Milo had just raised the bid.
"One hundred and thirty-three" hollers Peter, fetching the tea chest a
belt. "One thirty-four do I hear? Make it one thirty-three fifty. Fifty
cents do I hear? Come, come! this is highway robbery, gentlemen. Mr.
Small--where are you?"
But Eddie was talking to Saltmarsh. In a minute back he comes, looking
more worried than ever. Peter T. bawled and pounded and beckoned at him
with the mallet, but he only fidgetted--didn't know what to do.
"One thirty-three!" bellers Peter. "One thirty-three! Oh, how can I look
my grandmother's picture in the face after this? One thirty-three--once!
One thirty-three--twice! Third and last call! One--thirty--"
Then Eddie begun to raise his hand, but 'twas too late.
"One thirty-three and SOLD! To Mr. Milo Thompson for one hundred and
thirty-three dollars!"
And just then come a shriek from the piazza; the Duchess and "Irene
dear" had come out of the parlor.
Well! Talk about crowing! The way that Thompson crowd rubbed it in on
the Smalls was enough to make you leave the dinner table. They had the
servants take in them dishes, piece by piece, and every single article,
down to the last butter plate, was steered straight by the Small crowd.
As for poor Eddie, when he come up to explain why he hadn't kept on
bidding, his wife put him out like he was a tin lamp.
"Don't SPEAK to me!" says she. "Don't you DARE speak to me.
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