The pile of unclaimed stuff diminished rapidly. The various purchases
were productive of all kinds of fun. Tom Partridge, the colored porter
at the hotel, got a case of face powder, and an exquisite traveling man
for a lace house drew a pair of rubber boots that would fit a giant.
One man disclosed his purchase to be a setting of eggs. They were packed
in cotton and intact, though probably a year old.
"Take them out--take them out," yelled the crowd.
Somebody dropped a piece of wood in the box, and there was a pop. The
farmer with the plug hat he-hawed at the top of his voice, the miserable
owner of the eggs got mad at him, some words ensued, the farmer started
after him, the egg owner ran, once outside fired an egg which struck the
smooth, shiny tile with a splatter, and the farmer came back into the
express office holding his nose, bareheaded, and looking for his
rejected straw head-covering.
Some, however, were more fortunate. Bart encouraged and hurried the
bidding on a large crate, the contents of which he easily guessed, as
did also Tim Hager, the crippled son of a poor widow. Tim got it for two
dollars and twenty-five cents, and it turned out to hold a first-class
sewing machine.
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