"Ten dollars!" cried somebody in the crowd and the auctioneer retorted that the bidder must be joking.
Dorothy, listening, flashed one indignant glance over the crowd and stood up in the runabout, resisting Jim's abashed attempts to pull her down upon the seat. She clutched her pocket-book with all her strength, as if he might try to take it from her, and called out in her clear treble:
"Thirty-five dollars!"
A silence that might be felt over that assembly, and no other bid followed Dorothy's. Once, twice, thrice, Mr. Barry solicited a "raise" but none was forthcoming. To nobody else in that company was the pretty, piebald pony worth even half so much money. The creature had been born on the western plains, and while it had a reputation for speed was not strong enough for hard work, such as these other possible bidders required.
"Going, going, gone! Sold to Miss Dorothy Chester for thirty-five dollars, cash down! Now for the cart and harness. How much?"
While waiting offers for these articles the clerk of the auction obligingly led the pony through the gate and fastened its halter to the back of the runabout; whereupon Dorothy's consuming eagerness could hardly wait to count out the seven crisp banknotes which made her the happy possessor of that wonderful pony.
Another moment found her on the ground beside it, patting its neck, smoothing its velvety nostrils, and longing to kiss it with that sudden affection born in her. So absorbed was she in the creature that she noticed nothing further going on about her till somebody politely asked her to "step aside and let us hitch up."
Then she saw that Jim had left the runabout himself and was now between the shafts of a small low wagon, drawing it into the road. Five minutes later he announced:
"We're ready to go now, Dorothy."
"Shall we take the pony with us to the circus? Why are you turning the runabout around to go back the way we came? Newburgh's not in that direction."