“The best heifer for the last—maiden heifer, beautiful quality. Fourteen pound. Marvellous creature, marvellously cheap. Won’t anybody start me?” The drover prodded the prodigy up, and she trotted round dismally.
“Fifteen,” cried a squeaky voice.
“Fifteen,” echoed the auctioneer, cheering up. But his gloom soon returned. For the bidding refused to advance. “Being badly sold, this heifer,” he wailed.
“By crum, he’s right!” quoth the Cornishman, pricking up his ears. “Sixteen pound!” he cried aloud, and was already congratulating himself upon his bargain, when, like the voice of doom, came the squeaky “Seventeen!”
Farmer Gale was piqued. “Eighteen,” he said surlily.
“Twenty!”
It was a staggering blow. But it only raised the farmer’s blood. “Guineas!” he cried.
“Twenty-two pounds!” chirped the voice.
“Twenty-two pounds!” repeated the auctioneer insatiably.
Beads of perspiration and hesitation appeared on the farmer’s brow. In his concentration on the problem his arm relaxed. Jinny stepped aside, and men unconsciously made way for her.