"One seventy-five," came from another.
"Too much," the auctioneer cried. "The parish can't stand that."
"One fifty, then."
"That's better, Joe. Try again. You're a long way off yet."
"I'll take the critter fer one hundred dollars, and not a cent less."
At these emphatic words all turned and stared hard at the speaker. A perceptible shiver passed through the bystanders, while several muttered protests were heard.
"Oh, I hope he won't get him, anyway," Mrs. Munson whispered to a neighbour. "Jim Goban isn't a fit man to look after a snake, and if he gets Crazy David in his clutches may God have mercy upon the poor old man."
"One hundred dollars I am offered," again the voice of the auctioneer rang out. "Can any one do better than that? One hundred dollars. Going at one hundred dollars. I shan't dwell. One—hundred—dollars—and—sold to Jim Goban for one hundred dollars."
This inhuman traffic did not seriously affect the people who had gathered for the auction. When it was over, they quickly dispersed, to discuss with one another about the life Jim Goban would lead Crazy David. It was an incident of only a passing moment, and mattered little more to them than if it had been a horse or a cow which had been sold instead of a poor feeble old man.
It was the custom which had been going on for years, and it was the only way they could see out of the difficult problem of dealing with paupers.