“No bids from boys,” he began, but the auctioneer promptly responded: “If Zeb Fuller’s a boy, whar’d General Jackson git his army. Ten, ten--going at ten--do I hear any more?” “Eleven!” “Twelve!” shouted Zeb, and then he added, “Won’t do, Skinner, my boy; I’d never forgive myself if I let you go a boating and get drowned.” “Thirteen!” exclaimed Skinner. “Fourteen!” from Zeb. “Fourteen, goin’ at fourteen----” “Fourteen and a ’alf!” from Skinner. “Fifteen!” said Zeb, quickly, but with a shivery sort of feeling that he had got to the end of his rope. The Rodney attorney was inclined to dally a little, and the auctioneer came very near knocking down the prize to Zeb before that fatal “’alf” was added that carried him out of his depth. If he had only had time to call for a collection of quarters from among the boys, or to make another pull on old Gershom Todderley. Nobody else looked as if they intended to dispute the matter, and lawyer Skinner began to think he would get his boat cheap enough, when a clear, strong, though somewhat boyish voice, capped the last bid with: “Sixteen!” And all eyes were turned towards the newcomer, while Skinner growled: “More boys? Come, now, this won’t do, Mr. What’s-your-name?” “My name’s Cash,” quietly responded Bar Vernon, as the auctioneer went on with: “Sixteen, sixteen! do I hear any more?” “Seventeen!” said Skinner, raspishly. “Twenty,” responded Bar; “let’s make it interesting.” “Twenty-one,” shouted the now exasperated Skinner. “Twenty-two!” said Bar, and even Zeb Fuller gave a shout of exultation and remarked: “Skinner, my son, you’ve got to give full value for that ark if you get it. You ain’t so much in danger of drowning as you was.” But the Rodney lawyer had no idea of any such wickedness as paying full value for that or any other thing, and the auctioneer hammered away in vain. “Come,” said Zeb, encouragingly--“come, Skinner, my dear fellow, if a man’s drowned he’ll never be hung. It’s your best chance. Try him again. Say three, now.” But Skinner was getting sulky over his defeat, and, before he could quite make up his mind to raise the bid, the hammer fell. “What name?” said the auctioneer. “Cash,” said Barnaby, and the “best boat on the lake” was all his own. That is, he and Val Manning owned it between them, for they had decided to “go halves” on the purchase-money. As for Lawyer Skinner, that gentleman somewhat rapidly withdrew himself from the gaze of the crowd of boys and the tantalizing remarks of Zeb Fuller. “Well, Mr. Cash,” said Zeb to our hero, “you’ve got the boat, but who’s to pay Puff Evans’s funeral expenses, I’d like to know?” “Which one is he?” asked Bar. “The gentleman yonder that reminds you of Daniel Webster,” said Zeb, pointing at the half-stunned and altogether bewildered builder of the boat. “I’ve some business to attend to over at the mill, but I’ll call for the coroner on my way back.”