The impression flashed through the crowd
that Pa was in earnest, and meant thus to signify his intention
of giving the baby a home. He was well-to-do, and his only son
was grown up and married.
"Six," cried out John Clarke from the other side of the yard.
John Clarke lived at White Sands and he and his wife were childless.
That bid of John Clarke's was Pa's undoing. Pa Sloane could
not have an enemy; but a rival he had, and that rival was
John Clarke. Everywhere at auctions John Clarke was wont
to bid against Pa. At the last auction he had outbid Pa
in everything, not having the fear of his wife before his eyes.
Pa's fighting blood was up in a moment; he forgot Ma Sloane;
he forgot what he was bidding for; he forgot everything except
a determination that John Clarke should not be victor again.
"Ten," he called shrilly.
"Fifteen," shouted Clarke.
"Twenty," vociferated Pa.
"Twenty-five," bellowed Clarke.
"Thirty," shrieked Pa. He nearly bust a blood-vessel in his shrieking,
but he had won. Clarke turned off with a laugh and a shrug, and the baby
was knocked down to Pa Sloane by the auctioneer, who had meanwhile been
keeping the crowd in roars of laughter by a quick fire of witticisms.
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