Kitobni o'qish: «Young Auctioneers: or, The Polishing of a Rolling Stone»

PREFACE

“The Young Auctioneers” forms the initial volume of a line of juvenile stories called “The Working Upward Series.”

The tale is complete in itself, and tells of the adventures of a homeless, although not a penniless youth, who strikes up an acquaintanceship with another young fellow experienced as an auctioneer. The two purchase a horse and wagon, stock up with goods, and take to the road. The partners pass through a number of more or less trying experiences, and the younger lad is continually on the lookout for his father, who has broken out of an asylum while partly deranged in mind over the loss of his wife and his fortune.

I have endeavored in this tale to give a faithful picture of life among a certain class of traveling salesmen who are but little known to the world at large, especially to those who inhabit our large cities. In country places the traveling auctioneer is looked for as a matter of course, and he is treated according to the humor of the inhabitants, or rather, according to the merits or demerits of the “bargains” offered on a previous trip.

I sincerely trust that my numerous boy readers will find the tale to their liking, and that the moral – to lead an upright, honest life under any and all circumstances – will not escape them.

Edward Stratemeyer.

CHAPTER I.
MATT ATTENDS A SALE

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, what am I offered for this elegant vase, imported direct from Italy, a most marvelous piece of workmanship, worth every cent of twenty-five dollars? Who will start it at five dollars? Start it at four? Start it at three? At two? At one dollar? What is that – fifty cents? Rather low, lady, but as I said before, these goods must be sold, regardless of the prices obtained. Fifty cents, it is! Fifty – fifty! Who will make it one dollar?”

“Sixty!”

“What, only sixty? Well, well, well! Never mind, the goods must go, and sixty cents is better than nothing. Sixty – sixty – ”

“Seventy-five!”

“Eighty!”

“One dollar!”

“At last I am offered one dollar! Think of it! One dollar for a beautiful vase such as might well adorn the home of a Gould, or a Vanderbilt! But such is life. One dollar – one dollar – ”

“One and a quarter!”

“One and a half!”

“One and a half is offered! Oh, what a shame, ladies and gentlemen; a paltry dollar and a half for an article worth, at the very lowest estimate, twenty-five dollars. Who makes it two dollars?”

“Two!”

“Two and a half!”

“Three!”

“Three and a quarter!”

“Three and a quar – Ah, four dollars? Four dollars! Who says five? Going at four – at four – at four. Four and a half – four and a quarter – this is your last chance, remember. Did you say five, sir? No? Well, four it is, then. Going – going – the last chance, ladies and gentlemen! Going – going – gone, to the lady in the brown dress, Andrew, for four dollars!”

The scene was a small store on Nassau street near Fulton street, in New York City. Outside of the open doorway hung a red flag, indicative of an auction sale. The single window of the place was crowded with vases, imitation marble statues, plated tableware, and gorgeous lamps of highly-polished metal.

Among these articles was a sign in black letters on white cardboard bearing these words:

ROYAL CONSIGNMENT AUCTION CO.,

Sales Daily from 10 A.M. to 3 P.M

Inside, toward the rear, there was a small raised platform, and upon this stood the auctioneer, a tall, thin-faced man, with sharp black eyes, and rather a squeaky voice. To one side was his assistant, a much younger and much more pleasant-looking individual, who wrapped up the articles sold and collected for them.

It was between twelve and one o’clock in the day, and the auction store was crowded with business people, who, during their lunch-time, had dropped in to see what was going on, and, possibly, make a purchase. There were middle-aged business men, young clerks, and several young ladies, and all appeared interested in the mild excitement attending the disposal of the goods.

Among the young people present was a boy of fifteen, whose clothing, although not of a fashionable cut, was, nevertheless, neat and clean. He had dark curly hair, and his face was as honest in appearance as it was fearless and handsome.

The youth was as much interested in the sale as though he was buying half the articles auctioned off, although he had not enough in his trousers pocket to even start bidding, for no bid of less than twenty-five cents was recognized by the auctioneer in beginning a sale.

The vase disposed of, the auctioneer’s assistant brought forth from a side shelf a piece of imitation marble statuary, representing three doves bearing a wreath of flowers between them. The bit of bric-a-brac looked quite nice, but as it was but imitation marble, it was not worth more than two dollars, if as much.

“Now, here we have as fine a piece of Italian marble as was ever brought to New York,” began the auctioneer, holding up the piece in question. “And the work upon it cannot to-day be excelled by any sculptors on this side of the Atlantic. How beautiful are those three doves, and how natural that wreath! Examine the piece for yourselves, ladies and gentlemen. It is genuine Italian marble, and will not go to pieces in your hands. There you are, sir.”

The bit of statuary was handed to a gentleman who stood directly in front of the auctioneer. He gave it a hasty glance and then started to hand it back.

“Pass it through the crowd, please. I want every one to be convinced of its quality before I attempt to sell it!” bawled the auctioneer, and the gentleman handed it to the man next to him.

Thus started, the bit of bric-a-brac traveled from one hand to another until it reached a heavy-set man with red mustache, who stood but a couple of yards from the doorway.

“Humph!” muttered the man, as he turned over the article in contempt. “I wouldn’t give a dollar a cartload for them. Here you are!”

As he finished, he thrust the piece of bric-a-brac toward a young lady who had just entered. She drew back in surprise, not knowing what his action meant. The statuary left the man’s hand, touched the young lady’s arm, and then fell to the floor with a crash, and was broken into a dozen pieces.

The young lady uttered a slight shriek of surprise at the accident, and instantly the crowd looked toward her, and then at the auctioneer.

“Here, who broke that?” demanded the auctioneer, in an entirely different tone of voice, as he left his stand and hurried to the spot.

“That young lady,” replied a fellow who had not seen the movements of the man with the red mustache.

“No! no! I did not do it!” cried the young lady, shrinking back. “I did not touch the piece, sir.”

“Well, but it’s right at your feet, madam; you must have let it fall,” said the auctioneer harshly.

“I did not, sir.”

“Well, who did, then?”

“A man who ran out as soon as the statuary was broken.”

“Oh, pshaw! It isn’t likely a man would run away like that.”

“The young lady speaks the truth, sir,” put in the boy previously mentioned. “The man shoved the statue toward her, and when she drew back it slipped from his hand to the floor. She was not in the least responsible.”

“Thank you for that, Matt Lincoln,” said the young lady, with a grateful nod. “I shall not forget this service.”

“Oh, that’s all right, Miss Bartlett,” returned the boy, blushing. “I like to be of service to you.”

“You evidently seem to know this young lady?” said the auctioneer, turning to Matt Lincoln.

“I do; she is the stenographer at our office. That’s how I came to notice her when she came in.”

“No wonder you try to shield her!” sneered the auctioneer. “But I can’t afford to let this matter pass. You will have to pay for the damages done, madam. The cost price of that piece of bric-a-brac was ten dollars, but I’ll throw off two dollars and call it eight.”

CHAPTER II.
A LIVELY DISCUSSION

At the intimation that she must pay eight dollars, the face of the young lady stenographer grew pale, while that of Matt Lincoln flushed up.

“I – I cannot pay the money!” gasped Ida Bartlett. “I have no such amount with me.”

“It’s a swindle!” burst in Matt Lincoln indignantly. “Don’t you pay a cent. Miss Bartlett. It was not your fault, and he cannot force you to pay.”

“Shut right up!” snarled the auctioneer, turning to Matt fiercely. “Unless you want to get yourself into trouble.”

“I won’t shut up and see this young lady ill-treated!” retorted Matt, flushing still more. “You may think you can ride over me, but you can’t do it. I’ll – ”

“Hush, Matt!” pleaded the stenographer, catching him by the arm. “Do not say anything rash.”

“But, Miss Bartlett, this chap wants to force you into paying for something you didn’t do! I wouldn’t stand it! I’d fight him first!”

“You would, would you?” growled the auctioneer, his face growing dark and sour.

“Yes, I would!” retorted the boy defiantly. “I’m not afraid of you!”

“Say, that boy’s game!” laughed a bystander.

“Yes, a regular little bantam,” replied another.

“I’ll settle with you in a minute,” said the auctioneer, finding he could not silence Matt. “Now, madam, do you intend to pay for the damage done or not?”

“I did not do the damage, and I cannot see how you can ask me to pay,” faltered Ida Bartlett.

“I have proof that you let the piece of bric-a-brac fall.”

“The chap who says he saw her drop it had his back turned at the time,” put in Matt, and turning to the individual in question, he added: “Can you swear that you saw the piece of statuary leave her hand?”

“N-no, I can’t do that,” returned the fellow slowly. “But it went down at her feet, and – ”

“You imagined the rest,” finished Matt. “I told you so,” he went on triumphantly.

“See here; you shut up,” cried the auctioneer, losing his temper. “Dilks, come here and help me,” he went on, appealing to the assistant he had before called Andrew.

The assistant auctioneer came forward upon this. His face wore a troubled look, as if he did not relish the duty he was called upon to perform.

“I’m afraid there is some mistake here, Mr. Gulligan,” he said in a low tone, meant only for the auctioneer’s ears.

“Some mistake!” howled Caleb Gulligan, for such was the auctioneer’s name. “I don’t make mistakes.”

“I saw the man run out as soon as the statuary was broken, and by his manner I am sure he must be the guilty party.”

“See here, Andrew Dilks, who is running this establishment?” stormed Caleb Gulligan wrathfully. “I lay the accident at the door of the young woman, and, as the man is gone, she will pay the bill – or take the consequences.”

The assistant auctioneer flushed up at these words. It was plain to see that he was an honest young man, and did not like such underhand work.

“Perhaps she hasn’t the money to pay?”

“Then she must take the consequences,” replied the auctioneer sourly.

“Not much!” put in Matt, who had overheard the best part of the conversation between Caleb Gulligan and his assistant. “Miss Bartlett, if I was you I wouldn’t stay here another minute,” he went on to the stenographer, in a whisper.

“Why, what would you do?” she returned.

“Skip out. They haven’t any right to make you trouble.”

“But, Matt, that would not be right.”

“Never mind; go ahead. You haven’t any friend here but me. Mr. Fenton wouldn’t help you any, even if you ask him.”

The young lady stood still for a moment, and then made a sudden movement for the doorway. Caleb Gulligan rushed after her, only to find Matt Lincoln barring his progress.

“Get out of my way, boy!”

“Which way?” queried Matt coolly.

“You rat! Out of my way!”

The auctioneer placed his hand upon the boy’s arm, with the intention of hurling him aside. But, strange to say, although he was taller than the youth, he could not budge the latter for several seconds, and by that time the young lady had disappeared, swallowed up in the noonday crowd which surged past the door.

“Now see what you have done!” stormed Caleb Gulligan wrathfully. “You have aided that young woman to escape!”

“That’s just what I meant to do,” returned Matt, with a coolness that would have been exasperating to even a less sensitive man than the crusty auctioneer.

“I shall hold you responsible for it!”

“I don’t care if you do,” was Matt’s dogged reply. “She’s my friend, and I always stick up for my friends.”

At this last remark there was a low murmur of approval from those gathered about. Evidently, the boy’s unpolished but honest manner had won considerable admiration.

“Do you know that I can have you locked up?”

“What for?”

“For aiding her to escape.”

“Didn’t she have a right to hurry away if she wanted to go? It’s almost one o’clock – I’ll have to be off myself soon, if I want to keep my job.”

There was a laugh at this, and half a dozen looked at their watches and left.

“If you please,” put in the assistant nervously. “Had we not better go on with the sales? The crowd will be gone before long. We might make more than what was lost here.”

“Certainly, go on with the sales,” howled Caleb Gulligan. “I will take care of this young rascal, and find out what has become of that young woman.”

“And that man,” began the assistant.

“Never mind the man; the young woman shall pay for the damage done, and she can fix it up with the man afterward, if she wishes. I am not going to stand the loss.”

“It seems to me you are making an awful row over a fifteen-cent piece of plaster-of-paris,” said Matt to Gulligan, as Andrew Dilks turned toward the auctioneer’s stand. “Why didn’t you ask me to pay for the stuff and done?”

“Plaster-of-paris!” cried the auctioneer wrathfully. “That is real Italian marble – ”

“Made in Centre street,” interrupted Matt.

“And it is worth every cent of ten dollars – ”

“Ten dollars a carload, you mean,” went on the boy. “Come, let go of me; I’ve got to go to work.”

“You’ll go to the Tombs!”

“No, I won’t. I have done nothing wrong, and I want you to let go of me.”

Matt began to struggle, much to the delight of the spectators, who refused to listen to what the assistant auctioneer might have to say from the stand.

“I’ll teach you a lesson!” fumed Caleb Gulligan. “How do you like that?”

He swung Matt around and caught him by the throat and the collar. But only for an instant was he able to hold the boy in that fashion. Matt squirmed and twisted like an eel, and suddenly gave the old auctioneer a push which sent him sprawling upon his back. Before Caleb Gulligan could recover, Matt was out of the door and running like a deer up Nassau street.

“Hi! hi! stop him!” roared the old auctioneer. “He must not get away.”

“Stop him yourself, then,” said one of the bystanders heartlessly. “We have nothing to do with your quarrel with the boy.”

“You are in league with him,” fumed Caleb Gulligan, as he scrambled to his feet. “But, never mind, I’ll catch him!”

He ran out of the auction store and gazed perplexedly up and down into the crowd. It was useless. Matt Lincoln, like his friend, Ida Bartlett, had disappeared.

CHAPTER III.
SOMETHING OF THE PAST

Matt Lincoln did not stop until he reached Temple Court, as that large office-building on the corner of Nassau and Beekman streets is called. Then he drew a long breath as he took a stand in one corner of a side corridor.

“There, I’ve put my foot into it again, I suppose,” he said, somewhat dismally. “I reckon old Uncle Dan was right, I’m the rolling stone that’s forever getting into a hole and out without settling anywhere. But I couldn’t stand it to see Miss Bartlett threatened. It wasn’t a fair thing to do, and that auctioneer ought to be run out of the city. I suppose he’ll be after my scalp now.”

Matt Lincoln was sixteen years of age. For the past two years he had been depending entirely upon himself, and during that time he had, indeed, been a rolling stone, although not entirely without an object.

Up to his tenth year Matt had lived with his father and mother in the Harlem district of the great metropolis. He had attended one of the public schools, and, take it all in all, had been a happy boy.

Then came a cloud over the Lincoln home. Mr. Lincoln was interested, as a speculator, in some mines in Montana, and by a peculiar manipulation of the stocks of these mines he lost every dollar of his hard-earned savings. He was an over-sensitive man, and these losses preyed upon his mind until he was affected mentally, and had to be sent to an asylum.

For several months Mrs. Lincoln and Matt paid weekly visits to the asylum to see the father and husband, and they were beginning to rejoice over the thought that Mr. Lincoln would soon be himself once more, when one day Mrs. Lincoln fell down in the middle of Broadway, and a heavily-loaded truck passed directly over her chest.

When the poor woman was picked up it was found she was unconscious. An ambulance was at once summoned, and she was conveyed to one of the city hospitals. Here Matt visited her, and listened to her last words of love and advice. She died before sunrise the next day, and three days later was buried.

If his mother’s unexpected death was a shock to poor Matt, it was even more of a one to Mr. Lincoln. Again was the father and husband’s mind unbalanced; this time far worse than ever before. He escaped from the asylum, made a dramatic appearance at the home during the burial services, and then disappeared, no one knew where.

Matt’s only remaining relative at this time was his Uncle Dan, a brother to Mr. Lincoln. He took charge of Matt, and took the boy to his home in Bridgeport, Connecticut. At the same time a diligent search for Mr. Lincoln was begun.

The search for Matt’s father was unsuccessful, although continued for several weeks. It was learned that he had boarded a train in Jersey City bound for Philadelphia, but there all trace of his whereabouts was lost.

Matt lived with his Uncle Dan for four years. He went to school in Bridgeport part of the time, and when not learning, could be found at Mr. Lincoln’s ship chandlery, a large place, situated down near the docks.

It would seem that the tragic occurrences through which he had passed would have made Matt melancholy and low-spirited, but such was not the case. Mrs. Lincoln had naturally been of a light heart, and the boy partook of much of his mother’s disposition. He loved a free-and-easy life, loved to roam from place to place. With a captain who was a friend of Uncle Dan, he had made a trip to Bangor and Augusta, and he had likewise put in two weeks at a lumber camp in Maine, and a month during the summer at a hotel among the White Mountains, doing odd jobs for the proprietor.

“A rolling stone and nothing less,” Uncle Dan had called him, over and over again, and the title seemed to fit Matt exactly.

At length, when Matt was fourteen years old, Uncle Dan Lincoln, who was then an elderly man, was taken with pneumonia, and died two weeks later. His wife, a crabbed woman, who detested Matt, and was glad when he was out of the house, at once sold out the chandlery, and went to live with her folks in a small village in Vermont. Thus Matt was thrown out upon his own resources with no capital but a ten dollar bill, which his Uncle Dan had quietly slipped into his hand only a few days before the end.

Matt remained around Bridgeport but two days after his uncle’s funeral. Then he struck up a bargain with the captain of a schooner which was loaded with freight for Philadelphia, and sailed for that city.

When no trace of Matt’s father could be found the detectives who had been put on the case declared their belief that the poor man had drowned himself in the Delaware River. This belief was strengthened when some clothing that looked like that which the demented man had worn was found in a secluded spot not far from the river bank.

But Matt could not bring himself to believe that his father was dead. There was a hope in his breast which amounted almost to a conviction that some day he would again find his parent, alive and well.

Yet Matt’s search in and around Philadelphia, lasting several months, was unsuccessful. His money was soon spent, and then he started to tramp from Philadelphia to his former home, New York.

This tramp, of about one hundred miles by the various turnpikes through New Jersey, took the boy just one week, and when he arrived in the metropolis, both his clothing and his shoes were considerably worn. But he brushed up, and lost no time in hunting up work, knowing that it would never do to remain idle.

For two days Matt was without employment. Then he thought of the man who had sold his father the mining shares, Mr. Randolph Fenton, and he paid the stock-broker a visit at his offices, on Broad street, just off of Wall street.

As it happened, Randolph Fenton was just then in need of a boy to run errands and do copying, and after a talk with Matt, he hired him at a salary of four dollars a week.

“I’ll take you in because I thought so much of your dear father,” explained Randolph Fenton. “We were great friends, you must know, and I feel it my duty to do something for his son.”

Randolph Fenton spoke very nicely, but Matt soon found that he was by no means the kind-hearted gentleman he wished to appear. In reality, he was very mean and close. He worked his clerks almost to death, and such a thing as a raise in salary was unknown in the office.

But Matt found it would do no good to complain. Times were just then somewhat hard, and another place was not easy to obtain. He decided to make the most of it until times grew better, and in this resolve remained with Randolph Fenton week after week until the opening of this story.

Matt had been sent by Randolph Fenton on an errand to Temple Court, to be done as soon as the boy had finished lunch. Waiting for another minute to make certain that he was not being followed, the boy hurried to one of the elevators, and was lifted to the third floor.

The errand was quickly transacted, and with several books under his arm for his employer, Matt started on the return to the offices in Broad street.

Not wishing to be seen in the vicinity of the auction store, Matt turned down Park Row instead of Nassau street, and so continued down Broadway, his intention being to pass through Wall to Broad.

He had just reached the corner of Fulton street when some one tapped him upon the shoulder, and turning, he found himself confronted by Andrew Dilks, the old auctioneer’s assistant.