TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER
THE HIGHEST BIDDER
I
Abram Hewett and his son “Al” were distributing the mail in the narrow space behind the high tier of numbered glass boxes which occupied the left-hand corner of the general store known as “Hewett’s grocery.” There were not many letters and papers in the old leathern bag whose marred outer surface bore evidence to its many hurried departures and ignominious arrivals. Only the “locals” stopped at Barford; the expresses whizzed disdainfully past, discharging the mailbag on the platform of the ugly little station like a well-aimed bullet.
There was one letter in the scant pile awaiting official scrutiny over which the younger Hewett pursed his thick lips in a thoughtful whistle. He turned over the thin envelope, held it up to the light, squinted curiously at it out of one gray-green eye before he finally deposited it among the letters destined for general delivery.
This done, a slight sound drew his attention to the wabbly stand on the counter next to the post-office proper, whereon was displayed a variety of picture postal cards; “views” of Barford taken by the local photographer, and offered generously to the public at the rate of two for five cents. Intermingled with the photographic representations of the village were cards of a more general and decorative nature; impossibly yellow Easter chickens, crosses, wreaths, and baskets of flowers, in a variety of startling colors, and lurking behind these in a manner suited to the time of year (it being the month of April) were reminders of a Christmas past, in the shape of stars, holly wreaths, and churches, their lighted windows sparkling with mica snows.
Before this varied collection a small boy, with a scarlet tam perched on the back of his curly head, stood gazing with longing eyes.