The High School Boys Canoe Club | Page 8

Then Fred's eye roved toward the pile of stuff on which no one had bid.
"There's a good saddle," suggested Ripley. "The real western kind,"
nodded the auctioneer.
It looked the part.
"I'll give you two dollars for the saddle," Fred offered.
"You'll pay ten if you get that saddle," replied the red-faced auctioneer.
"Put it up and let us see how the bids will run," proposed Ripley.
"The sale is closed. Anything that is sold now will go at private sale,"
retorted the auctioneer.
"Oh, come now!" protested Ripley. "I'd like to trade with you."
"You can, if you produce the price. At least, your friend can. I can't
deal with you, for you're a minor."
Fred tried vainly to persuade the auctioneer to lower the price of the
saddle, but finally concluded to pay ten dollars for it and two dollars for
a bridle. A worn saddle cloth was "thrown in" for good measure. Ripley
handed the money to the auctioneer's clerk.
"Saddle up," directed Fred, tossing a quarter to the man who held the
pony's bridle.
Though flushed with his bargain, Fred was also feeling rather solemn.
He had parted with nearly all of the sixty dollars his father had handed
him that morning as his summer's spending money. He was beginning

to wonder if his pony would really take the place of all the fun he had
planned for his summer vacation.
"Here is your mount, sir," called the man who had done the saddling.
"Now, let's see what kind of a horseman you are."
"As good as you'll find around Gridley," declared Fred complacently.
Putting a foot into the left stirrup, he vaulted lightly to the animal's
back.
"He has a treasure, and we're stung," muttered Dave Darrin in a low
voice. "Those that have plenty of money and can afford to lose don't
often lose!"
Before starting off Fred, glancing over at Dick & Co. standing
dolefully on the truck, brayed insolently:
"Haw, haw, haw!"
Dave clenched his fists, but knew that he could do nothing without
making himself ridiculous.
"Get up, Prince!" ordered young Ripley, bringing one hand smartly
against the animal's flank.
"He's going to call his pony 'Prince,'" whispered Danny Grin.
"It looks like an appropriate name," nodded Dick wistfully.
For some reason the pony didn't seem inclined to start. Fred dug his
heels against the animal's side and moved away at a walk.
"A-a-a-ah!" murmured a crowd of small boys enviously.
"Now, show a little speed, Prince," ordered Fred, digging his heels in
hard.
The pony broke into a trot. Someone passed Ripley a switch, with

which he dealt his animal a stinging blow. Away went pony and rider at
a slow canter.
"Fine gait this little fellow has," exulted Fred, while cheers went up
from the small boys.
Suddenly the animal slowed down to a walk. Fred applied two sharp
cuts with the switch, again starting his mount. Fred turned and came
cantering back toward the group, feeling mightily proud of himself.
Suddenly the pony stopped, trembling in every limb.
"Get off, young man!" called someone. "Your pony is going to fall!"
Fred got off, feeling rather peculiar. He wished that the six fellow high
school boys over on the truck would move off.
Mr. Dodge hurried over to the young man, looking very much
concerned.
"Fred," murmured the banker, "for all his fine looks I'm afraid there is
something wrong with your pony."
"What is it?" asked Fred, looking, as he felt, vastly troubled.
At that moment an automobile stopped out in the road.
"Beg your pardon, Mr. Dodge," called the chauffeur, "but are you
going to want me soon?"
"I want you at once," called back the banker, adding in a lower voice to
Fred:
"Flannery, my new chauffeur, was a coachman for many years. He's a
fine judge of horseflesh."
Flannery came up, an inquiring look on his face.
"I want you to look this pony over and tell me just what you think of

him," directed the banker.
Flannery went over the pony's "lines" with the air of an expert, as,
indeed, he was.
"Fine-looking little beast," said Flannery. "He has been well fed and
groomed."
Then he looked into the pony's mouth, examining the teeth with great
care.
"Used to be a nice animal once," decided Flannery, "but he was that a
long time ago. He's about twenty-five or twenty-six years old."
"What!" exploded young Ripley, growing very red in the face.
"Thinking of buying him, sir?" asked the chauffeur respectfully."
"I've already bought him," confessed Fred ruefully.
Flannery whistled softly. Then he took the pony by the bridle, dragging
him along over the ground at a trot, the crowd making way for him.
"Wind-broken," announced the ex-coachman, leading the trembling
animal back. "Bad case, too."
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