“Really?” says a voice behind me.
And there was the young lady in blue, with the ermine and the roses. And I see all of a sudden that she didn’t look to be laughing at us at all, but her eyes were bright, and she was kind of flushed up, and it come to me that she would have bidded before, only she was sort of watching us—mebbe because she thought we were quaint. But I didn’t have time to bother with that thought much, not then.
“I’ll give two dollars for that,” she says.
“Done!” says Mis’ Holcomb, real auctioneer-like, and with her cheeks red, and her hat on one ear, and her hand going up and down. “Now this one—who’ll bid on this one?” says she, putting up another. “How much for this? How much——”
“How much is the fare to where he’s going?” says somebody else strange, and there was the youngish fellow speaking, that was with her with the roses.
“Seven-ten round trip to Wooster,” says Mis’ Holcomb, instant.
“Why, then, I bid three-ten for whatever you have there,” he says laughing.
But Mis’ Holcomb, instead of flaming up because now the whole money for Stubby’s fare was raised, just stood there looking at that youngish man, mournful all over her face.
“It’s a hand-embroidered dressing-sack,” she says melancholy. “You don’t never want that!”
“Yes—yes, I do,” he says, still laughing, “yes, I do. It’s a straight bid.”