“When people buy a horse they really buy and pay for the labor of that horse in advance,” Barbara said composedly. “I am more valuable than a horse. I have skill, intelligence; I wish to sell—my skill, my intelligence to the highest bidder.”
“Well, I swan!” exclaimed Mr. Bellows. Then he fell to laughing noisily, his wizened countenance drawn into curious folds and puckers of mirth.
Barbara waited unsmilingly.
“Say! d’you know I’ve been asked to sell mos’ everythin’ you ever heard of,” said Mr. Bellows, getting the better of his hilarity, “but I never was asked to sell—a girl. A good-lookin’, smart, likely girl. I guess you’re jokin’, miss. It wouldn’t do, you know.”
“Why wouldn’t it?” urged Barbara.
“Well, it wouldn’t; that’s all. I’ve got m’ reputation as an auctioneer to think about; an’—lemme see, your folks is all dead, ain’t they?”
“No,” said Barbara. “I have a brother six years old.”
Her dry tongue refused to add to this statement. She was conscious of an inward tremor of fear lest he should refuse.
“Whatever put such a curious notion into your head?” Mr. Bellows wanted to know.
“I may as well tell you,” the girl said bitterly. “You’ll be asked to sell me out soon. We’re going to lose everything we’ve got—Jimmy and I; the farm, the—furniture—everything.”