"Five hundred!"
Old Man Curry, leaning against the top rail of the fence, started slightly and turned his eyes in the direction of the sound. The Sharpshooter flashed his gold teeth at him in a cheerful smile. Old Man Curry shrugged his shoulders and rolled the straw from one corner of his mouth to the other. The associate judge looked at him, asking a question with his eyebrows. There was a stir in the crowd about the stand. A bidding contest is always an added attraction.
"Friend, you don't want this hoss," expostulated Old Man Curry, addressing Engle. "He ain't a race hoss; he's a trick hoss. You don't want him."
"What about you, Curry?" asked the associate judge.
"Oh, well," said the old man, slowly. "And five."
"Six hundred!"
Old Man Curry seemed annoyed. He combed his beard with his fingers.
"And five," said he.
"Seven hundred!"
Old Man Curry took time for reflection. Then he sighed deeply.