"Well, gentlemen," declared the student of medicine, with a snort, "it's quite evident that we're all playing the fool together. I wish you a very good-evening, and the devil take all crawfishers." And with that he marched off, evidently in high dudgeon. A little ripple of laughter swept over the upturned faces of the crowd. "One dollar," repeated the young man, his voice full of a polite weariness. "Do I hear no other bid? I offer myself, a human chattel, at absolute sale; no reservations; warranted sound and kind; no objection to the country; not afraid of the Elevated railway." "Five dollars," said a voice at the rear, and a short, stout man, with little, black, beadlike eyes, held up his hand to identify his bid. "Joe Bardi," said a man to his neighbor. Both turned interestedly. "And who is Joe Bardi?" inquired Indiman, blandly. "Business of shipping sailors. There's big money in it, they say." "Ah, yes, a crimp--isn't that what they call them?" "Right you are, mister. A hard one, too. It'll be a sharp man that does for old Joe Bardi." "Five dollars," came again from the squat figure with its ratlike eyes, and the young man in evening dress paled a little. He had over-heard the colloquy between Indiman and the native Abingdonian, and it is difficult to regard with equanimity the prospect of a trip before the mast--to China, let us say. In an American ship, too, more shame to us that it must be said. But the young man was thoroughbred. He had sat down to play a desperate game with Fortune, and he could not withdraw with the cards on the table. "Five dollars," he repeated, mechanically. "Five dollars. What am I offered? Five dollars." "Want me to buy you dat, Mame?" said a half-grown boy of the unmistakable tough type. "Whatjer soy? Five cases for dat mug! And Tuesday ain't bargain-day, nuther." "Well, it looks like thirty cents," said Mame, critically. "In Chinese money, too--thirty yen-yen. What you say, John?" The crowd laughed again. "Five dollars." "Five dollars," repeated the young man, and there were little drops of sweat on the broad, fair forehead. "Five dollars, five dollars. Do I hear no other bid? Five dollars--going--going--" "Six." It was Indiman who spoke, and this time the crowd gaped in good earnest. An indescribable emotion possessed for an instant the face of the young man in evening clothes. Then he fell back upon his first manner, half-petulant, half-mocking. "Six dollars I am bid," he announced, briskly, and looked straight at the shipping agent. Joe Bardi hesitated. "And a half," he said, tentatively, as an angler who feels the mouth of the fish that he fears may be insecurely hooked. Indiman capped the bid promptly. "Seven dollars," he said. The crimp scowled. "Make it eight," he retorted. "Ten."