"A dollar; a dollar. Who'll make it a dollar ten. Going at a dollar. Once! Twice! Last call. Sold to the gentleman for a dollar."
The woman in the doorway dropped her head, and turned, and went into the house.
Bert walked over to where two young farmhands stood together. "Why are they auctioning the stuff?" he asked.
One of the two spat a stream of tobacco juice. "They got hard up and went down to Springham and borrowed some money from a fellow. They couldn't make the payments and the fellow from Springham is selling them out."
To Bert, at the moment, it came as mighty uncomfortable news. His mouth went dry.
"Any place I can get a drink around here?" he asked.
"There's a well in back of the house."
He went toward the rear, skirting the crowd and passing the porch where the auctioneer was now offering an ice box. A step or two more, and then he stopped with a jerk. Old Man Clud, his coat buttoned to the throat, stood leaning against a tree writing in a little red memorandum book held close to his chest.
