“Ten!” Orren Randolph Gaitskill called.
“Ten, I’m bid; ten, I’m bid—somebody’s either drunk or crazy, by jacks! Ten, I’m bid—who’ll play damphool and make it ’leven?”
“’Leben!” Little Bit chimed.
The auctioneer jerked off his big wool hat, slapped it against the bony side of the mule till it popped like a pistol and howled:
“Wake up, Jinx! You old varmint—you are surrounded by friends! Wake up and show your manners!”
The mule raised his head, shut one eye with an absurdly sleepy wink, dropped one big leathery ear forward, and let his head sag down until his nose almost touched his knee.
“Twelve dollars!”
This was more than the auctioneer could endure. He must ascertain the source of these rival bids. A shout of laughter rose from the crowd of men which shook the windows in the stores, as the auctioneer stooped and looked between the men and his red-rimmed eyes rested upon two boys, one white, one black!
“Who bid that twelve dollars?” he snapped, glaring at the boys.
“Me,” Org confessed.