“Now then,” began the shrill voice of the auctioneer, “we’ll start these proceedin’s, if ye ain’t got no objections. Step right this way, everybody, an’ let th’ biddin’ be lively!”  
“Hold on a minute!” called a big man in the crowd. “We want to know what the terms are.”
 
“I thought everybody knowed ’em,” spoke Simon Rollinson, deputy sheriff, of the village of Campton, New York State. “This here farm, belongin’ in fee-simple to Mrs. Elizabeth Dexter, widow of Robert Dexter, containin’ in all some forty acres of tillable land, four acres of pasture an’ ten of woods, is about to be sold, with all stock an’ fixtures, consistin’ of seven cows an’ four horses, an’ other things, to th’ highest bidder, t’ satisfy a mortgage of three thousand dollars.”
 
“We know all that,” said the big man who had first spoken. “What’s the terms of payment?”
 
2 “Th’ terms is,” resumed Simon, “ten per cent. down, an’ the balance in thirty days, an’ the buyer has t’ give a satisfactory bond or——”
 
“That’ll do, go ahead,” called several.
 
“Now then, this way, everybody,” went on Mr. Rollinson. “Give me your attention. What am I bid to start this here farm, one of the finest in Onondaga County? What am I bid?”
 
There was a moment’s silence. A murmur went through the crowd of people gathered in the farmyard in front of a big red barn. Several wanted to bid, but did not like to be the first.
 
As the deputy sheriff, who acted as the auctioneer, had said, the farm was about to be sold. It was a fine one, and had belonged to Robert Dexter. With his wife Elizabeth, his sons, Larry, aged fifteen, a sturdy lad with bright blue eyes and brown hair, and James, aged eight, his daughters, Lucy, a girl of twelve, afflicted with a bad disease of the spine, and little Mary, just turned four, Mr. Dexter had lived on the place, and had worked it successfully, for several years.
 
Then he had become ill of consumption. He could not follow the hard life. Crops failed, and in order to get cash to keep his family he was obliged to borrow a large sum of money. He gave the farm as security, and agreed, in case he could not pay the money back in a certain time, that the farm should be forfeited.
 
He was never able to get the funds together,3 and this worry, with the ravages of the disease, soon caused his death. Mrs. Dexter, with Larry’s help, made a brave effort to stand up against the misfortune, but it was of no use. She could not pay the interest on the mortgage, and, finally, the holder, Samuel Mortland, foreclosed.
 
The matter was placed in the hands of the sheriff, whose duty it is to foreclose mortgages, and that official, being a busy man, delegated the unpleasant task to one of his deputies or assistants, who lived in the town of Campton. The sale had been advertised for several miles surrounding the village, and on the date set quite a crowd gathered.
 
There were farmers from many hamlets, a number of whom brought their wives and families, as a country auction is not unlike a fair or circus as an attraction. There they were sure to meet friends and acquaintances, and, besides, they might pick up some bargains.
 
“Who’ll make the first offer?” called Mr. Rollinson. “The upset or startin’ price is fifteen hundred dollars, an’ I’ll jest go ahead with that. Now who’ll make it two thousand?”
 
“I’ll go seventeen hundred,” called a short stout man in the front row.
 
“Huh! I should think ye would, Nate Jackson. Why, seventeen hundred dollars wouldn’t buy th’ house an’ barn. You’ll hev t’ do better than that!”
 
4 “I’ll say eighteen hundred,” cried a woman who seemed to mean business.
 
“Now you’re talkin’!” cried Mr. Rollinson. “That’s sumthin’ like. Why, jest think of th’ pasture, an’ woodland, an’ cows an’ horses an’——”
 
“I’ll make it two thousand dollars,” said a third bidder.
 
“I’m bid two thousand,” cried the deputy sheriff. “Who’ll make it twenty-two hundred?”
 
Then the auction was in full swing. The bidding became lively, though the advances were of smaller amounts than at first. By degrees the price crept up until it was twenty-nine hundred dollars.
 
“I’ve got to git at least thirty-one hundred to pay th’ mortgage an’ expenses,” the auctioneer explained. “If I don’t git more than this last bid Mr. Mortland will take the property himself. Now’s your last chance, neighbors.”
 
This seemed to stimulate the people, and several offers came in at once, until at last the bid was $3,090. There it seemed to stick, no one caring to go any higher, and each one hoping he might, by adding a few dollars more, get possession of the property, which was worth considerable above the figure offered.
 
While the auction was going on there sat, in the darkened parlor of the farmhouse, Mrs. Dexter and her three younger children. With them5 were some sympathizing neighbors, who had called to tell her how sorry they were that she had lost the farm.
 
“What do you intend to do?” asked Mrs. Olney, winding her long cork-screw curls about her fingers.
 
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Mrs. Dexter said. “If we have to leave here, and I suppose we will, I think the only thing to do is to go to my sister. She lives in New York.”
 
“Let’s see, she married a Jimson, didn’t she?” asked Mrs. Peterkins, another neighbor.
 
“No, her husband’s name is Edward Ralston,” replied Mrs. Dexter. “He is a conductor on a street car, in New York. My sister wrote to me to come to her if I could find no other place.”
 
“That would be a wise thing to do,” spoke Mrs. Olney. “New York is such a big place. Perhaps Larry could find some work there.”
 
“I hope he can,” said Larry’s mother. “He is getting to be a strong boy, but I would rather see him in school.”
 
“Of course, knowledge is good for the young,” admitted Mrs. Peterkins, “but you’ll need the money Larry can earn.”
 
“I’m goin’ to earn money when I go to New York!” exclaimed James. “I’m goin’ to the end of the rainbow, where there’s a pot of gold, an’ I’m goin’ to dig it up an’ give it all to mommer.”
 
“Good for you!” exclaimed Mrs. Olney, clasping6 the little fellow to her and kissing him. “You’ll be a great help to your mother when you grow up.”
 
“Kisses is for girls!” exclaimed James, struggling to free himself, whereat even his mother, who had been saddened by the thought of leaving her home, smiled.
 
“Will—will you have any money left after the place is sold?” asked Mrs. Peterkins.
 
“I hope it will bring in at least a few hundred dollars above the mortgage,” answered Mrs. Dexter. “If it does not I don’t know what I’ll do. We would have to sell some of the house things to get money enough to travel.”
 
Outside, the shrill voice of the auctioneer could be heard, for it was summer and the windows were open.
 
“Third an’ last call!” cried Mr. Rollinson.
 
“Oh, it’s going to be sold!” exclaimed Mrs. Dexter, with a sound that seemed like a sob in her throat. “The dear old farm is going.”
 
“Third an’ last call!” the deputy sheriff went on. “Last call! Last call! Going! Going! Gone!”
 
With a bang that sounded like the report of a rifle, Mr. Rollinson brought his hammer down on the block.
 
“I declare this farm sold to Jeptha Morrison fer th’ sum of thirty-two hundred and seventy-five dollars,” he cried. “Step this way, Mr. Morrison,7 an’ I’ll take yer money an’ give ye a receipt. Allers willin’ t’ take money,”—at which sally the crowd laughed.
 
“Only thirty-two hundred and seventy-five dollars,” repeated Mrs. Dexter. “Why, that will leave scarcely anything for me. The sheriff’s fees will have to be paid, and some back interest. I will have nothing.”
 
She looked worried, and the two neighbors, knowing what it meant to be a widow without money and with little children to support, felt keenly for her.
 
“Mother!” exclaimed a voice, and a lad came into the room somewhat excitedly. “Mother, the farm’s sold!”
 
“Yes, Larry, I heard Mr. Rollinson say so,” said Mrs. Dexter.
 
“It wasn’t fair!” the boy went on. “We should have got more for it!”
 
“Hush, Larry. Don’t say it wasn’t fair,” said his mother. “You should accuse no one.”
 
“But I heard Mr. Mortland going around and telling people not to bid on it, as the title wasn’t good,” the boy declared. “He wanted to scare them from bidding so he could get the property cheap.”
 
“But he didn’t buy it,” said Mrs. Dexter. “It went to Mr. Morrison.”
 
“Yes, and he bought it with the money Mr. Mortland supplied him,” Larry cried. “I saw8 through the whole game. It was a trick of Mr. Mortland’s to get the farm, and he’ll have it in a few weeks. Oh, how I wish I was a man! I’d show them something!”
 
“Larry, dear,” said his mother reprovingly, and then the boy noticed, for the first time, that others were in the room.
 
“Of course I haven’t any proof,” Larry continued, “for I only saw Mr. Mortland hand Mr. Morrison some money and heard him tell him to make the last bid. But I have my suspicions, just the same. Why, mother, there will be nothing left for us.”
 
“That’s what I was telling Mrs. Olney and Mrs. Peterkins,” said Mrs. Dexter with a sigh. “I don’t know how we can get to New York, when railroad fares are so high.”
 
“I’ll tell you what we must do, mother!” exclaimed Larry.
 
“What, son?”
 
“We must sell the furniture.”
 
“Oh, I could never do that.”
 
“But we must,” the boy went on. “We cannot take it with us to New York, and we may get money enough from it to help us out. It is the best thing to do.”