“Ten dollars! Who’ll raise the bid? Twelve?” He pointed to a man on the edge of the group. “Who’ll give me twelve dollars for this reliable mule? Twelve dollars?”
“Fifteen,” said Ben.
A smile rippled over the faces of the crowd, and Ben became painfully conscious that he had made an error. He could feel his face growing uncomfortably warm.
“Fifteen dollars!” called the auctioneer. “Will no one raise it? Is there no one here wants this mule more than this young gentleman? Fifteen once—fifteen twice—fifteen three times, and sold to—”—he turned expectantly toward Ben,—“Mr.—”
“Ralston,” said Ben.
The money was paid, and Ben started for the Works with his purchase.
“You must hev wanted that mule powerful bad, young feller,” a bystander remarked, as the pair issued from the gate.
“Think so?” the boy replied, anxious to make his escape.
“Yes—it rather looks as though you did. To wait till the last and worst-lookin’ mule in the bunch was offered,” the man continued, “and then to raise your own bid twice.” There was a laugh from the crowd. “You could hev got him for twelve dollars, sure, and you might hev got him for ten.”