The Young Auctioneers. Stratemeyer Edward

Matt bluntly.

      "I suppose you were doing your best to keep out of the way of Gulligan and myself.'"

      "Is Gulligan the man I had the row with?"

      "Yes."

      "Then you are right. I don't want to get into trouble for nothing. That young lady was not to blame for what happened, and I considered it my duty to take her part."

      "Mr. Gulligan was very mad," went on Andrew Dilks, still smiling quietly.

      ​"I can't help that. He ought not to have pitched into me the way he did."

      "I agree with you."

      At these words, so quietly but firmly spoken, Matt's eyes opened in wonder. Was it possible that the old auctioneer's assistant took his part?

      "You agree with me?" he repeated.

      "Yes, I agree with you. Gulligan was altogether too hasty—he most generally is," returned Andrew Dilks.

      "I'll bet you don't dare tell him that," and Matt grinned mischievously.

      "I have just told him."

      "What?"

      "Yes. I believe that unknown man was entirely to blame. It was a shame the way Gulligan carried on. As soon as you ran out he turned upon me for not stopping you, and we had some pretty hot words."

      "Good for you!" cried Matt. "I must thank you, not only for myself, but for Miss Bartlett as well."

      "Those hot words have cost me my situation," went on Andrew Dilks more soberly.

      Instantly Matt's face fell.

      "That's too bad, indeed, it is!" he said earnestly. "Why, I would rather have gone home and ​got the money to pay for the broken stuff than have that happen."

      "It was not altogether on account of the broken piece of bric-a-brac," went on Andrew Dilks. "Gulligan has been angry at me for over two weeks—ever since I wouldn't pass off a counterfeit five-dollar bill he had taken in. I said the bill ought to be burned up, but he wouldn't hear of it."

      "But now you are out of a job."

      "That's true. But I don't much care. Working for him was not easy, and he never paid me my weekly wages of ten dollars until I had asked for it about a dozen times."

      "I thought auctioneers made more than that," said Matt. There was something about Andrew Dilks that pleased him, and he was becoming interested in the conversation.

      "Most of them do—a good deal more. But Gulligan considered that he had taught me the business, and that I was still under his thumb."

      "Why don't you go in business for yourself? It seems to me it would just suit me," said Matt enthusiastically. "I once passed through the town of Rahway, out in New Jersey, and a fellow not much older than you had a big wagon there, and was auctioning stuff off at a great rate—crockery ware, lamps, albums, razors, and a lot more of ​goods. They said he had been selling goods there every night for a week."

      "Those are the fellows who make money," returned Andrew Dilks. "Here in the city the business is done to death. Give a man a good team of horses and a wagon, and enough money to stock up, and he can travel from place to place and make a small fortune."

      "I believe you. Why don't you start out?"

      "I haven't enough money, that's the only reason."

      "How much would it take?"

      "The price of the turnout, from two hundred dollars up, and about a hundred dollars for stock. You know stock can be purchased as often as desired."

      "By crickety! If I had the money I would go in with you!" cried Matt, caught with a sudden idea. "That sort of thing would just suit me."

      "You? Why I thought you were a city boy, a clerk——"

      "So I am. But my Uncle Dan always called me a rolling stone, and that hits it exactly. I am tired of New York, and I would jump at the first chance to get out of it and see some of the country."

      "Then you are like me," returned Andrew Dilks warmly. He was quite taken with Matt's candor. ​"If I had a turnout I would travel all over the United States, stopping a week here and a week there. How old are you?"

      "Sixteen."

      "I am twenty-one. Do you live with your parents?"

      "No, I am alone here."

      "So am I. I used to live in Chicago before all my folks died. I like your appearance. What is your name?"

      Matt told him, and also gave Andrew Dilks a brief bit of his history. The auctioneer listened with interest, and then told a number of things concerning himself. He had been with Caleb Gulligan four years. He had been sick several times, but, nevertheless, had managed to save a hundred and thirty-five dollars."

      "I've got seventy-five dollars saved, part of which I got from other brokers than Mr. Fenton, for running errands, and so forth," said Matt. "That and your money would make two hundred and ten dollars. Couldn't we start out on that?"

      "We might," replied Andrew Dilks reflectively. "You are on your way to work now, are you not?"

      "Yes, and I ought to be at the office this minute!" cried Matt, with a start. "Mr. Fenton will be ​tearing mad, I know. But I won't care—that is, if we come to a deal."

      "Come and see me this evening, then. I am stopping at the Columbus Hotel, on the Bowery."

      "I know the place, and I'll be up at seven o'clock," returned Matt; and on this agreement the two separated.

      "My, but I would like to become a traveling auctioneer!" said the boy to himself, as he hurried dcwn Broadway. "I wish I had enough money so that we could go in as equal partners. He seems a first-rate chap in every way, and honest, too, or he would not have gotten into that row over the five-dollar counterfeit."

      Matt had lost much time in talking to Andrew Dilks, and now, in order to reach Wall street the quicker, he hopped upon the tail-end of a dray that was moving rapidly toward the Battery.

      "Beating the cable cars out of a nickel!" he called to the driver, and that individual smiled grimly, and said nothing.

      Less than ten minutes later the boy entered the stock-broker's main office. He was just about to pass into Randolph Fenton's private apartment when the figure of a man moving rapidly down the street attracted his attention. It was the red ​mustached man who had created the trouble at the auction store.

      "Please give these books to Mr. Fenton, and tell him I'll be back shortly," said Matt to the head clerk, and without waiting for a reply he placed his package on a desk, and hurried out of the door after the man.

      ​

      THE PURSUIT OF A FAMILIAR FACE.Y.A.

      ​

      CHAPTER V.

      MATT IS DISCHARGED.

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      When Matt Lincoln reached the pavement he saw that the man he was after had reached Wall street and was turning down toward Water street. The boy started on a run and caught up to the individual just as he was about to descend into an insurance office which was located several steps below the level of the street.

      "Hold on there!" cried Matt, and he caught the man by the arm.

      "What is it, boy?" demanded the other, with a slight start at being accosted so unexpectedly.

      "I want to see you about that piece