“Five bits!” Barend DeRoo, of Low Prairie, in the lists. A strapping young Dutchman, the Brom Bones of the district. Aaltje Huff, in a fit of pique at his indifference, had married to spite him. Cornelia Vinke, belle of New Haarlem, was said to be languishing for love of him. He drove to the Haymarket with his load of produce and played cards all night on the wagon under the gas torches while the street girls of the neighbourhood assailed him in vain. Six feet three, his red face shone now like a harvest moon above the crowd. A merry, mischievous eye that laughed at Pervus DeJong and his dollar bid. “Dollar and a half!” A high clear voice—a boy’s voice. Roelf. “Oh, no!” said Selina aloud. But she was unheard in the gabble. Roelf had once confided to her that he had saved three dollars and fifty cents in the last three years. Five dollars would purchase a set of tools that his mind had been fixed on for months past. Selina saw Klaas Pool’s look of astonishment changing to anger. Saw Maartje Pool’s quick hand on his arm, restraining him. “Two dollars!” Pervus DeJong. “Twotwotwotwotwotwo!” Adam Ooms in a frenzy of salesmanship. “And ten.” Johannes Ambuul’s cautious bid. “Two and a quarter.” Barend DeRoo. “Two-fifty!” Pervus DeJong. “Three dollars!” The high voice of the boy. It cracked a little on the last syllable, and the crowd laughed. “Three-three-three-three-threethreethree. Three once——” “And a half.” Pervus DeJong. “Three sixty.” “Four!” DeRoo. “And ten.” The boy’s voice was heard no more. “I wish they’d stop,” whispered Selina. “Five!” Pervus DeJong. “Six!” DeRoo, his face very red. “And ten.” “Seven!” “It’s only jelly sandwiches,” said Selina to DeJong, in a panic. “Eight!” Johannes Ambuul, gone mad. “Nine!” DeRoo. “Nine! Nine I’m bid! Nine-nine-nine! Who’ll make it——” “Let him have it. The cup cakes fell a little. Don’t——” “Ten!” said Pervus DeJong. Barend DeRoo shrugged his great shoulders. “Ten-ten-ten. Do I hear eleven? Do I hear ten-fifty! Ten-ten-ten tententententententen! Gents! Ten once. Ten twice! Gone!—for ten dollars to Pervus DeJong. And a bargain.” Adam Ooms mopped his bald head and his cheeks and the damp spot under his chin. Ten dollars. Adam Ooms knew, as did all the countryside, this was not the sum of ten dollars merely. No basket of food, though it contained nightingales’ tongues, the golden apple of Atalanta, wines of rare vintage, could have been adequate recompense for these ten dollars. They represented sweat and blood; toil and hardship; hours under the burning prairie sun at mid-day; work doggedly carried on through the drenching showers of spring; nights of restless sleep snatched an hour at a time under the sky in the Chicago market place; miles of weary travel down the rude corduroy road between High Prairie and Chicago, now up to the hubs in mud, now blinded by dust and blowing sand.