Bill turned and looked at him. “Why, no,” he says, slow. “They're all right—of their kind.” And off he put again.
But Eddie wa'n't satisfied. He turns to me. “By George!” he says. “What is it? Does he think they're fakes?”
I didn't know, so I shook my head. Small fidgetted, looked at Peter, and then run after Saltmarsh. Milo had just raised the bid.
“One hundred and thirty-three” hollers Peter, fetching the tea chest a belt. “One thirty-four do I hear? Make it one thirty-three fifty. Fifty cents do I hear? Come, come! this is highway robbery, gentlemen. Mr. Small—where are you?”
But Eddie was talking to Saltmarsh. In a minute back he comes, looking more worried than ever. Peter T. bawled and pounded and beckoned at him with the mallet, but he only fidgetted—didn't know what to do.
“One thirty-three!” bellers Peter. “One thirty-three! Oh, how can I look my grandmother's picture in the face after this? One thirty-three—once! One thirty-three—twice! Third and last call! One—thirty—”
Then Eddie begun to raise his hand, but 'twas too late.
“One thirty-three and SOLD! To Mr. Milo Thompson for one hundred and thirty-three dollars!”
And just then come a shriek from the piazza; the Duchess and “Irene dear” had come out of the parlor.
Well! Talk about crowing! The way that Thompson crowd rubbed it in on the Smalls was enough to make you leave the dinner table. They had the servants take in them dishes, piece by piece, and every single article, down to the last butter plate, was steered straight by the Small crowd.