"_That_ man don't ride, nohow! I've marked _him_! I don't cal'late to take no sarse _this_ trip! Take any six or eight for twelve dollars an' fifty cents right straight to the tahvern! Who bids?" "I'll give you fifteen dollars, my friend, to take myself, my wife, and three children to the village." It was Samson Newell who spoke. "'M offered fifteen," cried the White Bear, pricking up his ears; "goin' to the tahvern at fifteen; who says fifteen 'n' arf?" "I do!" from a pursy passenger with a double chin and a heavy fob-chain. He glanced round a little savagely, having made his bid, as who should say, "And I should like to see the man who will raise it!" "'N' 'arf! 'n' 'arf! 'n' 'arf! 'n' 'arf!" cried the White Bear, growing much excited,--"an' who says sixteen?" Samson Newell nodded. "Sixteen dollars! sixteen! sixteen! We can't tarry, gentlemen!" The White Bear proved the truth of this latter assertion by suddenly disappearing beneath the snow. He reappeared in an instant and resumed his outcry. "I see the gentleman's sixteen," quoth the man who had called the White Bear "Sheep-Shanks," "and go fifty cents better!" "I see _you_," replied the auctioneer, "an' don't take your bid! Who says sixteen 'n' 'arf?" "I do!" quoth the Double Chin; and he glowered upon his fellow-passengers wrathfully. At this instant appeared Old Woollen on the scene. In one hand he bore his pocket-book; in the other, a paper covered with calculations. The latter he studied intently for a moment, then,-- "I'll give you sixteen dollars an' sixty-two 'n' a half cents; an' if you ever come round our way"-- The jubilant auctioneer, fairly dancing upon the fence in the energy of his delight, broke in here,-- "Can't take no bids, gentlemen, short of a half-dollar rise, each time!" Old Woollen retired, discomfited, and was seen no more. From this point the bidding ran up rapidly till it reached twenty-five dollars, where it stopped, Samson Newell being the successful bidder. It was a study to watch the man, now that his chance for reaching home that day brightened. Instead of being elate, his spirits seemed to fall as he made his arrival at the village certain. "Ah!" he thought, "are my father and mother yet living? How will my brothers and sisters welcome me home?" How, indeed? * * * * * In the village where dwelt Jacob Newell and his wife, an old man, lame and totally blind, had been for over thirty years employed by the town to ring the meetinghouse-bell at noon, and at nine o'clock in the evening. For this service, the salary fixed generations before was five dollars, and summer and winter, rain or shine, he was always at his post at the instant. When the old man rang the evening-bell on the Thanksgiving-Day whereof I write, he aroused Jacob and his wife from deep reverie.