"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.