The farmhouse in question was about two miles away.  By the time we arrived, all sorts of vehicles were converging to it on the muddy roads, for the weather had become mild again.  Stylish-looking people drove up in top-buggies, and there were many heavy, springless wagons driven by rusty-looking countrymen, whose trousers were thrust into the top of their cowhide boots.  I strolled through the house before the sale began, thinking that I might find something there which would please Mousie and my wife.  The rooms were already half filled with the housewives from the vicinity; red-faced Irish women, who stalked about and examined everything with great freedom; placid, peach-cheeked dames in Quaker bonnets, who softly cooed together, and took every chance they could to say pleasant words to the flurried, nervous family that was being thrust out into the world, as it were, while still at their own hearth.

I marked with my eye a low, easy sewing-chair for my wife, and a rose geranium, full of bloom, for Mousie, purposing to bid on them.  I also observed that Junior was examining several pots of flowers that stood in the large south window.  Then giving Merton charge of the children, with directions not to lose sight of them a moment, I went to the barn-yard and stable, feeling that the day was a critical one in our fortunes.  True enough, among the other stock there was a nice-looking cow with a calf, and Mr. Jones said she had Jersey blood in her veins.  This meant rich, creamy milk.  I thought the animal had a rather ugly eye, but this might be caused by anxiety for her calf, with so many strangers about.  We also examined the old bay horse and a market wagon and harness.  Then Mr. Jones and I drew apart and agreed upon the limit of his bids, for I proposed to act solely through him.  Every one knew him and was aware that he would not go a cent beyond what a thing was worth.  He had a word and a jest for all, and “How are you, John?” greeted him wherever he went.

At ten o’clock the sale began.  The auctioneer was a rustic humorist, who knew the practical value of a joke in his business.  Aware of the foibles and characteristics of the people who flocked around and after him, he provoked many a ripple and roar of laughter by his telling hits and droll speeches.  I found that my neighbor, Mr. Jones, came in for his full share, but he always sent back as good as he received.  The sale, in fact, had the aspect of a country merrymaking, at which all sorts and conditions of people met on common ground, Pat bidding against the best of the landed gentry, while boys and dogs innumerable played around and sometimes verged on serious quarrels.

Junior, I observed, left his mark before the day was over.  He was standing, watching the sale with his usual impassive expression, when a big, hulking fellow leered into his face and cried.

“Tow head, white-head, Thick-head, go to bed.”

The last word was scarcely out of his mouth before Junior’s fist was between his eyes, and down he went.