Baggs met the morning with a sullen lowered countenance, his gaze on
the monotonous road. He made no reply to the blind man's infrequent
remarks, and the latter, except for an occasional murmur, fell silent.
At last Harry Baggs saw a group of men about the fence that divided a
small lawn and neatly painted frame house from the public road. A porch
was filled with a confusion of furniture, china was stacked on the
grass, and a bed displayed at the side.
The sale had not yet begun; A youth, with a pencil and paper, was
moving distractedly about, noting items; a prosperous-appearing
individual, with a derby resting on the back of his neck, was arranging
an open space about a small table. Beyond, a number of horses attached
to dusty vehicles were hitched to the fence where they were constantly
augmented by fresh arrivals.
"Here we are!" Baggs informed his companion. He directed Janin forward,
where the latter unwrapped his violin. A visible curiosity held the
prospective buyers; they turned and faced the two dilapidated men on
the road. A joke ran from laughing mouth to mouth. Janin drew his bow
across the frayed strings; Harry Baggs cleared the mist from his
throat. As he sang, aware of an audience, a degree of feeling returned
to his tones; the song swept with a throb to its climax:
"'_You damn ol' nigger, come and bring
Dat boat an' row me home_!'"
There was scattered applause.
"Take your hat round," Janin whispered; and the boy opened the gate and
moved, with his battered hat extended, from man to man.
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