"Thirty," observed young Cowperwood, decisively.
The auctioneer, a short lean faced, spare man with bushy hair and an incisive eye, looked at him curiously and almost incredulously but without pausing.

He had, somehow, in spite of himself, been impressed by the boy's peculiar eye; and now he felt, without knowing why, that the offer was probably legitimate enough, and that the boy had the money.

He might be the son of a grocer.
"I'm bid thirty! I'm bid thirty! I'm bid thirty for this fine lot of Castile soap.

It's a fine lot.

It's worth fourteen cents a bar.