There was a pause; the crowd held its breath in silent and joyous expectancy. Joe Bardi passed a hand over his wet forehead and pulled irresolutely upon his cigar. A severe-looking old man expressed his entire disapproval of the proceedings. "It's against the Constitution," he said, loudly. "How about the Fourteenth Amendment? Well, the number doesn't matter anyway. Officer, I call upon you to stop this unlawful and outrageous farce. A human being selling himself on the auction block! The slave-market set up again in this Christian city of New York! It's a crime against the Constitution."
But the policeman was a prudent person, and as yet he had seen no cause to interfere. The proceedings were unusual, no doubt, and they might be against the Constitution; he wouldn't like to say. It was none of his business anyway; HE went by the code.
"Bah!" snorted the old gentleman, and rushed away to find a city magistrate.
"Two hundred dollars," repeated the young man in evening clothes. "Two hundred dollars. What am I bid? Going, going—"
The shipping agent made a hasty mental calculation—there was no profit in the transaction at anything over his last bid of an even hundred. But he was tempted to go a little further and run up the price on his adversary, thus punishing him for interfering in a man's private business. Very good, but suppose the stranger suddenly refused to follow the lead; then it would be Joe Bardi himself who would be mulcted. Revenge would be sweet, but it was too dangerous; he would stop where he was.
"Two hundred, two hundred—going, going—" The crowd began to banter the crimp.
"Lift her again, Joe," called out one voice. "Open up that barrel of plunks you've got stored away in your cellar," exhorted another counsellor. "A nice, white slave—that's what you're needing in your business," advised a third. But Joe Bardi kept his eyes on the ground and said nothing.
"Gone," said the young man in evening clothes.
Indiman took four fifty-dollar bills from his wallet and handed them to the young man. The latter glanced at the notes and stuffed them carelessly into his waistcoat-pocket. Then, turning to Indiman:
"Sir," he said, with a profound seriousness, "I am now your property. Ah! Pardon me—"