whole
shootin'-match. I was in the store when the nigger boy come by the front
janglin' a bell an' totin' the red flag with a sign on it, an' Alf sent
Pomp out fer one of the circulars that had a list of the items. He
looked it over, an' then re'ched for his hat, an' me 'n him went down to
the court-house yard whar the whole thing was spread out, piled up, an'
haltered. It was like Noah's Ark washed ashore an' lyin' thar to dry.
Thar was six hosses so thin you could read through 'em without yore
specs, three big road-wagons heavy enough to haul steam-engines on, the
little, teensy pony with a bob-tail that the clown driv' in the
procession, an' the little red-an'-green streaky wagon that he rid in.
Then thar was the heavy iron den on another big road-wagon that the lion
stayed in till he starved to death, a whoppin' pile of planks that was
used for seats, an', last of all, the big canvas tent.

"The entire town an' country was on hand, nosin' about an' crackin'
jokes on the fat manager who had come up from Atlanta to attend the sale
an' was lookin' as seedy as a last year's bird's-nest. But I'm here to
tell you that when Alf Henley come stalkin' down, lookin' sorter
indifferent, like he always does when he has a notion to trade, that
crowd pulled in its horns an' waited."

"The fool!" Mrs. Henley ejaculated. "Making a public exhibition of
himself."

"Well, I've often wondered about that very thing," Wrinkle said. "I
sometimes think he tries to make folks think he is a fool to suit his
aims, an' ef he ain't a natural-born one it oughtn't to be belt agin
him. I admit I was puzzled on that point this mornin'. I stuck to his
heels, bound to see 'im through. He'd sniff at one thing an' turn away
from another as if it didn't smell right; he'd kick a pile of stuff with
contempt an' walk on, an' he grinned to beat a heathen idol at the mere
sight of the lion-cage an' pony an' cart, an' then he just squared
hisse'f around same as to say, 'Well, I'm in pore business, but I'll
jest stand here an' see if anybody will be fool enough to bid on such
truck.'

"You know Sheriff Tobe Webb is a dry-talkin' cuss, anyway, an' I had to
laff when he got up an' begun his harangue, fer all the world like a
feller in front of a side-show tryin' to drum up a crowd to see a passel
o' freaks on the inside. Tobe had the fust item led out fer
inspection--a bony hoss that tried to lie down, an' Alf spoke up an'
wanted to know if he was a stump-su