"Ten dollars, ten, ten," came the eager call of the man on the box. "Who makes it fifteen? That's it—fifteen I have—sixteen, eighteen—twenty—twenty-five, thirty—thirty, thirty, come on, who makes it more? Not done yet? Not going for that little bit? Who makes it thirty-five?"
"Thirty-five," said Phares.
"Thirty-five," the auctioneer caught at the words. "That's the way to bid."
"Thirty-eight," came a voice from the crowd.
"Thirty-eight," the auctioneer smiled broadly at the bid. "Some person is going to get a fine antique—keep it up, the highest bidder gets it—thirty-eight——"
"Forty," offered Phares.
"Forty, forty dollars—I have forty dollars offered for the highboy—all done at forty——"
There was a tense silence.
"Forty dollars—all done at forty—last call—going—going—gone. Gone at forty dollars to Phares Eby."
Phœbe turned to the preacher. "Did you bid just for the fun of bidding?" she asked.