The crowd, of course, indulged in roars of laughter, and even Stephen could not repress a smile, a smile not without bitterness.  Then he wheeled to face Mr. Jerkins.  Out of respect for the personages involved, the auctioneer had been considerately silent daring the event.  It was Mr. Brice who was now the centre of observation.

Come, gentlemen, come, this here’s a joke—­eight twenty-five.  She’s worth two thousand.  I’ve been in the business twenty yea’s, and I neve’ seen her equal.  Give me a bid, Mr.—­Mr.—­you have the advantage of me, suh.”

“Eight hundred and thirty-five!” said Stephen.

“Now, Mr. Jerkins, now, suh! we’ve got twenty me’ to sell.”

“Eight fifty!” said Mr. Jerkins.

“Eight sixty!” said Stephen, and they cheered him.

Mr. Jenkins took his cigar out of his teeth, and stared.

“Eight seventy-five!” said he.

“Eight eighty-five!” said Stephen.

There was a breathless pause.

“Nine hundred!” said the trader.

“Nine hundred and ten!” cried Stephen.

At that Mr. Jerkins whipped his hat from off his head, and made Stephen a derisive bow.

“She’s youahs, suh,” he said.  “These here are panic times.  I’ve struck my limit.  I can do bettah in Louisville fo’ less.  Congratulate you, suh —­reckon you want her wuss’n I do.”

At which sally Stephen grew scarlet, and the crowd howled with joy.

“What!” yelled the auctioneer.  “Why, gentlemen, this heah’s a joke.  Nine hundred and ten dollars, gents, nine hundred and ten.  We’ve just begun, gents.  Come, Mr. Jerkins, that’s giving her away.”

The trader shook his head, and puffed at his cigar.

“Well,” cried the oily man, “this is a slaughter.  Going at nine hundred an’ ten—­nine ten—­going—­going—­” down came the hammer—­“gone at nine hundred and ten to Mr.—­Mr.—­you have the advantage of me, suh.”

An attendant had seized the girl, who was on the verge of fainting, and was dragging her back.  Stephen did not heed the auctioneer, but thrust forward regardless of stares.

“Handle her gently, you blackguard,” he cried.

The man took his hands off.

“Suttinly, sah,” he said.

Hester lifted her eyes, and they were filled with such gratitude and trust that suddenly he was overcome with embarrassment.

“Can you walk?” he demanded, somewhat harshly.

“Yes, massa.”

“Then get up,” he said, “and follow me.”

She rose obediently.  Then a fat man came out of the Court House, with a quill in his hand, and a merry twinkle in his eye that Stephen resented.

“This way, please, sah,” and he led him to a desk, from the drawer of which he drew forth a blank deed.

“Name, please!”

“Stephen Atterbury Brice.”

“Residence, Mr. Brice!”

Stephen gave the number.  But instead of writing it clown, the man merely stared at him, while the fat creases in his face deepened and deepened.  Finally he put down his quill, and indulged in a gale of laughter, hugely to Mr. Brice’s discomfiture.