'I reckon ye're not over pious, Mr. Kirke, an' I know ye'd stand a hand at a rough an' tumble; but d—d ef thet ain't th' sort o' religion I like. Come, sir; ef I stay yere, ye'll make a 'ooman on me.'
As we passed into the parlor, I said to Joe, who was seated there with Selma:
'Give Larkin your hand, Joe; he's a glorious fellow.'
'My heart is in it, Larkin,' said the young man, very cordially. 'It would have come hard to draw a bead on you.'
'I knows it would, Joe, an' I wus ter blame; but I never could stand a bluff.'
We passed out together to the auction stand. Selma and her brother ascended the block, while Larkin and I mingled with the buyers, who had collected in even larger numbers than before. The auctioneer brought down his hammer:
'Attention, gentlemen! The sale has begun. I offer you again the girl, Lucy Selma. You've h'ard the description, and (glancing at Joe, and smiling) you know the conditions of the sale. A thousand dollars is bid for the girl, Lucy Selma; do I hear any more? Talk quick, gentlemen; I shan't dwell on this lot; so speak up, if you've anything to say. One thousand once—one thousand twice—one thousand third and last call. Do I hear any more?' A pause of a moment. 'Last call, gentlemen. Going—g-o-i-n-g—go—'
The word was unfinished; the hammer was descending, when a voice called out:
'Two thousand!'
'Whose bid is that?' cried Joe, striding across the bench, the glare of a hyena in his eyes.