“What am I offered?” says Mark.
Folks started to bid. One man offered a dead dog, and another bid a plugged cent, and another the squeak of a pig and another the hole in a fried cake. All the time Sam was straining and tugging, but Mark didn’t let go. Then a man back in the crowd yelled, “I bet Sam Hoskins’s yaller dawg.”
“Sold,” says Mark, and he let loose of Sam. You never saw a kid disappear as quick as that kid did. He just vanished. You can bet no more kids interfered with Mark’s auction that day.
As soon as folks had quit laughing Mark started in to sell things in earnest. First thing was a wash-bowl and pitcher, and to hear Mark talk about it you would have thought the King of England was all broken up because he was so far off he couldn’t be there to bid on it.
Mrs. Sanders bid a dime. Mark just looked at her and pretended he couldn’t hear. He put his hand up to his ear and asked her to repeat it. She got sort of red in the face and bid a quarter.
“A q-quarter—a quarter I’m bid for a bowl and pitcher the Queen of Sheeby’d be tickled to death to wash her f-face in.” Mark was sort of excited and the way he stuttered was a caution. “What lady or gentleman desirin’ an heirloom to hand down to their g-g-great-g-g-grandchildren raises that bid?” It was worth a dime to hear him splutter “great-grandchildren.”
“Thirty cents,” says somebody.
“Huh!” snorted Mark. “It cost more’n that to paint the pictures on it.” He wiggled two thumbs at Uncle Ike Bond, who opened up his mouth and roared “Forty cents,” and then looked as proud of himself as if he’d sung a solo in church.
Mrs. Sanders shot a mad look at Uncle Ike and bid forty-five. Mark wiggled one thumb and Uncle Ike bid fifty. Mrs. Sanders turned around and scowled at him. I could hear her whisper to Mrs. Newman, “That ol’ scalawag sha’n’t have it.” Mark heard her, too, and he gave me just the beginning of a wink. “Sixty cents,” snapped Mrs. Sanders. Marked wiggled a thumb. “Sixty-five,” says Uncle Ike. “Seventy-five,” says Mrs. Sanders, setting her mouth in a straight line and shaking her head. “Eighty,” yelled Uncle Ike. Mrs. Sanders straightened up and glared at him—glared! I wouldn’t ’a’ had her look at me like that for a quarter. Her eyes ’most bored holes in him, but Uncle Ike only grinned aggravating, like Mark told him to. “A dollar,” says Mrs. Sanders, and then put her fists on her hips and tossed her head.
“Dollar ten,” says Uncle Ike.