sold, as an act of charity, to our bankrupt, broken-winded, deplorable friend from Kansas. John, move the flag to lot 8. What name, please?"
But the rival had sneaked away amid the delighted laughter of the crowd. Lot 8 was put up. After some hesitation a solid respectable looking man with the appearance of a small-town grocer bid a hundred and fifty dollars. Everybody looked at him; but he bore inspection well. There were dozens like him, all about. Nevertheless he was a hired capper. The boom real estate man was the precursor of the movie director in his appreciation of the value of types.
"My dear sir!" cried the auctioneer, disgustedly. "You don't realize. I am not offering you this map. I am offering a genuine fifty-foot lot, made out of dirt. Come now, let's have a real offer."
Boyd, wandering around, had unexpectedly run into three of his old cronies, namely Saxon, Marcus Oberman, and George Scott.
"Well, well!" he cried. "What in thunder are you three terrapins doing down here? I thought you never got more than ten miles from the Fremont bar?"
"What are you doing here yourself?" countered Saxon. "The same to you."
"Oh, I just came down on business. Saw this procession going by, and thought I'd come along and see the fun. Great show, isn't it?"
At the auctioneer's last appeal a voice spoke up from the outskirts of the crowd.
"One hundred and seventy-five," it stated with deliberate dignity.
"Hanged if that isn't Jimmy Carstair!" cried Boyd, delightedly.
"Who's Jimmy Carstair?" asked Scott.
The others stared at him incredulously.
"Jimmy Carstair? You must know him! He's one of the richest men in St. Paul!"
"Oh, him!" said Scott with new respect.
"I wonder what he's doing in this," speculated Boyd. "He
