Hugh had not much faith in praying negroes, but something in old Sam struck him as sincere. His prayers might do good, and he needed somebody’s, sadly. But what should he offer, when fifteen dollars was all he had in the world, and was it his duty to encumber himself with a piece of useless property? Visions of the Golden Haired and Adah both rose up before him. They would say it was right. They would tell him to buy old Sam, and that settled the point. “Five dollars,” he called out, and Sam’s “God bless you,” was sounding in his ears, when a voice from another part of the building doubled the bid, and with a moan Uncle Sam turned imploringly toward Hugh. “A leetle more, mas’r, an’ you fotches ’em; a leetle more,” he whispered, coaxingly, and Hugh faltered out “Twelve.” “Thirteen,” came from the corner, and Hugh caught sight of the bidder, a sour-grained fellow, whose wife had ten young children, and so could find use for Sam. “Thirteen and a half,” cried Hugh. “Fourteen,” responded his opponent. “Leetle more, mas’r, berry leetle,” whispered Uncle Sam. “Fourteen and a quarter,” said Hugh, the perspiration starting out about his lips, as he thought how fast his pile was diminishing, and that he could not go beyond it. “Fourteen and a half,” from the corner. “Leetle more, mas’r,” from Uncle Sam. “Fourteen, seventy-five,” from Hugh. “Fifteen,” from the man in the corner, and Hugh groaned aloud, “That’s every dime I’ve got.” Quick as thought an acquaintance beside him slipped a bill into his hand, whispering as he did so, “It’s a V. I’ll double it if necessary. I’m sorry for the darky.” It was very exciting now, each bidder raising a quarter each time, while Sam’s “a leetle more, mas’r,” and the vociferous cheers of the croud, whenever Hugh’s voice was heard, showed him to be the popular party. “Nineteen, seventy-five,” from the corner, and Hugh felt his courage giving way as he faintly called out, “Twenty.” Only an instant did the auctioneer wait, and then his decisive, “Gone!” made Hugh the owner of Uncle Sam, who crouching down before him, blessed him with tears and prayers. “I knows you’re good,” he said; “I knows it by yer face; and mebby, when the rheumatics gits out of my ole legs I kin work for mas’r a heap. Does you live fur from here?” “Three miles or more,” Hugh replied, bidding the negro follow him. The snow was melting, but out upon the turnpike it was still so deep that Hugh had many misgivings as to the old man’s ability to walk, but Sam, intent on proving that he was smarter than he seemed, declared himself perfectly competent to go with “Mars’r” to the world’s end, if necessary. “It’s mighty cold, though,” he said, as he emerged into the open air, and the chilly wind penetrated the thin rags which covered him. “It’s mighty cold, and my knees is all a shakin’, but I’ll git over it bimeby.”