As she joined the throng in the one light corner of the room she was treated to another little thrill. Such a motley throng as it was. Jewish second-hand dealers, short ones, tall ones, long-bearded ones; men of all races. And there were two or three women, and not a few vagabonds of the street, who had come in for no other purpose than to get out of the cold. Such were those who crowded round the high stand where, with gavel in hand, the auctioneer cried the sale:
“How much am I bid? Ten dollars! Thank you. Ten I have. Who’ll make it eleven! ’Leven, ’leven, ’leven. Who’ll make it twelve?”
There was not an attractive face in the group that surrounded the block. Florence was tempted to run away; but recalling the surprise she had promised herself, she stayed.
Presently her eyes fell upon a face that attracted her, the kindly, gentle face of a woman in her thirties. She was seated at a desk, writing.
“She’s the clerk of the sale,” Florence thought. “They’re selling trunks now. She may be able to tell me when they will sell bags.”
She moved over close to the desk and timidly put her question.
“Do you really want one of those bags?” the woman asked, surprise showing in her tone.
“Yes. Why not?” the girl asked.
“No reason at all, I guess,” said the clerk. Then, after looking at Florence for a moment, a comradely smile spread over her face.
“Come up close,” she beckoned. “He’ll be selling bags in fifteen minutes or so,” she whispered. “Sit down here and wait. Why do you want one of those bags so badly?”