Come, gentlemen! what am I bid for lot 1129?"
"What's in it?" inquired a big farmer sitting near the front.
"You will have to guess that," answered Bart pleasantly. "Ah! some kind
of liquid, I should imagine," and he shook the box, its contents echoing
out a mellow, gurgling sound.
"Mebbe it's paint, Samantha?" suggested the farmer to his wife. "There'd
be two gallons of it--enough to cover the smokehouse. Ten cents."
"The charges are eighty-five," explained Bart--"can't start it any
lower."
A blear-eyed, unsteady individual, whom Bart recognized as a member of
the Sharp Corner contingent, advanced to the table.
He was thirsty-looking and eager as he poked at the box and tried to
peer into it.
"A demijohn!" he muttered, his mouth watering. "Two gallons--probably
prime old stuff. Eighty-five cents."
"Eighty-five--eighty-five!" repeated Bart.
"Ninety," said the farmer.
"Dollar!" mumbled the thirsty-looking man.
"Do I hear any more?" challenged Bart, gavel suspended, "once, twice,
and sold to--cash."
The inebriate paid his money, chuckled and took the box to one side,
hugging it like a pet child, reached over and picked up the hatchet
from inside the railing, and pried open the corner of the box.
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