Still I saw she knew there was something wrong with them because she kept looking at the women with almost a sad expression. Once, she said, “There’s something to do here, Billy.” “Missionary work?” I asked. She nodded. “But this isn’t Africa,” I laughed. “This is the United States of America. It’s a fact and we mustn’t forget it.” “No,” she said, “that is just what we must remember.” “And most of these people are descendants of the Mayflower. They are relatives of ours.” “Yes,” she said soberly, “we must remember that, too.” But the auctioneer was begging our kind attention to examine a collection of extremely useful articles which he announced he was going to include in a single parcel. Into an old tin pan he counted one by one a rusty egg beater, two iron spoons, a kitchen knife, three glass preserve jars, a doughnut cutter, a crockery door knob and finally a dozen ordinary tin coffee cans. Then with his hands on his hips he stood back and beamed with pride upon the collection. “How much for the lot!” he demanded. He himself looked like one of the odds and ends he was selling. Though not over thirty-five he was round shouldered and dyspeptic. He wore glasses and though smooth shaven his beard still showed. His clothes hung loosely about his spare frame and he seemed to be always in pain. The bids started at two cents and quickly went to five, while the crowd laughed good naturedly. I gained a better impression of the auctioneer right off by the earnest, sober way he went at his business. He had a trick of leaning over the crowd with his long bony finger outstretched and calling earnestly, “Once, twice--” with a little pause there which made you feel as though you were missing a great opportunity. “Twice,” he repeated, and in the excitement of the moment I was on the point of bidding six when he brought both hands together with the decisiveness of a decree of Fate and I escaped. Ruth had detected my temptation and pulled at my sleeve. “Look here, Billy,” she warned, “you mustn’t bid on anything except what we really want.” “Think of all those things going for five cents,” I answered. “And when the man gets home with them he’ll wonder why he ever bid two,” she said. The auctioneer disposed of the culch first and always found a bidder if only for a worthless basket filled with broken bottles. And there wasn’t a man who bought those things who didn’t have his wood shed cluttered up with similar waste. Finally he came to six wooden kitchen chairs. They were painted yellow and had seats three inches thick. They were hand made and fastened together with wooden pegs instead of nails and were as stout as when first built. Ruth had picked these out at once. “I’d better start them at a quarter,” I said. “No,” she whispered, “you keep quiet. Let me do the bidding.” “How much a piece for the lot?” inquired the auctioneer. The man who had the adjoining farm started them at two cents.