“Twenty-seven hundred and ninety dollars,” the sheriff reiterated; “only twenty-seven ninety...this fine bottom land, all cleared and buildings in best repair. Going! Going!”

“Three thousand,” a man called from the group facing the columned portico.

“Three thousand! Three thousand! Sale must be made. Going—”

“Thirty-one hundred,” Gordon pronounced abruptly.

A stir of renewed interest animated the sale. Gordon heard his name pronounced in accents of surprise. He was surprised at himself: his bid had been unpremeditated—it had leaped like a flash of ignited powder out of the resurrected enmity to Valentine Simmons, out of the memories stirred by the figure that resembled Lettice.

The sheriff immediately took up his bid. “Thirty-one hundred! thirty-one, gentlemen; only thirty-one for this fine bottom land, all cleared—”

There was a prolonged pause in the bidding, during which even the auctioneer grew apathetic. He repeated the assertion that the buildings were in the best repair; then, abruptly, concluded the sale. Gordon had purchased the farm for thirty-one hundred dollars.

He despatched, in the Courthouse, the necessary formalities. When he emerged the group on the lawn had dwindled to three people conversing intently. A young man with heavy shoulders already bowed, clad in unaccustomed, stiff best clothes, advanced to meet him.

“Mr. Makimmon,” he began; “you got my place.... There’s none better. I’ve put a lot of work into it. I’ll—I’ll get my things out soon’s I can. If you can give me some time; my wife—”

“I can give you a life,” Gordon replied brusquely. He walked past Alexander Crandall to his wife. She turned her face from him. He said:

“You go back to the Bottom. I’ve fixed Cannon...this time. Tell your husband he can pay me when it suits; the place is yours.” He swung on his heel and strode away.