ion was on its last legs. "The flags were flying
half-mast high." A crowd of people were there. Cart-horses with
harness on, and a lot of tired-looking saddle-hacks, covered with dry
sweat, were fastened to cart-wheels, and to every available post and
place. Heaps of old iron, broken-down drays and buggies and
wheel-barrows, pumps and pieces of machinery, which Dad reckoned were
worth a lot of money, were scattered about. Dad yearned to gather them
all up and cart them home. Rows of unshaven men were seated high on
the rails of the yards. The yards were filled with cattle--cows,
heifers, bulls, and calves, all separate--bellowing, and, in a friendly
way, raking skins and hair off each other with their horns.

The station-manager, with a handful of papers and a pencil behind his
ear, hurried here and there, followed by some of the crowd, who asked
him questions which he did n't answer. Dad asked him if this was the
place where the sale was to be. He looked all over Dad.

A man rang a bell violently, shouting, "This way for the dairy cows!"
Dad went that way, closely followed by Dave, who was silent and
strange. A boy put a printed catalogue into Dad's hand, which he was
doubtful about keeping until he saw Andy Percil with one. Most of the
men seated on the rails jumped down into an empty yard and stood round
in a ring. In one corner the auctioneer mounted a box, and read the
conditions of sale, and talked hard about the breed of the cattle.
Then:

"How much for the imported cow, Silky? No.1 on the catalogue. How
much to start her, gentlemen?"

Silky rushed into the yard with a shower of sticks flying after her and
glared about, finally fixing her gaze on Dad, who was trying to find
her number in the catalogue.

"A pure-bred 'Heereford,' four years old, by The Duke out of Dolly, to
calve on the eighth of next month," said the auctioneer. "How much to
start her?"

All silent. Buyers looked thoughtful. The auctioneer ran his restless
eyes over them.

Dad and Dave held a whispered consultation; then Dad made a movement.
The auctioneer caught his eye and leant forward.

"FIVE BOB!" Dad shouted. There was a loud laugh. The auctioneer
frowned. "We're selling COWS, old man," he said, "not running a
shilling-table."

More laughter. It reached Dave's heart, and he wished he had n't come
with Dad.

Someone bid five pounds, someone else six; seven-eight-nine went round
quickly, and Silky was sold for