“I guess the molasses is getting low, ain’t it?” said Pa Sloane . “S’pose I’d better drive up to Carmody this afternoon and get some more.”  
“There’s a good half-gallon of molasses in the yet,” said ma Sloane ruthlessly.
 
“That so? Well, I noticed the demijohn wasn’t very hefty the last time I filled the can. Reckon it needs replenishing.”
 
“We have kerosene enough to do for a fortnight yet.” Ma continued to eat her dinner with an impassive face, but a twinkle made itself apparent in her eye. Lest Pa should see it, and feel encouraged , she looked immovably at her plate.
 
Pa Sloane sighed. His invention was giving out.
 
“Didn’t I hear you say day before yesterday that you were out of nutmegs?” he , after a few moments’ severe reflection.
 
“I got a supply of them from the egg-pedlar yesterday,” responded Ma, by a great effort preventing the twinkle from spreading over her entire face. She wondered if this third failure would Pa. But Pa was not to be .
 
“Well, anyway,” he said, brightening up under the influence of a sudden saving inspiration. “I’ll have to go up to get the sorrel shod. So, if you’ve any little errands you want done at the store, Ma, just make a of them while I up.”
 
The matter of shoeing the sorrel mare was beyond Ma’s province, although she had her own suspicions about the sorrel mare’s need of shoes.
 
“Why can’t you give up beating about the bush, Pa?” she demanded, with contemptuous pity. “You might as well own up what’s taking you to Carmody. I can see through your design. You want to get away to the Garland . That is what is troubling you, Pa Sloane.”
 
“I dunno but what I might step over, seeing it’s so handy. But the sorrel mare really does need shoeing, Ma,” protested Pa.
 
“There’s always something needing to be done if it’s convenient,” retorted Ma. “Your for will be the ruin of you yet, Pa. A man of fifty-five ought to have grown out of such a hankering. But the older you get the worse you get. Anyway, if I wanted to go to auctions, I’d select them as was something like, and not waste my time on little one-horse affairs like this of Garland’s.”
 
“One might pick up something real cheap at Garland’s,” said Pa defensively.

“Well, you are not going to pick up anything, cheap or otherwise, Pa Sloane, because I’m going with you to see that you don’t.  I But I shall go, too, out of self-defence. This house is so full now of old and truck that you’ve brought home  auctions that I feel as if I was made up out of pieces and left overs.”
Pa Sloane sighed again. It was not exhilarating to attend an auction with Ma. She would never let him bid on anything. But he realized that Ma’s mind was made up beyond the power of mortal man’s to alter it, so he went out to hitch up.
 
Pa Sloane’s dissipation was going to auctions and buying things that nobody else would buy. Ma Sloane’s patient endeavours of over thirty years had been able to effect only a partial reform. then he would break out worse than ever, go to all that took place for miles around, and come home with a wagonful of misfits. His last exploit had been to bid on an old dasher churn for five dollars—the boys “ran things up” on Pa Sloane for the fun of it—and bring it home to Ma, who had made her butter for fifteen years in the very latest, most up-to-date barrel churn. To add insult to injury this was the second dasher churn Pa had bought at auction. That settled it. Ma decreed that henceforth she would chaperon Pa when he went to auctions.


 
 
 “Oh, Mrs. Sloane, won’t you come over to our house at once?” he . “The baby, he’s got colic, and ma’s just wild, and he’s all black in the face.”
 
Ma went, feeling that the stars in their courses fought against a woman who was trying to do her duty by her husband. But first she Pa.
 
“I shall have to let you go alone. But I charge you, Pa, not to bid on anything—on ANYTHING, do you hear?”
 
Pa heard and promised to , with every intention of keeping his promise. Then he drove away . On any other occasion Ma would have been a welcome companion. But she certainly spoiled the flavour of an auction.
 
When Pa arrived at the Carmody store, he saw that the little yard of the Garland place below the hill was already full of people. The auction had evidently begun; so, not to miss any more of it, Pa hurried down. The sorrel mare could wait for her shoes until afterwards.
 
Ma had been within bounds when she called the Garland auction a “one-horse affair.” It certainly was very , especially when compared to the big Donaldson auction of a month ago, which Pa still lived over in happy dreams.
 
Horace Garland and his wife had been poor. When they died within six weeks of each other, one of consumption and one of , they left nothing but debts and a little furniture. The house had been a rented one.
 
The bidding on the various poor articles of household gear put up for sale was not brisk, but had an element of resigned determination. Carmody people knew that these things had to be sold to pay the debts, and they could not be sold unless they were bought. Still, it was a very tame affair.
 
A woman came out of the house carrying a baby of about eighteen months in her arms, and sat down on the bench beneath the window.
 
“There’s Marthy Blair with the Garland Baby,” said Robert Lawson to Pa. “I’d like to know what’s to become of that poor young one!”
 
“Ain’t there any of the father’s or mother’s folks to take him?” asked Pa.
 
“No. Horace had no relatives that anybody ever heard of. Mrs. Horace had a brother; but he went to Manitoba years ago, and nobody knows where he is now. Somebody’ll have to take the baby and nobody seems anxious to. I’ve got eight myself, or I’d think about it. He’s a fine little chap.”
 
Pa, with Ma’s parting admonition ringing in his ears, did not bid on anything, although it will never be known how great was the heroic self-restraint he put on himself, until just at the last, when he did bid on a collection of flower-pots, thinking he might indulge himself to that small extent. But Josiah Sloane had been commissioned by his wife to bring those flower-pots home to her; so Pa lost them.
 
“There, that’s all,” said the auctioneer, wiping his face, for the day was very warm for October.
 
“There’s nothing more unless we sell the baby.”
 
A laugh went through the crowd. The sale had been a dull affair, and they were ready for some fun. Someone called out, “Put him up, Jacob.” The joke found favour and the call was repeated .
 
Jacob Blair took little Teddy Garland out of Martha’s arms and stood him up on the table by the door, steadying the small chap with one big brown hand. The baby had a mop of yellow curls, and a pink and white face, and big blue eyes. He laughed out at the men before him and waved his hands in delight. Pa Sloane thought he had never seen so pretty a baby.
 
“Here’s a baby for sale,” shouted the auctioneer. “A genuine article, pretty near as good as brand-new. A real live baby, warranted to walk and talk a little. Who bids? A dollar? Did I hear anyone mean enough to bid a dollar? No, sir, babies don’t come as cheap as that, especially the curly-headed brand.”
 
The crowd laughed again. Pa Sloane, by way of keeping on the joke, cried, “Four dollars!”
 
Everybody looked at him. The impression flashed through the crowd that Pa was in earnest, and meant thus to signify his intention of giving the baby a home. He was well-to-do, and his only son was grown up and married.
 
 John Clarke lived at White Sands and he and his wife were childless.
 
That bid of John Clarke’s was Pa’s............