The house had been a rented one.
The bidding on the various poor articles of household gear put up
for sale was not brisk, but had an element of resigned determination.
Carmody people knew that these things had to be sold to pay the debts,
and they could not be sold unless they were bought. Still, it was
a very tame affair.
A woman came out of the house carrying a baby of about eighteen months
in her arms, and sat down on the bench beneath the window.
"There's Marthy Blair with the Garland Baby," said Robert Lawson
to Pa. "I'd like to know what's to become of that poor young one!"
"Ain't there any of the father's or mother's folks to take him?" asked Pa.
"No. Horace had no relatives that anybody ever heard of.
Mrs. Horace had a brother; but he went to Mantioba years ago,
and nobody knows where he is now. Somebody'll have to take
the baby and nobody seems anxious to. I've got eight myself,
or I'd think about it. He's a fine little chap."
Pa, with Ma's parting admonition ringing in his ears, did not
bid on anything, although it will never be known how great
was the heroic self-restraint he put on himself, until just
at the last, when he did bid on a collection of flower-pots,
thinking he might indulge himself to that small extent.
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