Part 6 (2/2)

”Forty dollars bid,” said the auctioneer.

”Fifty,” cried Moore.

The broker nodded.

”Sixty.”

The agent nodded again.

The bidding ran rapidly up to three hundred and fifty dollars.

The crowd were growing excited, and had been joined by every child in the town, by every draggled and sunburnt woman, and the drinking-bar had disgorged every loafer who felt sober enough to stay the distance to the centre of the square.

My own first feelings of curiosity had subsided. I knew how strong and burning was Moore's hatred of oppression, and felt convinced that he merely wished at any sacrifice of money to secure for this old negro some peaceful days and a quiet deathbed.

The crowd doubtless took the same obvious view of the case as I did, and was now eagerly urging on the two compet.i.tors.

”Never say die, Isaacs.”

”Stick to it, Squire; the n.i.g.g.e.r's well worth the dollars.”

So they howled, and now the biddings were mounting towards one thousand dollars, when the sulky planter rode up to the neighbourhood of the table--much to the inconvenience of the ”gallery”--and whispered to his agent. The conference lasted some minutes, and at the end of it the agent capped Moore's last offer, one thousand dollars, with a bid of one thousand two hundred.

”Fifteen hundred,” said Moore, amidst applause.

”Look here, Mr. Knock-'em-down,” cried Mr. Isaacs: ”it's hot and thirsty work sitting, nodding here; I likes my ease on a warm day; so just you reckon that I see the Squire, and go a hundred dollars more as long as I hold up my pencil.”

He stuck a long gnawed pencil erect between his finger and thumb, and stared impertinently at Moore. The Squire nodded, and the bidding went on in this silent fas.h.i.+on till the bids had actually run up to three thousand four hundred dollars. All this while the poor negro, whose limbs no longer supported him, crouched in a heap on the table, turning his haggard eye alternately on Moore and on the erect and motionless pencil of the broker. The crowd had become silent with excitement.

Unable to stand the heat and agitation, Moore's unfriendly brother had crossed the square in search of a ”short drink.” Moore nodded once more.

”Three thousand six hundred dollars bid,” cried the auctioneer, and looked at Isaacs.

With a wild howl Isaacs dashed his pencil in the air, tossed up his hands, and thrust them deep down between his coat collar and his body, uttering all the while yells of pain.

”Don't you bid, Mr. Isaacs?” asked the auctioneer, without receiving any answer except Semitic appeals to holy Abraham, blended with Aryan profanity.

”Come,” said Moore very severely, ”his pencil is down, and he has withdrawn his bid. There is no other bidder; knock the lot down to me.”

”No more offers?” said the auctioneer slowly, looking all round the square.

There were certainly no offers from Mr. Isaacs, who now was bounding like the gad-stung Io to the furthest end of the place.

”This fine buck-negro, warranted absolutely unsound of wind and limb, going, going, a shameful sacrifice, for a poor three thousand six hundred dollars. Going, going--gone!”

The hammer fell with a sharp, decisive sound.

A fearful volley of oaths rattled after the noise, like thunder rolling away in the distance.

Moore's brother had returned from achieving a ”short drink” just in time to see his coveted lot knocked down to his rival.

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