Outside, the shrill voice of the auctioneer could be heard, for it was summer and the windows were open.
“Third an’ last call!” cried Mr. Rollinson.
“Oh, it’s going to be sold!” exclaimed Mrs. Dexter, with a sound that seemed like a sob in her throat. “The dear old farm is going.”
“Third an’ last call!” the deputy sheriff went on. “Last call! Last call! Going! Going! Gone!”
With a bang that sounded like the report of a rifle, Mr. Rollinson brought his hammer down on the block.
“I declare this farm sold to Jeptha Morrison fer th’ sum of thirty-two hundred and seventy-five dollars,” he cried. “Step this way, Mr. Morrison, an’ I’ll take yer money an’ give ye a receipt. Allers willin’ t’ take money,”—at which sally the crowd laughed.
“Only thirty-two hundred and seventy-five dollars,” repeated Mrs. Dexter. “Why, that will leave scarcely anything for me. The sheriff’s fees will have to be paid, and some back interest. I will have nothing.”
She looked worried, and the two neighbors, knowing what it meant to be a widow without money and with little children to support, felt keenly for her.
“Mother!” exclaimed a voice, and a lad came into the room somewhat excitedly. “Mother, the farm’s sold!”
“Yes, Larry, I heard Mr. Rollinson say so,” said Mrs. Dexter.