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 tendollar 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,
