Free Brown Sunshine of Sawdust Valley by Marguerite Henry, Bonnie Shields Page B

bid.
    â€œOh, Pops, thank you!”
    â€œThe gentleman and his little redheaded colleen bid fifty dollars for this strapping young colt that’s ready to be trained their way. His sire and dam both were showstoppers . . . with dash ’n’ style. He’ll win enough blue ribbons to cover the walls of the little girl’s bedroom. Make it a hundred, and he’s yours.”

    The auctioneer winked one eye at Molly.
    â€œSixty.” The woman’s voice.
    Pops fingered the seventy dollars in his pocket and offered it all. “ Seventy dollars !” he announced with a note of finality.
    The sunburned old man snapped his fingers: “Hun-derd!” He seemed ready to bid on and on.
    â€œThe gentleman bids one hundred dollars.”
    â€œOne hundred and twenty-five.” The lady’s voice interrupted.
    â€œOne-fifty.” The sunburned man.
    â€œOne-fifty. Do I hear one-seventy-five?”
    The barn went silent except for a tiny squeal from the colt, pulling toward the open door, as if anxious to be reunited with his mother.
    â€œGoing . . . going . . . gone!”
    Molly watched the colt being led out of the ring while the elderly man, now sprightly as a grasshopper, hurried off to claim him.
    Pops put his arm about Molly.
    â€œThere’ll be other entries, well-trained; this one was really too green for us!”
    â€œToo green?” Molly repeated. “Oh, Pops, he looked just right to me!”
    Horses numbered two through twelve came and went, all ages, all breeds. Each time, the seventy dollars in Mr. Moore’s pocket served only to spur the bidding. After a while, Molly’s hopes turned to bewilderment. “Pops, can’t we do something? Can’t we get that foal there to stumble and want to come back?”
    â€œIt’s too late, Molly. His handler is taking him away.” Pops put his hand on Molly’s shoulder.
    By the time #13 entered the ring, the crowd hadbegun thinning out, but still the auction limped on.
    â€œLadies and Gentlemen, Lady Sue, Number Thirteen, is last and luckiest.” The auctioneer warmed to his few bidders. “Meet Lady Sue. She has good years left. Her legs are sounder than a dollar. Not a blemish. Mebbe she’s gaunted up a bit, but good hay and oats and lots of TLC will make her a fine, dependable mount to hack across country, jump fallen logs, and show off like the hunter-jumper she is. Fact is, she’s half Arab, half Thoroughbred and has been trained as a three-gaited saddle horse. She could be just the ticket for the young redhead sitting with her daddy.”
    To Molly’s surprise, she watched her father go down from the top bench to examine the mare’s teeth. Almost immediately he gave a satisfied nod and returned to his seat.
    â€œWho’ll offer seventy dollars?” the auctioneer asked with a wink, “for this Thoroughbred with a pedigree longer’n my arm?”
    Pops waited for someone else to open the bidding.
    â€œTwenty-five,” said a voice with a laugh in it, “for the flea-bitten sorrel.”
    The silence in the emptying barn made the buzzing of a greenhead fly seem noisy.
    â€œPlease, Pops, let’s go home!” Molly whispered. But her father didn’t hear. He had a rapt expression on his face. He seemed anxious to challenge the bid.
    â€œWho’ll offer seventy dollars?”
    Pops nodded.
    The stands were almost empty. Molly covered her face with her hands. The auctioneer seemed in a hurry to close the bidding.
    â€œI have seventy. I have seventy. Going . . . going . . . gone for seventy dollars to the gentlemen and the young lady, who now own a sensible mount, without any colty tricks. And not a scar on knee or hock.”
    Molly winced. She had told everybody at school that she was going to get a young horse on her birthday, and it would be as elegant as Secretariat.
    â€œOh,