It seemed worse than the sale of the funeral wreath. The dress was heavy white satin—had been, that is; it was yellowed with time. The tiny shoes had evidently been worn but once.
“What am I offered? Make a bid, gentlemen. I offer the lot. What am I offered?”
“One dollar.”
“One dollar I am offered for the lot—wedding-dress, shoes, etc. One dollar for the lot. Come gentlemen, bid up.”
Not an old-clo’ man in the room bid, and the outsider who bid the dollar had the happiness to see it knocked down to him.
“What am I bid for this photograph album? Bid up, gentlemen. Here’s a chance to get a fine collection of photographs of distinguished citizens, their wives, and daughters.”
A gentleman standing on the edge of the crowd quietly bid in the album. When it was handed to him, he opened it, took out his own and the photographs of several ladies, dressed in the fashion of twenty years ago, and tossed the album, with the other photographs, in the stove, remarking: “Well, they won’t go to the junk-shop.”
“What am I offered, gentlemen, for this? There is just seventeen dollars’ worth of gold in it. Bid up.”
The auctioneer held up an engraved gold medal. It was a Crimean war medal which its owner was once proud to wear. There was a time in his life when no money could have purchased it. He had risked his life for the honour of wearing it; and after his death it was offered for old gold.