'Come, youngster, none uv yer brow-beatin' yere. It woan't gwo down,' cried a rough voice from among the audience. 'I've come all th' way from Orleans ter buy thet gal; an' buy har I shill!'
Quite a commotion followed this speech. It lasted some minutes, and the speaker was the object of considerable attention.
'He's some on th' trigger, ole feller,' cried one. 'He kin hit a turkey's eye at two hundred paces, he kin,' said another. 'He'll burn yer in'ards, shore,' shouted a third. 'Ye'll speak fur warm lodgin's, ef ye bid on thet gal, ye wull,' cried a fourth.
'Come, my friends, ye karn't skeer me,' coolly said the first speaker, mounting one of the rough benches. 'I've h'ard sech talk afore. It doan't turn me a hair. I come yere ter buy thet gal, an' buy har I shill, 'cept some on ye kin gwo higher'n my pile; an' my pile ar eighty-two hundred dollars!'
He was a tall, stoutly-built man, with bushy gray whiskers and a clear, resolute eye. It was Larkin!
Turning to Joe, I exclaimed:
'I understand this. Get the auctioneer to postpone the sale for half an hour for dinner. Take Selly into the house.'
'No. It might as well be over first as last. Let him bid—he's a dead man!' replied Joe coolly, but firmly.
'You're mad, boy. Would you take his life needlessly?'
The auctioneer, who overheard these remarks, then said to me: