Here a squinting, hatchet-faced fellow in a broad-brimmed straw hat, who had been making quite a puddle of tobacco-juice on the ground, leaped upon the bale, and lifted the slave’s faded baize shirt so as to get a look at his back. Then, putting his finger on the side of his nose, the examiner winked at Ripper, and jumped down.
“Scored?” asked an anxious inquirer.
“Scored? Wall, stranger, he’s been scored, then put under a harrer, then paddled an’ burnt. A hard ticket that.”
The nine hundred dollar bid was as yet in the imagination of the auctioneer. But, with the quick penetration of his craft, he saw the strong-minded widow standing on tiptoe, her face eager with the excitement of bidding, and her words only checked by the desire to judge from the amount of competition whether the article were a desirable one.
“A thousand and ten! Thank you, sir, thank you!” said Ripper, bowing to a gentleman he had seen only in his mind’s eye. Nobody could dispute the bid, all eyes being directed toward the auctioneer.
“A thousand and twenty-five,” continued Ripper, turning in an opposite direction, and bowing to an equally imaginary bidder. Then, apparently catching the eye of the competing customer, “A thousand and forty!” he exclaimed; and so, see-sawing from one chimerical gentleman to the other, he carried the sham bidding up to a thousand and seventy-five.
At this point Mrs. Barkdale, pale, and following with swayings of her own body the motions of the auctioneer, her heart in her mouth almost depriving her of speech, waved her hand to attract his attention, and, rising on tiptoe, gasped forth, “A thousand and eighty!”
“Thank you, madam,” said Ripper, politely touching his hat. Then, apparently catching the eye of his imaginary bidder on the right, “Monsieur Dupré,” he said, “you won’t allow such a bargain to slip through your hands, will you? Voyez! Où trouverez-vous un mieux? Thank you, sir; thank you! A thousand and ninety,—I’m offered a thousand and ninety for this superior field-hand. Goin’,—goin’. Thank you, madam. Eleven hunderd dollars; only eleven hunderd dollars for this most valubble piece of property. I assure you, gentlemen, ‘t is not often you’ve such a chance. Goin’ for eleven hunderd dollars! Are you all done? Eleven hunderd dollars. Goin’! Gone! You were too late, sir. To Mrs. Barkdale for eleven hunderd dollars.”
The widow, almost ready to faint, made her way to her carriage, and was driven off. Some of the company shrugged their shoulders, while others uttered a low, significant whistle. Ike, who maintained his dogged, sulky look, picked up his bundle, and was remanded to the warehouse, there to be kept till claimed.
“Now, gentlemen,” said the auctioneer, “I have to call your attention to the primest fancy article that it has ever been my good fortin to put under the hammer. Lot Number 5 is the quadroon gal, Nelly. Bring her on.”