“Take him away,” he said, and two rough fellows, laughing, carried the bully to the edge of the fountain that played in the corner of the square. He was still lying crumpled up there when we rode out of Clayville.
The bidding, of course, had stopped, owing to the unaffected interest which the public took in this more dramatic interlude. The broker, it is true, had bid twenty-five dollars, and was wrangling with the auctioneer.
“You have my bid, Mr. Brinton, sir, and there is no other offer. Knock down the lot to me.”
“You wait your time, Mr. Isaacs,” said the auctioneer. “No man can do two things at once and do them well. When Squire Moore has settled with Dick Bligh he will desert the paths of military adventure for the calmer and more lucrative track of commercial enterprise.”
The auctioneer’s command of long words was considerable, and was obviously of use to him in his daily avocations.
When he had rounded his period, Moore was in the saddle again, and nodded silently to the auctioneer.
“Squire Moore bids thirty dollars. Thirty dollars for this once despised but now appreciated fellow-creature,” rattled on the auctioneer.
The agent nodded again.
“Forty dollars bid,” said the auctioneer.
“Fifty,” cried Moore.