“I suppose so!” ejaculated my poor father, fully understanding the reason why his place was to be sacrificed.
The auctioneer, who had mounted the steps of the front door, interrupted the conversation. He stated that he was about to sell all the right, title, and interest which Ralph Penniman had in the estate at twelve o’clock on a certain day, described the mortgage, and called for a bid.
“Twenty-five cents,” said a colored man in the crowd.
The audience gave way to a hearty burst of laughter at the richness of the bid.
“Thirty cents,” added Colonel Wimpleton, as soon as the noise had subsided.
The auctioneer dwelt on it for a moment, and then the colored man advanced to thirty-one cents. By this time it was clear to us that these proceedings were a farce, intended to torment my father. I had never endured agonies more keen than those which followed these ridiculous bids, as I became conscious that my father was the butt of the company’s derision. The colonel, more liberal than the negro, went up to thirty-five cents; whereupon the latter advanced another cent, amid the laughter and jeers of the assembly. Thus it continued for some time, the colored man, who had doubtless been engaged to play his part, going up one cent and the great man four. Others occasionally bid a cent or a half-cent more; and half an hour was consumed in windy eloquence by the auctioneer, and in cent and half-cent bids, before the offer reached a dollar.
“One dollar and five cents,” said Colonel Wimpleton, at this point.
“One dollar and six cents,” promptly responded the negro.
“One dollar and six cents is bid for this very desirable estate,” added the auctioneer. “Consider, gentlemen, the value of this property, and the circumstances under which it is sold. Every dollar you bid goes into the pocket of the honest and hard-working mortgagor.”
“One dollar and ten cents,” said the colonel, as if moved by this appeal.