Meggs says something under his breath that wasn’t what you could call a compliment, and boosted it to seventy-five.
“No man that’s too lazy to support a wife can outbid me,” says Miss Mullins. “A dollar.”
“Dollar ten,” says Meggs, scowling like everything.
Miss Mullins edged over toward him where she could look right into his face, and says, “Dollar ’n’ quatter.”
“I’m goin’ to have that sweeper,” says Meggs to Uncle Ike, “if I have to sell my hoss.... Dollar ’n’ half.”
Well, sir, those two folks, just because they didn’t like each other kept on a-bidding and a-bidding till they got up to five dollars, which was twice what the sweeper was worth. And then Meggs quit. He let on he didn’t want it, anyhow, and said he never did have any use for them patent contraptions.
“He never had no use for anythin’ he had to spend money for,” says Miss Mullins, passing up a five-dollar bill.
The auction went along like that for an hour, everybody having the finest kind of a time. It was better than a circus. Mark knew just how to get them, too. He played folks against each other and used grudges he knew about until the prices he got were a caution. It looked like we were going to get rich right there.
I looked down the street to the new Five-and-Ten-Cent Store—and it was as deserted as the Desert of Sahara. But coming up the street I saw Jehoshaphat P. Skip, waving his arms and twisting his nose and talking loud and fast to Town-Marshal Sprout. They came right up and pushed their way through the crowd. The marshal walked up to Mark’s platform.
“Mark,” says he, “lemme see your permit to have this here auction in the street.”