"Nine hundred and ten!" cried Stephen.
At that Mr. Jerkins whipped his hat from off his head, and made Stephen a derisive bow.
"She's youahs, suh," he said. "These here are panic times. I've struck my limit. I can do bettah in Louisville fo' less. Congratulate you, suh —reckon you want her wuss'n I do."
At which sally Stephen grew scarlet, and the crowd howled with joy.
"What!" yelled the auctioneer. "Why, gentlemen, this heah's a joke. Nine hundred and ten dollars, gents, nine hundred and ten. We've just begun, gents. Come, Mr. Jerkins, that's giving her away."
The trader shook his head, and puffed at his cigar.
"Well," cried the oily man, "this is a slaughter. Going at nine hundred an' ten—nine ten—going—going—" down came the hammer—"gone at nine hundred and ten to Mr.—Mr.—you have the advantage of me, suh."
An attendant had seized the girl, who was on the verge of fainting, and was dragging her back. Stephen did not heed the auctioneer, but thrust forward regardless of stares.
"Handle her gently, you blackguard," he cried.
The man took his hands off.