It all sounded very businesslike and matter-of-course, but Bar looked at Val with his finger on his lip. Pretty much the same idea was passing through both their busy heads. They had not intended to do any eaves-dropping, but they could scarcely have helped overhearing what they had, and, when their luggage was discharged at the Widow Wood’s, they astonished that good old lady by clearing out, within two minutes, on the plea of an important errand in the village. Runner’s tavern was away down at the northern end of the main street, and was a curiously dilapidated kind of a country hostelry. It had been, however, time out of mind, the place appointed for the performance of petty “constables’ sales,” and on this day, at noon, quite a little crowd had assembled in front of it, less with any idea of “bidding” than with a mild curiosity to see what would become of Puff Evans’s boat. Puff himself had been on hand half the morning, and had, with wonderful self-control for him, kept rigidly away from the door of the tavern bar-room. Tall, lank, red-headed, weak-faced, with a strong tendency to wear his hands in his pockets and to blow out his irresolute cheeks in the style which had gained him his nickname, but for all that Puff Evans had not a single personal enemy in either Ogleport or Rodney. Indeed, he received an abundance of sympathy over the admitted hardness of his case, especially from the boys. Thus far, however, Puff had been utterly unable to crystallize that sympathy into anything that resembled coin or bank-notes, and he was now standing with his shoeless feet wide apart, mournfully gazing at the “notice of sale” which his moderate learning did not enable him to read. Zeb Fuller was on hand as a matter of course, and well backed up, too, so far as numbers went, but Zeb’s pocket was only a very little better off, in that emergency, than Puff’s own, though with fewer holes in it. “This is mighty hard on Puff, isn’t it, Gershom?” said Zeb to the fat old miller, as the latter waddled dignifiedly past the crowd. “What is it, Zeb? Come here,” replied the miller. “Do you want to buy?” “Only to keep Puff Evans from drowning himself,” said Zeb. “It’s only fifteen dollars, and the boat’s worth four times that much. I’ve got three.” “I’ll lend you the other twelve!” exclaimed Gershom Todderley, pulling out his wallet, “and you and I can own the boat together till you can pay me. We can let Puff use it, can’t we?” “The very thing!” exclaimed Zeb. “You’re an honor to Ogleport, Brother Todderley.” Gershom looked at the incorrigible youngster with a very dignified sort of wheeze, but Zeb went back to the crowd feeling like a Rothschild. In a moment more the customary and monotonous, “How much’m I offered,” was responded to by a bid of five dollars from the Rodney attorney, who had “come for that boat.” “Five, goin’ at five--five--do I hear any more?” “Ten,” responded Zeb. The Rodney man started and looked hard at Zeb.