“Take him away,” he said, and two rough fellows, laughing, carried the bully to the edge of the fountain that played in the corner of the square.  He was still lying crumpled up there when we rode out of Clayville.

The bidding, of course, had stopped, owing to the unaffected interest which the public took in this more dramatic interlude.  The broker, it is true, had bid twenty-five dollars, and was wrangling with the auctioneer.

“You have my bid, Mr. Brinton, sir, and there is no other offer.  Knock down the lot to me.”

“You wait your time, Mr. Isaacs,” said the auctioneer.  “No man can do two things at once and do them well.  When Squire Moore has settled with Dick Bligh he will desert the paths of military adventure for the calmer and more lucrative track of commercial enterprise.”

The auctioneer’s command of long words was considerable, and was obviously of use to him in his daily avocations.

When he had rounded his period, Moore was in the saddle again, and nodded silently to the auctioneer.

“Squire Moore bids thirty dollars.  Thirty dollars for this once despised but now appreciated fellow-creature,” rattled on the auctioneer.

The agent nodded again.

“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 competitors.

“Never say die, Isaacs.”

“Stick to it, Squire; the nigger’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.”