I want five, five, sixty-five, five, five, sixty-five. I want five, five, sixty-five. I want five, five, sixty-five, five, five, sixty-five. Make it five, five, sixty-five, five, five, sixty-five. I want five, five, sixty-five, five, five, sixty-five.” Suddenly he stopped.

For a moment the pavilion was quiet. Then the auctioneer said, “Now listen heah, folks. You all know that sixty-two thousand dollars isn’t much to bid for this heah colt.” Although he spoke to more than five hundred people, his words were meant for the two bidders who alone remained in competition for the gray colt.

Now he singled out one of them—a man sitting near the sales ring—when he said, “Mr. Ashwood, you’re not going to let Mr. Flint get this heah colt, are you? You went up to sixty thousand dollars. Will you make it sixty-three thousand? That’s not too much money for this colt. Silver Jet came home with more than one hundred eighty-five thousand dollars this year for Mr. Flint. You’re not going to let him take his full brother too, are you?”

The man near the ring shifted uneasily in his seat but didn’t offer a bid over Flint’s sixty-two thousand dollars. Yet the auctioneer didn’t think he’d lost him so he decided to wait a few more moments. He knew Tom Flint would go still higher to get this colt. All he had to do was to get another rise in bid from Ashwood. So he would wait a few minutes before closing the sale in order to give Ashwood a chance to think it over and to realize that he wanted this colt enough to pay sixty-three thousand dollars for him.

The auctioneer’s gaze moved to the right of Tom Flint. In a corner chair he saw the short, bulky figure of a man whose hat was pulled down almost completely over his eyes. The auctioneer didn’t recognize him but watched as the man drew a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. The harsh sound of it broke the strained stillness of the pavilion.

Smiling, the auctioneer said, “The gentleman back theah. Did you just make a bid for this colt?”

Henry pushed back his hat. “No,” he grunted. “I just blew my nose.”

Only then did the auctioneer and the crowd recognize Henry Dailey, and the room rocked with laughter.

“Well, Henry,” the auctioneer said, “you’d better be careful how you blow your nose or you’ll own this heah colt.” But then his attention and that of the crowd was diverted to the man seated near the ring. Mr. Ashwood was holding up three fingers.

Once again the auctioneer’s chant claimed the pavilion. “I got three, three, sixty-three. I want five, five, sixty-five.” He was looking at Tom Flint now, and after a few seconds Flint held up four fingers.

“I got four, four, sixty-four.” He turned to Mr. Ashwood. “I want five, five, sixty-five.”

The bidder nodded without taking his eyes from the gray colt in the ring.

“Yeah! I got five, five, sixty-five. I want six, six, sixty-six.” Back to Tom Flint in the last row.