Waddie glanced furiously at me, and I saw that his fists were clenched. “Thirty-five,” said he. “Forty.” “Forty-five,” snapped he. “Fifty,” I added quietly. I had hardly uttered the word before Waddie’s fist was planted squarely on the end of my nose, and the blood spurted from it. He was about to follow it up with another, when I deemed it necessary to do something. I parried his stroke, and hit him so fairly in the eye that he reeled, lost his balance, and went over backwards into the lake with a fearful splash. CHAPTER III. ON BOARD THE “BELLE.” Somehow, when we resort to violence, we often do much more than we intend. I did not desire to do anything more than defend myself; but Waddie stood between me and the water, and when I hit him, he went over. I have never claimed to be saint or angel. I was human enough to “get mad” when the young gentleman flattened my nose and made it bleed. I simply defended myself by the only means within my power, though I did not intend to throw Waddie into the lake. The water was not more than three or four feet deep near the wall; but Waddie might have been drowned in it, if he had not been promptly assisted by the auctioneer and others. But if the water was not deep, it was cold, and hydropathy is an excellent remedy for overheated blood. “That’s the way Wolf fights,” said Waddie, as he shook the water from his clothes. “He served you right,” replied the auctioneer, who, I believe, did not belong to Ruoara--certainly not to Centreport. “Do you call this fair play?” demanded Waddie, with chattering teeth. “To be sure I do. You turned on him, and hit him without any warning,” retorted the auctioneer. “He hit you back, and paid you in your own coin. You went over into the lake, but that was not his fault. Fifty dollars is bid for this beautiful boat, that cost over six hundred.” “I told him I would be the death of him if he bid against me,” replied Waddie; but there was not much life in his words. “O, ho! you did--did you? Well, I’m glad he knocked you into the lake; and if I had known what you told him, you might have staid in the lake for all me,” added the auctioneer indignantly, for the greatest sin in his estimation was a conspiracy to suppress bidding at an auction. “Fifty dollars! Shall I have sixty?” Waddie lingered on the wall, shivering with the cold; but, to my astonishment, he did not make any additional bid. I could not understand it. The auctioneer again called the attention of the audience to the many virtues of the _Belle_, and then observed, in piteous tones, that only fifty dollars was bid for the beautiful craft. “I haven’t done with you yet, Wolf Penniman,” said Waddie, creeping up to me. “Well, I hope you will finish with me as soon as possible,” I replied, stepping back from the wall so as not to afford him any temptation to push me into the lake. “I’ll keep my word with you.” “Fifty dollars!” stormed the auctioneer, justly indignant at the sacrifice of the boat.