"That part would be new to me too," said Sandy. "Here we have no selling; we do not even auction off our own wool, as you see, for our clip goes direct to our owners. But when a ranch sells its wool to other buyers the manager has lively days, I can tell you. Both Anchor and Star Ranch sell to brokers. They send out word that they have wool for sale and the Eastern buyers swarm here like flies. They bid on the wool--bid right against each other, even though sometimes they are the best of friends. The men get an idea of the price they want to pay by looking over the fleeces and seeing how they will grade up. Above everything else a wool buyer must have a trained eye, quick to detect the quality of the shipment offered for sale. That is what decides him on how high he will bid. After the buyers have got up to what they consider a reasonable price they stop bidding. The wool-grower must then accept the highest bid." "But he may not be satisfied with the price," put in Donald. "It makes no difference. They are supposed to make a fair bid on the clip." "What if he shouldn't take it?" "Why, then all the brokers who have bid on the wool leave town pledging each other not to bid on that particular shipment of wool for two weeks," replied Sandy. "Why?" inquired Donald, opening his eyes. "It is to protect the brokers. You can see the justice in it when you think a moment. These Easterners are busy men and they come a long way. They can't take a trip to some far-off ranch only to find the wool-grower has decided not to sell his fleeces; or that he will not sell them below a certain price. If a man really does not want to sell he must not get the buyers there; if he does he must be content with what they offer. Your father would have to buy his wool this way if he did not own Crescent Ranch; and even so he may send men to buy wool at outside ranches too, for all I know." "I am going to ask him," Donald said. "Do not ask him now. He might not want to talk his business over here. Wait until you get back East." "I hate to think of going back home, Sandy," the boy declared, regret in his tones. "All good things must come to an end, lad. You will go back, finish your schooling, go to college as your father wishes, and then, a gentleman grown, you will be choosing some work." Sandy studied Donald keenly. "Yes, I suppose that is just what I shall do. I am thinking some of studying law, Sandy." The Scotchman's face fell, but Donald did not notice it. "I've always thought I should like to stand up in court and make a great plea--a speech that would sweep people off their feet," went on Donald. "Or," he added reflectively, "I may be a judge." Sandy scratched his head. "There's a good bit step between studying law and being a judge," said he. "Perhaps after all I may decide not to be a judge," ruminated Donald. "I have always wanted to manage a baseball team and I may think I would rather do that."