CHAPTER I

THE "SPLENDID" WAR CANOE

"It's the wreck of one of the grandest enterprises ever conceived by the human mind!" complained Colonel W.P. Grundy, in a voice broken with emotion.

A group of small boys grinned, though they offered no audible comment.

"Such defeats often—-usually, in fact—-come to those who try to educate the masses and bring popular intelligence to a higher level," was the colonel's declaration, as he wiped away a real or imaginary tear.

On a nearby lot stood a large show tent, so grayed and frayed, so altogether dingy as to suggest that it had seen some summers of service ere it became briefly the property of Colonel Grundy.

Near the entrance to the tent a temporary platform had been built of the board seats taken from the interior of the tent.

Near the platform stood a grim-visaged deputy sheriff, conversing with an auctioneer on whose face the grin had become chronic.

Some distance from the tent stood a group of perhaps forty men of the town of Gridley.

"The whole outfit of junk won't bring five hundred dollars," predicted one of these men. "How much did you say the judgments total?"

"Seventeen thousand four hundred dollars," replied another. "But the man who attached the show has a claim for only six hundred and forty dollars, so he may get most of his money."

Here the auctioneer stopped talking with the deputy sheriff long enough to go over to the platform, pick up a bell and ring it vigorously. A few more stragglers came up, most of them boys without any money in their pockets.

Off at one side of the lot six boys stood by themselves, talking in low tones, casting frequent, earnest glances toward the platform.

These youngsters were Dick Prescott, Dave Darrin, Greg Holmes, Tom Reade, Dan Dalzell and Harry Hazelton. Collectively they were known in the boydom of Gridley as Dick & Co.

Our readers are already familiar with every one of these lads, having first been introduced to them in the "Grammar School Boys Series," with its four volumes, "The Grammar School Boys of Gridley," "The Grammar School Boys Snowbound," "The Grammar School Boys in the Woods" and "The Grammar School Boys in Summer Athletics." The varied and stirring exploits of Dick & Co., as told in these books, stamped the six chums as American boys of the best sort.

Then, in "The High School Freshmen," the first volume of the "High School Boys Series," our readers went further into the history of Dick & Co., and saw how even freshmen may impress their personalities on the life and sports of a high school. The pranks, the fights, the victories and achievements of that first year in high school had done much to shape the characters and mould the minds of all six of our boys.

The present narrative deals with all that happened in the vacation after Dick Prescott and his friends had finished their freshman year. The summer now lay before them for whatever might come to them in the way of work and pleasure. Though none of the six yet knew it, the summer was destined to bring to them the fullest measure of wonder and excitement.

And now let us get back to Dick & Co., that we may see just what befell them.

"Pshaw! There comes Fred Ripley," exclaimed Harry Hazelton.

"And he probably has a few ten dollar bills in his pockets," remarked Greg Holmes, rather enviously. "He will buy something."

Fred Ripley, as readers of "The High School Freshmen" remember, was the son of a wealthy local lawyer, and a bitter enemy to Dick Prescott and his friends.

"Fred just came here to buy something and then look at us with his superior smile," grunted Hazelton. "What do you say if we all walk away before the bidding begins?"

"Then Rip would grin," returned Tom Reade. "He'd know just why we went away. I came here to see what's going to happen, and I won't be chased away from here by Fred Ripley."

"Let's see if Fred can have any real fun with us," proposed Dick, with a quiet smile.

"He can have fun enough with us, if he guesses why we are really here," Dave Darrin uttered resentfully. "Ripley seems to think that money is made and supplied to him just in order that he may rub gall and wormwood into those whom he doesn't like!"

Fred kept well away from Dick & Co., though the six boys saw that he occasionally sent a covert look in their direction.

"Time to begin," said the deputy sheriff, after glancing at his watch.

Up to the platform jumped the auctioneer, bell in hand. Holding it with both hands he again rang vigorously for a full minute. The net result was to bring one shabby-looking man, two grammar school boys without a cent of money, and three children of not over four years of age into the lot.

"Ladies and gentlemen," began the auctioneer, in his glib tones, "we are presenting to-day a most unusual opportunity. Prizes will be distributed to many enterprising people of Gridley, though these prizes are all so valuable that I trust none of them will go for the traditional 'song.' It is seldom, indeed, in any community, however favored it may be in general, that such a diversified lot of excellent things is put under the hammer for purchase by discriminating buyers! As you all know, Colonel W.P. Grundy's Great & Colossal Indian Exposition & Aboriginal Life Delineations has met with one of the too-common disasters of the road. This great show enterprise must now be sold out in its entirety."

After an impressive pause, the silence was broken by a sob. Those in the crowd who were curious enough to turn, beheld the colonel with a handkerchief to his eyes, his shoulders heaving. Somehow the colonel's noisy grief failed to excite the sympathy of those assembled. It was suspected that the wrecked showman was playing for sympathy.

"Such a wealth of treasures is here offered," continued the auctioneer, "that for the first time in my career I confess myself unable to decide which article or lot to lay before you first."

"You said that last week at Templeton," laughed a man in the crowd. "Go on!"

Whereupon the auctioneer once more addressed his hearers in a burst of vocal fireworks.

"I wonder what Prescott and his mucker friends are here to bid on?" Fred Ripley was asking himself. "Whatever it is, if it's nothing that I want for myself I'll bid it up as high against them as I can. For, of course, they've pooled their funds for whatever they want to get. They can't put in more than a quarter apiece, so a dollar and a half is all I have to beat. I'll wager they already suspect that I'm here just to make things come higher for them. I hope they do suspect!"

It was just after the Fourth of July. The summer sun shone fiercely down upon the assemblage.

"Perhaps, first of all," announced the auctioneer, after pausing to take breath, "it will be the proper thing to do to offer the tent itself. At this point, however, I will say that the foreclosing creditor of the show himself bids two hundred dollars on the tent. No bid, unless it be more than two hundred dollars, can be accepted. Come, now, friends, here is a fine opportunity for a shrewd business man. One need not be a showman, or have any personal need of a tent, in order to become a bidder. Whoever buys this tent to-day will be able to realize handsomely on his investment by selling this big-top tent in turn to some showman in need of a tent. Who will start the bidding at three hundred dollars?"

No one started it. After the auctioneer had talked for five minutes without getting a "rise" out of any Gridley citizen, he mournfully declared the tent to be outside of the sale.

"Has anyone here any choice as to what he wants me to offer next?" questioned the salesman of the afternoon.

There was no response.

"Come, come, gentlemen!" rebuked the auctioneer. "Don't let the July sun bake your intellects, or the first cool day that comes along will find you all filled with unavailing regrets. Hasn't some one a choice as to what should be offered next?"

Still receiving no reply, he heaved a sigh, then added:

"I see that we shall have to start action in some way. Therefore we'll bring out something that is action personified, with grace mingled. Bring out the ponies. Gentlemen, I am now going to offer you your choice of eight of the handsomest ponies you ever——-"

"But there are forty ponies and thirty-two good wagon horses," piped up a business man in the audience.

"There were," corrected the auctioneer, mournfully. "But most of the live stock was rented. Colonel Grundy had hoped to buy the stock gradually out of the receipts of the show. All that he owned in the way of live stock consisted of eight ponies. And here they come! Beauties, aren't they?"

Despite the heat of the day it was as though a frost had settled down over the scene. Many of the men present were butchers, grocers or others who had hoped to pick up cheap horses to be used in their business.

"Ponies are no good in this town," cried one man. "Lead 'em away. Come on, neighbors."

"Wait, wait!" urged the auctioneer. "There are some bargains yet to come that will interest you all. Since we have the ponies on the spot let us begin to run them off. It will teach you all how to bid quickly when you see wonderful bargains bought up under your noses!"

The bidding, however, was lax at first. A stable boy mounted one of the little animals, riding about at reckless pace.

"Now, start the bidding!"

After five minutes talking an opening bid of five dollars for the pony had been made and this had been advanced to seven.

With all the zeal at his command the auctioneer drove the bidding along. It reached fourteen dollars, and there stopped. At last the pony was knocked down to a man who thought he could use the animal in a very light delivery wagon.

"Now, gentlemen, wake up!" begged the auctioneer. "Let us have some bidding worthy of the fair name of Gridley for good judgment in business matters. Lead the roan pony forth."

Undoubtedly the first pony had been a fair bargain at fourteen dollars. The bidding on the second animal began at ten dollars, going quickly to eighteen. From that point the offers traveled slowly until twenty-six dollars had been named. At this price the pony was sold.

From that time on the ponies were "knocked down" rather briskly, though the highest-priced one of the first seven brought only thirty-one dollars.

Now came the eighth.

"You see what this animal is for yourselves, gentlemen," declared the auctioneer. "We don't need to have this sleek little animal's paces shown. We are in a hurry to get through. Who opens with twenty dollars?"

"He is a handsome little animal, isn't he?" exclaimed Dick Prescott, crowding forward and gazing at the pony with glistening eyes.

"I wish I had the money to buy him," whispered Dave Darrin.

"Maybe I couldn't use that kind of a cut-down horse!" glowed Tom Reade, while Harry and Dan looked on longingly.

"That's what the muckers are here after!" thought Fred Ripley, who had been watching them closely. "Now, no matter how much money they may think they have, I'll show them how easy it is for a fellow of my financial standing to step in and get the chestnut pony away from them!"

"Who starts the bidding with twenty dollars?" demanded the auctioneer.

"Ten," finally responded a man in the crowd.

"Thank you. But, gentlemen, ten dollars is a shame for a beautiful animal like this. Who makes it twenty? Start it right up now!"

Presently the bidding had reached sixteen dollars. Dick and his chums had crowded still closer to the pony, looking on with lively interest.

"Here's where I sting Prescott and his crew!" muttered Fred Ripley under his breath. Then, aloud, he called:

"Twenty!"

"Thank you," smiled the auctioneer, nodding in Ripley's direction. "Here is a young man of sound judgment and a good idea of money values, as his manner and his whole appearance testify."

"Someone hold Rip, or he'll burst," laughed Greg Holmes in Dick's ear.

But Fred thought the chums were conferring as to how far they could go with what means the six of them might have at hand.

"They will get going soon," thought Fred gleefully.

Just then Dick Prescott piped up:

"Twenty-two!"

"Twenty-two? Thank you," bowed the auctioneer. "Another young gentleman of the finest judgment. Who says twenty-five?"

"Twenty-three," offered Fred.

"Twenty-five," called Prescott promptly.

An instant after Dick had made this bid he felt heartily ashamed of himself. He hadn't intended to buy the pony, and didn't have the money. He had obeyed a sudden instinct to tease Fred Ripley, but now Dick wished he hadn't done it.

"Twenty-six!" called young Ripley.

The auctioneer looked at Prescott, but the latter, already abashed at his own conduct, made no further offer.

"Twenty-eight!" called a man in the crowd, who knew that the wealthy lawyer's son usually got whatever he wanted very badly. This new bidder thought he saw a chance to get the pony, then later to force Fred to pay a still higher price for the animal.

"Thirty!" called Ripley, with a sidelong glance at Dick & Co.

"Did I hear you offer thirty-five?" queried the auctioneer, singling out Dick Prescott.

But Dick remained mute. However, in the next instant Greg Holmes, ere Prescott could stop him, blurted out with:

"Thirty-two!"

"Thirty-four!" called Ripley briskly.

Greg opened his mouth, but Dick nudged him. "Don't bid, Greg. You'd feel cheap if you had to take the pony and couldn't produce the money," Dick admonished him.

"Thirty-five!" called the man who had raised the bidding before.

"Thirty-six," from Ripley.

"Thirty-eight!" called the man.

"Thirty-nine!" offered Fred, though he was beginning to perspire freely.

"Forty!" promptly offered the man.

"Forty-one!" said Fred.

And there it hung. After three minutes more of hard work on the auctioneer's part the pony went to Ripley at forty-one dollars.

"I don't know what my father will say to me for this," groaned the lawyer's son. "But, anyway, Prescott and his crew didn't get the chestnut pony, and this is the last piece of live stock, so there's none left for them."

He cast a triumphant look in the direction of those whom he termed "the mucker boys."

"Rip was bidding to keep us from getting a look-in!" whispered Tom Reade gleefully.

"That was what I thought," nodded Dick Prescott. "That was why I threw in a couple of bids—-just to make him pay for his meanness. But I'm sorry I did it."

"Step up and pay your money!" ordered the auctioneer. "Don't keep us waiting all day."

"Won't a deposit do?" demanded Fred, coming forward.

"Yes; we'll take fifteen dollars, and hold your purchase until one hour after the sale closes," replied the auctioneer. "Then, if you don't come along fast with the remainder, your deposit will be forfeited."

"I'll raise the money all right," drawled Ripley, with an important air, as he passed up three five dollar bills. "Give me a receipt for this, please."

"You've money enough there to pay it all," said the auctioneer.

"Yes; but I may bid on something else," Fred replied.

"Good luck to you," laughed the auctioneer.

Presently along came a miscellaneous lot of the weapons that had been used by cowboys and Indians connected with the show. The auctioneer tried to close these out in one lot, but there were no bids.

Several of the younger men did brisk, but not high bidding for the rifles. These were disposed of.

Then tomahawks were offered for sale, singly. The first ones offered went at an average of twenty-five cents each. At last Dan Dalzell secured one for a nickel, paid his money and proudly tucked his purchase under his arm.

"Bring out the grand war canoe!" called the auctioneer at last.

Now every drop of blood in Dick Prescott's body tingled. His chums, too, were equally aroused. It was this that they had hope of securing—-if it went off at a price next to nothing!

So intensely interested were the six young high school athletes in the proceedings now that each one steeled himself to prevent betraying the fact. All were aware that Fred Ripley's malicious eyes were watching them. If he suspected that they wanted the canoe he could put the bidding up to a figure that would make their wishes impossible of fulfillment.

Dick yawned. He looked intensely bored.

"Come along," proposed Dave in an audible voice. "There's nothing here we can get."

"Yes; it's getting tedious," hinted Tom Reade.

Dalzell and Hazelton also appeared to lose all interest in the auction.

"I was in hopes they'd want that canoe," muttered Fred Ripley, feeling as though he had been cheated out of a great pleasure. "As it happens I know all about that canoe. Wow! Wouldn't they groan if they put up all their money for the canoe—-and then found out!"

Just then the canoe was brought out. It was bolstered up on a long truck, drawn by a pair of horses. Twenty-eight feet long, slender and of graceful lines, this canoe, with its oiled birch bark glistening in the sun, was a thing of beauty. It was one of the genuine articles that the show had carried—-of real Indian model and workmanship.

"Gaze upon it, gentlemen!" cried the auctioneer enthusiastically. "Did you ever see the like of this grand war canoe? History in every line of it! Picture to yourselves the bygone days in which such a canoe, filled with painted braves, stole along in the shadows fringing the bank of some noble stream. Portray to your own minds such a marauding band stealing down stream upon some settlement, there to fall upon our hardy pioneers and put them to the death!"

"I'm glad I'm living now, instead of in those days," called a man from the crowd, raising a laugh.

"Gentlemen, before you are through," suggested the auctioneer, "one of you will be the proud and happy possessor of this magnificent war canoe. It is a priceless gem, especially when considered in the light of good old American history. Now, who will start the bidding? Who will say, clearly and distinctly, thirty dollars?"

"We're not brave enough in these days!" called a voice from the crowd.

"That's right, friends—-have fun with me," retorted the perspiring auctioneer. "But don't let this valuable, beautiful trophy get away from you."

Yet, though the auctioneer labored for a full five minutes he couldn't raise a bid.

"Take it away! Take it back!" ordered the auctioneer wearily. "I was in hopes it would appeal to the artistic sense of this town, but it doesn't! Take it away."

"If no one else wants it," drawled Dick Prescott, "I'll offer two dollars."

"Thank you for good intentions, anyway," replied the salesman on the platform. "Two dollars I'm bid. Who says ten? Now, do wake up, friends!"

But the bidding lagged.

"This beautiful war canoe!" cried the auctioneer desperately. "It was the pride of the show. A real Indian canoe, equipped with gunwale seats and six Indian paddles. And only two dollars offered. Gentlemen, do I hear three? No! Last call! It's pitiful—-two dollars!"

Dick Prescott and all his friends were now in the seventh heaven of prospective delight. It seemed unreal, that they could get this treasure for any such sum.

"If I must do it, I must," groaned the auctioneer. "Two I'm offered. Does anyone say more. Make it four! No? Make it three! No? Last call! Going, going——-"

In another instant the big war canoe would have been knocked down to young Prescott at two dollars. Dick was "all on edge," though he strove to conceal the fact.

"At two dollars, then!" groaned the auctioneer. "Two dollars! All right, then. Going, going——-"

Just then the word "gone" would have been uttered, and the canoe gone to Dick & Co.

"Three dollars!" called Fred Ripley.

There was a pause, while the auctioneer exhorted the crowd to wake up.

"Four," said young Prescott, at last, but he spoke with pretended indifference.

"Five," chimed in a man who now seemed to take an interest. The bidding now went up slowly, a dollar at a time, with these three bidders, until twelve dollars was reached. Then the man dropped out. Dick was outwardly calm, though his chums shivered, for they knew that their combined capital did not reach the amount now being offered.

"I'm afraid that canoe is going to Dick's head," whispered Harry Hazelton anxiously to Tom Reade.