“Three thousand one hunderd! Who’ll make it four thousand?” The old auctioneer’s voice trembled. He leaned far out over the table, brandishing his mallet wildly.
The man in the checked suit nodded.
“Four thousand dollars I’m bid; who’ll raise it to five?”
The young fellow who had tacitly acknowledged himself to be David Whitcomb groaned aloud.
“I can’t do it!” he said.
There was a general stir and turning of heads as Peg Morrison forced his way through the excited crowd.
“Hold on thar!” he cried, in a loud, tremulous voice. “I’ve been up an’ got my money an’ counted it. I’ll bid on Miss Barb’ry myself. She ain’t a-goin’ t’ leave this ’ere farm t’ go with nobody, ’f I c’n help it! I bid fifty-eight dollars an’ sixty-five cents on Miss Barb’ry, an’ it’s all I’ve got in the world!”
“Four thousand dollars I’m bid!” cried Mr. Bellows, his professional tones easily dominating the babel of voices. “Four thousand dollars, going! Four thousand dollars, going! Four thousand dollars, gone! And sold to this ’ere gentleman. Your name, please!”
The small man, in the checked clothes, cleared his throat weakly and blinked, as he strapped the leathern memorandum book.