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.