“It—it isn’t—— Could you sell my work for me? I mean——”
The man stared hard at the girl, his squinting eyes puckered, his mouth drawn close at the corners.
“I’m a gen’ral auctioneer,” he announced conclusively. “It’s m’ business to sell household effects, stock, or real estate, on commission.”
“I want some money—a good deal of money,” Barbara went on, “and I want it right away.”
“I’ve seen folks in your fix before,” commented the auctioneer dryly, as he again applied himself to the sewing machine. “I gen’rally make out t’ sell what’s offered. But I can’t guarantee prices.”
“You sell horses, don’t you?” demanded Barbara.
“And—and oxen. They’re meant to work, and people buy them to work. That’s what I want to do. I want to work for three—or four years, if I must; and I want the money all at once—in advance.”
“I don’t know as I ketch your idee,” said Mr. Bellows. “You want money, an’ you want it right away, an’ you want me to sell——”
“I want you to sell my work—honest work, housework, any kind of work that I can do, for—for a term of years.”
Mr. Bellows abandoned further efforts at bettering the condition of the late Widow Small’s sewing machine. He stood up and scowled meditatively at Barbara.
“Seems t’ me I’ve seen you b’fore, somewheres; haven’t I?”
“My name is Barbara Preston,” the girl said haughtily.
“When people buy a horse they really buy and pay for the labor of that horse in advance,” Barbara said composedly. “I am more valuable than a horse. I have skill, intelligence; I wish to sell—my skill, my intelligence to the highest bidder.”
“Well, I swan!” exclaimed Mr. Bellows. Then he fell to laughing noisily, his wizened countenance drawn into curious folds and puckers of mirth.
“Say! d’you know I’ve been asked to sell mos’ everythin’ you ever heard of,” said Mr. Bellows, getting the better of his hilarity, “but I never was asked to sell—a girl. A good-lookin’, smart, likely girl. I guess you’re jokin’, miss. It wouldn’t do, you know.”
“Well, it wouldn’t; that’s all. I’ve got m’ reputation as an auctioneer to think about; an’—lemme see, your folks is all dead, ain’t they?”
“No,” said Barbara. “I have a brother six years old.”
Her dry tongue refused to add to this statement. She was conscious of an inward tremor of fear lest he should refuse.