anything more?”—his hand was up again—“and sold to Mr. – ?” He leaned over and looked curiously into the face of his young bidder.

      “Frank Cowperwood, son of the teller of the Third National Bank,” replied the boy, decisively.

      “Oh, yes,” said the man, fixed by his glance.

      “Will you wait while I run up to the bank and get the money?”

      “Yes. Don't be gone long. If you're not here in an hour I'll sell it again.”

      Young Cowperwood made no reply. He hurried out and ran fast; first, to his mother's grocer, whose store was within a block of his home.

      Thirty feet from the door he slowed up, put on a nonchalant air, and strolling in, looked about for Castile soap. There it was, the same kind, displayed in a box and looking just as his soap looked.

      “How much is this a bar, Mr. Dalrymple[17]?” he inquired.

      “Sixteen cents,” replied that worthy.

      “If I could sell you seven boxes for sixty-two dollars just like this, would you take them?”

      “The same soap?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Mr. Dalrymple calculated a moment.

      “Yes, I think I would,” he replied, cautiously.

      “Would you pay me today?”

      “I'd give you my note for it. Where is the soap?”

      He was perplexed and somewhat astonished by this unexpected proposition on the part of his neighbor's son. He knew Mr. Cowperwood well—and Frank also.

      “Will you take it if I bring it to you today?”

      “Yes, I will,” he replied. “Are you going into the soap business?”

      “No. But I know where I can get some of that soap cheap.”

      He hurried out again and ran to his father's bank. It was after banking hours; but he knew how to get in, and he knew that his father would be glad to see him make thirty dollars. He only wanted to borrow the money for a day.

      “What's the trouble, Frank?” asked his father, looking up from his desk when he appeared, breathless and red faced.

      “I want you to loan me thirty-two dollars! Will you?”

      “Why, yes, I might. What do you want to do with it?”

      “I want to buy some soap—seven boxes of Castile soap. I know where I can get it and sell it. Mr. Dalrymple will take it. He's already offered me sixty-two for it. I can get it for thirty-two. Will you let me have the money? I've got to run back and pay the auctioneer.”

      His father smiled.

      “Why, Frank,” he said, going over to a drawer where some bills were, “are you going to become a financier already? You're sure you're not going to lose on this? You know what you're doing, do you?”

      “You let me have the money, father, will you?” he pleaded. “Just let me have it. You can trust me.”

      He was like a young hound on the scent of game. His father could not resist.

      “Why, certainly, Frank,” he replied. “I'll trust you.” And he counted out six five-dollar certificates of the Third National's own issue and two ones. “There you are.”

      Frank ran out of the building and returned to the auction room as fast as his legs would carry him. When he came in, sugar was being auctioned. He made his way to the auctioneer's clerk.

      “I want to pay for that soap,” he suggested.

      “Now?”

      “Yes. Will you give me a receipt?”

      “Yes.”

      “Do you deliver this?”

      “No. No delivery. You have to take it away in twenty-four hours.”

      That difficulty did not trouble him.

      “All right,” he said, and pocketed his paper testimony of purchase.

      The auctioneer watched him as he went out. In half an hour he was back with a drayman—an idler was waiting for a job.

      Frank had bargained with him to deliver the soap for sixty cents. In still another half-hour he was before the door of the astonished Mr. Dalrymple. Though it was his first great venture, he was cool as glass.

      “Yes,” said Mr. Dalrymple, scratching his gray head reflectively. “Yes, that's the same soap. I'll take it. Where did you get it, Frank?”

      “At Bixom's auction up here,” he replied, frankly and blandly.

      Mr. Dalrymple had the drayman bring in the soap; and after some formality made out his note at thirty days[18] and gave it to him.

      Frank thanked him and pocketed the note. He decided to go back to his father's bank and discount it, as he had seen others doing, thereby paying his father back and getting his own profit in ready money.

      He hurried back, whistling; and his father glanced up smiling when he came in.

      “Here's a note at thirty days,” he said, producing the paper Dalrymple had given him. “Do you want to discount that for me? You can take your thirty-two out of that.”

      His father examined it closely. “Sixty-two dollars!” he observed. “Mr. Dalrymple! That's good paper! Yes, I can. It will cost you ten per cent,” he added, jestingly. “Why don't you just hold it, though? I'll let you have the thirty-two dollars until the end of the month.”

      “Oh, no,” said his son, “you discount it and take your money. I may want mine.”

      His father smiled at his business-like air. “All right,” he said. “I'll fix it tomorrow. Tell me just how you did this.” And his son told him.

      At seven o'clock that evening Frank's mother heard about it, and later Uncle Seneca.

      “What'd I tell you, Cowperwood?” he asked. “He has stuff in him, that youngster. Look out for him.”

      Mrs. Cowperwood looked at her

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