“Thank you, suh.”
“Now fur it, young uns!” said the wag, and the crowd howled with merriment.
“Five hundred!” snapped Mr. Colfax.
He was growing angry. But Stephen was from New England, and poor, and he thought of the size of his purse. A glance at his adversary showed that his blood was up. Money was plainly no consideration to him, and young Colfax did not seem to be the kind who would relish returning to a young lady and acknowledge a defeat.
Stephen raised the bid by ten dollars. The Southerner shot up fifty. Again Stephen raised it ten. He was in full possession of himself now, and proof against the thinly veiled irony of the oily man's remarks in favor of Mr. Colfax. In an incredibly short time the latter's impetuosity had brought them to eight hundred and ten dollars.
Then several things happened very quickly.
Mr. Jenkins got up from the curb and said, “Eight hundred and twenty-five,” with his cigar in his mouth. Scarcely had the hum of excitement died when Stephen, glancing at Colfax for the next move, saw that young gentleman seized from the rear by his uncle, the tall Colonel. And across the street was bliss Virginia Carvel, tapping her foot on the pavement.
“What are you about, sir?” the Colonel cried. “The wench isn't worth it.”
“Mr. Colfax shook himself free.
“I've got to buy her now, sir,” he cried.