“Five bits!” Barend DeRoo, of Low Prairie, in the lists. A strapping young Dutchman, the Brom Bones of the district. Aaltje Huff, in a fit of pique at his indifference, had married to spite him. Cornelia Vinke, belle of New Haarlem, was said to be languishing for love of him. He drove to the Haymarket with his load of produce and played cards all night on the wagon under the gas torches while the street girls of the neighbourhood assailed him in vain. Six feet three, his red face shone now like a harvest moon above the crowd. A merry, mischievous eye that laughed at Pervus DeJong and his dollar bid.
“Dollar and a half!” A high clear voice—a boy’s voice. Roelf.
“Oh, no!” said Selina aloud. But she was unheard in the gabble. Roelf had once confided to her that he had saved three dollars and fifty cents in the last three years. Five dollars would purchase a set of tools that his mind had been fixed on for months past. Selina saw Klaas Pool’s look of astonishment changing to anger. Saw Maartje Pool’s quick hand on his arm, restraining him.
“Two dollars!” Pervus DeJong.
“Twotwotwotwotwotwo!” Adam Ooms in a frenzy of salesmanship.
“And ten.” Johannes Ambuul’s cautious bid.
“Two and a quarter.” Barend DeRoo.
“Two-fifty!” Pervus DeJong.
“Three dollars!” The high voice of the boy. It cracked a little on the last syllable, and the crowd laughed.
“Three-three-three-three-threethreethree. Three once——”