Herbert Putnam’s eyes glistened and his voice was unsteady as he spoke. “I’d give my right arm rather than part with him. If I were able, he and his should be free to-day.” The auctioneer began to gesticulate and shout: “Six hundred has been bid on Rastus, by Mr. Burton over thar, to start the game. Only six hundred for one of the best buck negroes in the county. Seven hundred! That’s right, Mr. Staley; he’s the very man you want. Seven hundred; eight do I hear it? Thank you; Mr. Burton don’t intend to take a back seat. All right; nine hundred! Nine-fifty do I hear it, Mr. Burton? Nine-fifty it is. Mr. Staley has got a thousand ready for him; a thousand has been bid; anybody else in the fight? Old Rastus is thin, but he could throw a bull a rod by the tail. One thousand only on a two-thousand-dollar negro. Do I hear more?” George Putnam’s face darkened angrily as he watched the excited features of old man Staley. He drew Burton’s ear down to his lips: “Bid twelve hundred, and knock him out and be done with it,” he whispered; “it will scare him to death.” “Twelve hundred,” said Burton, without a change of countenance, and silence fell on the chattering, speculating crowd; even the voluble auctioneer showed surprise by not at once echoing the bid. Old Rastus took advantage of the pause; he sprang up and clapped his hands and knocked his heels together. “I ain’t no thousand-dollar nigger,” he cried. “I b’longs ter Marse Herbert Putnam, I does; de ain’t no cheap nigger on dis yer block.” “Twelve hundred dollars!” repeated the auctioneer, impressively, and there was something vaguely respectful in the way he pushed Rastus back into his chair. “Twelve hundred! Mr. Staley, don’t back out; you need ‘im wuss than anybody else. Is it twelve-twenty-five?” Staley hesitated; his eyes fell before the concentrated stare of the silent crowd, and then he nodded. A murmur passed through the assembly, and Colonel Putnam grew white with anger. “Some one has put him up to this,” he said in a low tone to his agent. “Make it thirteen hundred.” And the next instant the auctioneer was flaunting the bid in the face of old Staley. Herbert Putnam, unnoticed by any one, elbowed his way through the crowd to his brother and touched him on the arm. Their eyes met. “Pardon me,” said Herbert, “but I must speak to you.” And George Putnam was drawn beyond the outskirts of the crowd. “I cannot keep quiet and see you cheated,” faltered Herbert, with his eyes averted. “A long time ago, when you and I were boys, you stood up for me, and I cannot forget that we are brothers. Don’t bid any more on Rastus; he is shamming; he is as sick as he can be, and is only pretending to be well to bring a high price.”