forehead and pulled
irresolutely upon his cigar. A severe-looking old man expressed his
entire disapproval of the proceedings. "It's against the Constitution,"
he said, loudly. "How about the Fourteenth Amendment? Well, the number
doesn't matter anyway. Officer, I call upon you to stop this unlawful
and outrageous farce. A human being selling himself on the auction
block! The slave-market set up again in this Christian city of New
York! It's a crime against the Constitution."

But the policeman was a prudent person, and as yet he had seen no cause
to interfere. The proceedings were unusual, no doubt, and they might be
against the Constitution; he wouldn't like to say. It was none of his
business anyway; HE went by the code.

"Bah!" snorted the old gentleman, and rushed away to find a city
magistrate.

"Two hundred dollars," repeated the young man in evening clothes. "Two
hundred dollars. What am I bid? Going, going--"

The shipping agent made a hasty mental calculation--there was no profit
in the transaction at anything over his last bid of an even hundred.
But he was tempted to go a little further and run up the price on his
adversary, thus punishing him for interfering in a man's private
business. Very good, but suppose the stranger suddenly refused to
follow the lead; then it would be Joe Bardi himself who would be
mulcted. Revenge would be sweet, but it was too dangerous; he would
stop where he was.

"Two hundred, two hundred--going, going--" The crowd began to banter
the crimp.

"Lift her again, Joe," called out one voice. "Open up that barrel of
plunks you've got stored away in your cellar," exhorted another
counsellor. "A nice, white slave--that's what you're needing in your
business," advised a third. But Joe Bardi kept his eyes on the ground
and said nothing.

"Gone," said the young man in evening clothes.

Indiman took four fifty-dollar bills from his wallet and handed them to
the young man. The latter glanced at the notes and stuffed them
carelessly into his waistcoat-pocket. Then, turning to Indiman:

"Sir," he said, with a profound seriousness, "I am now your property.
Ah! Pardon me--"

Like a cat he had sprung between Indiman and the crimp. With a
dexterous upward fling of his arm the knife in the Italian's hand went
spinning into the air. This was something that came within the
policeman's accustomed sphere, and he took immediate charge of Mr. Joe
Bardi. It was all done in a most methodical