"Start it, hurry up, somebody. How much is bid for the cradle? Sam here says it's been in the Brubaker family for years and years. Think of all the babies that were rocked to sleep in it—it's a real relic."
Phœbe, unacquainted with the value of cradles, was silently endeavoring to determine the proper amount for a first bid. She was relieved to hear a woman's voice call, "Twenty-five cents."
"Twenty-five I have, twenty-five," called the auctioneer. "Make it thirty."
"Thirty," said Phœbe.
"Forty," came from the other woman.
"Make it fifty, Miss." He pointed a fat finger at Phœbe.
"Fifty," she responded.
"Fifty, fifty, anybody make it sixty? Fifty cents—all done at fifty? Then it goes at fifty cents to"—Phœbe repeated her name—"to Phœbe Metz."
He proceeded with the sale. Phœbe turned triumphantly to the preacher—"I kept my promise."
"You did," he said. "The cradle is yours—what are you going to do with it?"