“Two twenty-five,” said Tibbs.
The gentleman who had descended from the barouche here drew nearer, and examined the form and features of the little girl with a closer scrutiny.
“Two fifty,” said he, as the result of his inspection.
Tibbs, irritated by the competition, made his bid three hundred.
“Four hundred!” said the man with the riding-whip.
“Five hundred!” retorted Tibbs, ejecting the words with a vicious snort.
“Six hundred,” returned his competitor, with perfect nonchalance.
“Seven hundred and fifty,” shrieked Tibbs.
“A thousand,” said the other, playing with his whip.
Tibbs did not venture further. Mortified and angry, he turned away, and consoled himself with an enormous cut of tobacco.