"Shipped to William Brothers, Ross Junction," announced Bart, reading the tag, "not found. Come, gentlemen! what am I bid for lot 1129?"
"What's in it?" inquired a big farmer sitting near the front.
"You will have to guess that," answered Bart pleasantly. "Ah! some kind of liquid, I should imagine," and he shook the box, its contents echoing out a mellow, gurgling sound.
"Mebbe it's paint, Samantha?" suggested the farmer to his wife. "There'd be two gallons of it—enough to cover the smokehouse. Ten cents."
"The charges are eighty-five," explained Bart—"can't start it any lower."
A blear-eyed, unsteady individual, whom Bart recognized as a member of the Sharp Corner contingent, advanced to the table.
He was thirsty-looking and eager as he poked at the box and tried to peer into it.
"A demijohn!" he muttered, his mouth watering. "Two gallons—probably prime old stuff. Eighty-five cents."
"Eighty-five—eighty-five!" repeated Bart.
"Ninety," said the farmer.