After Willie had walked several blocks he turned about and started back. He thought it must be nearly time for the auction to begin, and when he looked up the street toward the public pier, he was sure of it. No longer could he see men grouped on the street there. Again he felt the desire to run, that had mastered him on the preceding day. But this time he mastered it, and sauntered slowly along. When he came near the pier, he could see that the shoreward end of it was deserted, while a mass of black figures was dimly discernible at the far end. Fortunately there was no electric light immediately in front of this pier, and Willie slipped across the street, thankful for the protecting darkness. Once on the pier, he made his way quietly toward the circle of men. Unnoticed, he joined the group. After a few moments, his eyes became accustomed to the unlighted pier and he realized that it was not nearly so dark as he had thought it was. He could make out the faces of those around him more or less distinctly. He knew that his own could be as readily distinguished. He pulled down his cap as far as he could and was in high hopes of going unnoticed. His hopes were in vain, however. For suddenly a rough voice spoke out. “Well, we might as well get down to business. But first let’s be sure that everybody’s all right in this crowd.” The speaker was Larsen, the possessor of the stolen wool. He began to move about among the gang, addressing now one, now another, by name. Presently he boomed out, “Who the deuce are you? I never seen you before.” Sheridan’s voice replied, and Willie held his breath while he heard the Secret Service man reply in an unconcerned tone of voice: “Who? Me? Why, I’m Mike Carola, a junkie from Greenpoint.” Apparently Larsen was satisfied. He continued his inspection of the crowd. Willie tried to avoid observation, but Larsen’s eagle eye spotted him. “What the deuce you doin’ here?” he cried with an oath. “Kids ain’t allowed here. Get off this pier, and be quick about it, too.” Willie lost no time about going. But he stopped running the instant he was off the pier. His heart was beating wildly, but he took a grip on himself and presently returned to the street end of the pier. Not so very far from the group of men were stacked the boxes among which Sheridan had been concealed the day before. Willie slowly edged his way toward these boxes, and finally gained their protection unobserved. Snuggled down among them he was safe from discovery. He could hear most of what was said, for the gang soon forgot their caution in the heat of competitive bidding. The auction had started. “Twenty-five cents,” was the first word Willie heard. “Twenty-six,” another voice said. “Raise you a cent,” came another voice. “Twenty-eight,” said the first voice, after a short pause. The bidding continued fairly brisk until forty cents was reached. Then no more offers were forthcoming.