Everybody has heard of Leavitt, the dry little joker, the humorous and
popular auctioneer of Hartford, who sells everybody, and everything, from
a riddled sauce-pan to a nine-acre lot in the suburbs.
One fine day he was selling, in front of the State House, a various
collection of articles, with a lot of ancient and modern household
furniture and traps that would have made Mrs. Toodles happy for a six
months, and was "looking sharp" for some one to help him over a tough
place on an odd lot, when he discovered in the crowd a pleasant, open,
upturned countenance,--a sort of oasis in the desert,--to whom he at once
appealed for assistance. A knowing wink from young rusticus was the
response, a return from the auctioneer, and the bids went on with
astonishing rapidity, till down went a big lot of goods, which everybody
seemed to have wanted--a truckle-bed and fixings, with earthen ware, etc.
"Yours, sir--what's your name?" said L. to the young man from the
agricultural district.
"Mine? O, no; I didn't bid on 'em," said rustic.
"Yes, you did," replied the auctioneer.
"Well, I guess not, much."
"But you did--the whole lot. You winked every time I looked towards you."
"Winked?"
"Yes, and kept winking; and a wink is a bid always," said L., the least
taken aback at the prospect of losing a good sale.
"Wal--as for that--so did you keep winkin' at me. I thought you was
winkin' as much as to say, 'Keep dark; I'll stick somebody onto this lot
of stuff;' and I kept winkin' back, as if to reply, 'Well, I'll be hanged
if you don't, mister.'"
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