and the small assemblage of merely idle or interested
persons gathered for the sale. The sheriff
stood facing them under the towering pillars of the
portico; his voice rang clearly through the air. To
Gordon the occasion, the loud sing-song of the sheriff,
appeared unreal, dreamlike; he listened incredulously
to the meager cataloguing of his dwelling, the
scant acreage, with an innate sense of outrage, of a
shameful violation of his privacy. He was still unable
to realize that his home and his father's, the
clearing that his grandfather had cut from the wild,
was actually passing from his possession. He summoned
in vain the emotions which, he told himself,
were appropriate. The profound discouragement
within him would not be lifted to emotional heights:
lassitude settled over him like a fog.

The bidding began in scattered, desultory fashion,
mounting slowly by hundreds. Eighteen hundred
dollars was offered, and there the price obstinately
hung.

The owner of the _Bugle_ appeared at his door, and
nodded mysteriously to Gordon, who rose and listlessly
obeyed the summons. The former closed the
door with great care, and lowered a faded and torn
shade over the front window. Then he retired to a
small space divided from the body of the office by
a curtain suspended from a sagging wire. He
brought his face close to Gordon's ear. "Have a

[[83]]

p082 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p083w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p084

v?