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[Illustration: LET GO OF THAT HORSE!--PAGE 144.    Y. A.]




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  YOUNG AUCTIONEERS;
      OR,
  THE POLISHING OF A ROLLING STONE.

  By EDWARD STRATEMEYER,

  Author of "Bound to be an Electrician," "Shorthand Tom,"
  "Fighting for his Own," etc., etc.


  W. L. ALLISON COMPANY,
  NEW YORK.


                  *       *       *       *       *


Popular Books for Boys and Girls.


Working Upward Series,

  By EDWARD STRATEMEYER.

  THE YOUNG AUCTIONEERS, or The Polishing of a Rolling Stone.
  BOUND TO BE AN ELECTRICIAN, or Franklin Bell's Success.
  SHORTHAND TOM THE REPORTER, or The Exploits of a Smart Boy.
  FIGHTING FOR HIS OWN, or The Fortunes of a Young Artist.

  Price, $1.00 per Volume, postpaid.


Bright and Bold Series,

  By ARTHUR M. WINFIELD.

  POOR BUT PLUCKY, or The Mystery of a Flood.
  SCHOOL DAYS OF FRED HARLEY, or Rivals for All Honors.
  BY PLUCK, NOT LUCK, or Dan Granbury's Struggle to Rise.
  THE MISSING TIN BOX, or Hal Carson's Remarkable City Adventures.

  Price, 75 Cents per Volume, postpaid.


Young Sportsman's Series,

  By CAPTAIN RALPH BONEHILL.

  THE RIVAL BICYCLISTS, or Fun and Adventures on the Wheel.
  YOUNG OARSMEN OF LAKEVIEW, or The Mystery of Hermit Island.
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Young Hunters Series,

  By CAPTAIN RALPH BONEHILL.

  GUN AND SLED, or The Young Hunters of Snow-Top Island.
  YOUNG HUNTERS IN PORTO RICO, or The Search for a Lost Treasure.
    (Another volume in preparation.)

  Price, 75 Cents per Volume, postpaid.


  W. L. ALLISON CO.,
  105 Chambers Street, New York.


COPYRIGHT, 1897, BY W. L. ALLISON CO.




CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER.                                                        PAGE
        I. Matt Attends a Sale                                       5
       II. A Lively Discussion                                      12
      III. Something of the Past                                    19
       IV. An Interesting Proposition                               26
        V. Matt Is Discharged                                       33
       VI. A Business Partnership                                   40
      VII. Getting Ready to Start                                   47
     VIII. An Unexpected Set-Back                                   53
       IX. The Result of a Fire                                     60
        X. On the Road at Last                                      68
       XI. Harsh Treatment                                          77
      XII. Matt Stands up for Himself                               84
     XIII. The Corn Salve Doctor                                    92
      XIV. The Young Auctioneer                                    100
       XV. The Charms of Music                                     108
      XVI. The Confidence Man                                      116
     XVII. The Storm                                               124
    XVIII. A Hold Up                                               132
      XIX. Out of a Bad Scrape                                     141
       XX. Accused of Stealing                                     150
      XXI. The Tell-Tale Cap                                       157
     XXII. The Shanty in the Woods                                 165
    XXIII. Something is Missing                                    173
     XXIV. Along the River                                         181
      XXV. A Bitter Mistake                                        189
     XXVI. Something of a Surprise                                 197
    XXVII. Timely Assistance                                       205
   XXVIII. Back to the Village                                     213
     XXIX. Undesirable Customers                                   220
      XXX. A Dash from Danger                                      229
     XXXI. Dangerous Mountain Travelling                           238
    XXXII. An Interesting Letter                                   245
   XXXIII. The Rival Auctioneers                                   252
    XXXIV. Matt Speaks His Mind                                    260
     XXXV. Tom Inwold                                              268
    XXXVI. Lost in the Snow                                        277
   XXXVII. More of Auction Life                                    284
  XXXVIII. A Surprising Discovery                                  291
    XXXIX. A Mystery Cleared Up                                    298
       XL. The Mining Shares                                       304




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.




THE YOUNG AUCTIONEER.




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
prey