Milo said it, and Eddie was back at him afore he could shake the reefs out of the last syllable. She went up to a hundred, then to one hundred and twenty-five, and with every raise Adoniram Roger's smile lengthened out. After the one-twenty-five mark the tide rose slower. Milo'd raise it a dollar and Eddie'd jump him fifty cents. And just then two things happened. One was that a servant girl come running from the Old Home House to tell the Duchess and “Irene dear” that some swell friends of theirs from the hotel at Harniss had driven over to call and was waiting for 'em in the parlor. The female Smalls went in, though they wa'n't joyful over it. They give Eddie his sailing orders afore they went, too. The other thing that happened was Bill Saltmarsh's arriving in port. Bill is an “antiquer” for revenue only. He runs an antique store over at Ostable and the prices he charges are enough to convict him without hearing the evidence. I knew he'd come. Saltmarsh busts through the crowd and makes for the pulpit. He nods to Peter T. and picks up one of the plates. He looks at it first ruther casual; then more and more careful, turning it over and taking up another. “Hold on a minute, Brown,” says he. “Are THESE the dishes you're selling?” “Sure thing,” comes back Peter. “Think we're serving free lunch? No, sir! Those are the genuine articles, Mr. Saltmarsh, and you're cheating the widders and orphans if you don't put in a bid quick. One thirty-two fifty, I'm bid. Now, Saltmarsh!” But Bill only laughed. Then he picks up another plate, looks at it, and laughs again. “Good day, Brown,” says he. “Sorry I can't stop.” And off he puts towards his horse and buggy. Eddie Small was watching him. Milo, being on the other side of the pulpit, hadn't noticed so partic'lar. “Who's that?” asks Eddie, suspicious. “Does he know antiques?” I remarked that if Bill didn't, then nobody did. “Look here, Saltmarsh!” says Small, catching Bill by the arm as he shoved through the crowd. “What's the matter with those dishes--anything?” Bill turned and looked at him. “Why, no,” he says, slow. “They're all right--of their kind.” And off he put again. But Eddie wa'n't satisfied. He turns to me. “By George!” he says. “What is it? Does he think they're fakes?” I didn't know, so I shook my head. Small fidgetted, looked at Peter, and then run after Saltmarsh. Milo had just raised the bid. “One hundred and thirty-three” hollers Peter, fetching the tea chest a belt. “One thirty-four do I hear? Make it one thirty-three fifty. Fifty cents do I hear? Come, come! this is highway robbery, gentlemen. Mr. Small--where are you?” But Eddie was talking to Saltmarsh. In a minute back he comes, looking more worried than ever. Peter T. bawled and pounded and beckoned at him with the mallet, but he only fidgetted--didn't know what to do.