“Not much!” was the clerk’s astonishing reply. “She’s young Kit Morehouse what ain’t got a grain of sense in her bean. This baby’s mother died when it was a week old, and Lem had to have someone look affer it. Thar warn’t no sensible woman about what would hev him, ’cause he don’t make salt fer a red herrin’, seein’ his professhun is auctionin’ an’ folks ain’t sellin’ out like-as-much as they ust to be, years ago. But this crazy Kit was onny nineteen, with no fam’ly, er no payin’ job, so she hired out to take keer of the kid. Don’t it allus end like this? The gal marries the father an’ gets mad cause another woman’s kid is cryin’ around!”
The girls were intensely interested in this bit of local gossip, but Mrs. Fabian thought they had heard enough about “Kit,” so she bid the clerk good-by and started for the low one-story-and-a-half house.
The interior presented a different appearance from the home of Mrs. Tomlinson’s. Every conceivable object ever used in the house was brought out and placed in the front rooms. Women and children sat about on various sorts of seats, waiting for the sale to begin. As most of the assembly were neighbors and acquainted with each other, the entrance of Mrs. Fabian and her girls caused quite a surprise.
Audible whispers of “Who air they?” and “Where did they come from?” or “What d’ye s’pose they come to bid on?” were heard on all sides as the strangers passed through the “settin’ room.”
The moment Mrs. Fabian’s party left the clerk, outside, he hurried over to the automobile where Carl sat enjoying a quiet smoke.
“Howde,” began Abner Clark, the clerk.
Carl removed his pipe and nodded nonchalantly.
“Do you-all hail from about these parts?” asked Abner.
“I should say not!” declared Carl, emphatically.
“From whar abouts are you?” continued the clerk.