“Now I have here a piece of genuine Americana. An old-fashioned beautifully worked hand-cranked milk separator.” Mudgett lifted the heavy separator and balanced it precariously on the railing of the bandstand while Perly showed it off. “Look at that pewter fancywork, at the quality of the porcelain in the bowl. Nowadays, they don’t bother to make machines beautiful to look at. But there was a time when they cared about the boy who had to stand there and crank, so they decorated the separator with leaves and flowers to rest his eyes and calm his soul.
“Never mind the malarkey, Perly,” called Sam Parry from just behind the Moores. At seventy, Sam was white-haired but still hale. His age showed only in that, since his children had left home, he found it harder with every passing year to hold his tongue. “Does the blamed thing work?”
“Like a charm,” Perly said. “In those days they made machines to last. He turned the crank. “Perfect working order. Look at this.”
“Sounds a bit squeaky,” Sam said. “How do I know the innards are workin?”
“Because I say so,” Perly said. “And my word’s as good as the fact, though if you’re nervous I’ll write you out an ironclad guarantee. This machine’s been running for a heap of years, and it’s probably got a longer journey yet to go than most of us.”
Sam bid a dollar, muttering to his wife and anyone else who might be listening, “That Sears electric thing I got from Paul Geness is no damn good.”
“Serves you right,” said his wife. “You know he gets that stuff from the dump.”
A dollar! Perly laughed. He shrugged his shoulders. “Course we have to start somewhere, but this is a genuine antique worth at least a hundred. Now I want you all to consider what a conversation piece this would make in your playroom or your dining area. Teach your children the centrifugal principles. Teach them how they did things in the olden days. And you can rest assured that no one else you know will have one like it. There probably aren’t a dozen machines like this one extant in all the vast stretches of America.”
“Ten dollars,” bid a small woman wearing a tight minidress and a glossy high-piled hairdo of dark curls.
Perly spotted her in the crowd and spoke directly to her. “This is a piece that will stop people in their tracks. Picture it mounted next to your basement bar. Entertain your company by cranking punch out of it. Yes, ma’am, you can’t go wrong on this. I have ten now, I have ten. Do I hear fifteen?”
Eleven, Sam called. “If you’re so sure the blessed thing works, why you sellin’ it for a conversation piece?” He went on mumbling.
“Holy smokes. A conversation piece. What kind of fool needs a conversation piece. If talk don’t come natural, why bother?
“Never your problem,” commented his wife.
“Eleven. Eleven,” Perly was intoning. “Now remember an antique like this will just keep right on growing in value as time goes on. What’s more, it’s still working, so if times get hard, you can always buy a cow and separate your own milk.
“Tarnation,” Sam said. “I already got cows.
“I have eleven. Do I hear fifteen?”
Perly kept an eye on the woman with the curls, but from the chairs on the other side of the aisle, a man in a blue seersucker jacket raised his pipe to signal fifteen.
“Fifteen, fifteen. Do I hear twenty?”
“Sixteen,” Sam called loud and clear, “and robbery at that.”
“Sixteen, do I hear twenty?”
The woman with the curls nodded to the twenty.
“Twenty, twenty. Do I hear twenty-five?”
The man gave him the twenty-five, and the woman went up to twenty-six. The man countered with twenty-seven, and there was a pause.
“Twenty-seven, twenty-seven,” Perly cried, “and a bargain at twice the price. Who’ll give me thirty?”
The woman with the curls nodded.
Perly turned to the man again. “Thirty, thirty, give me thirty-five and you’ll have something you can pass on to your children’s children.”
But the man shook his head.
“Sold,” shouted Perly. “For thirty dollars, to the little woman who knows a bargain when she sees one.”
“Who don’t know when she’s been had,” growled Sam to no one in particular.
“And now, folks, hold your horses,” called the auctioneer. “There’s one more brave old American custom that an auction helps to keep alive. Americans have always jumped at their chances where they found them and that’s what keeps their blood flowing stronger and quicker than any other blood. I’ve been in forty countries and I know it’s true. Americans have never been afraid to risk their money where their hearts are, and that’s why we’re the richest country in the world. Now I’ve got something here that just might pay big dividends. I’ve got three surprise boxes here and each and every one of you is going to get a chance to bid. Here’s your double or nothing bid. You never know. I heard of a man once bought a strongbox for forty dollars and when he pried it open it had seventy-five thousand dollars in it. Seventy-five thousand dollars that the judge ruled his by law. It could happen to anyone-to me, to you. So what am I offered for this Campbell soup carton filled with surprises? A thimble, a screwdriver, a bundle of quilting squares, a pair of long johns— who knows? Maybe a gold nugget. Fifty cents, fifty cents. Let me hear a dollar... .”
The Thursday after the auction, the Moores were up in the garden setting out tomatoes and onions and planting beans.
“I figure there’s about two good boxes of old tools down there still and then that’ll be about it with us and the auctions,” John said.
“I don’t know,” Mim said, leaning back on her heels and pushing her wispy brown curls out of her face. “We could start on the attic. Make a clean sweep while we’re at it.”
“Got to save somethin’ for another year,” John said.
“Another year,” Mim said. “Someone or other’s been savin’ that rummage for another year since longer than Ma can remember. We can get somethin’ for it if we let it go now.”
John was using a crowbar to sink the stakes for the tomatoes and beans. Now he pried out a rock the size of his head and heaved it off to one side.
“Save it,” Mim went on, “and Hildie’s children’s children will be sniffin’ through there every rainy day just like you did as a boy. Beaver traps and broken mirrors. That’s no place for kids, and Hildie’s already jumpin to be up there every chance she gets.” Gradually they recognized the sound of a motor approaching. They stood up to see who it was before they committed themselves to walk down the field. In summer, curious people drove the back roads just to see what was at the end of them. They would turn around in the Moores’ dooryard. Ma would peer out her window. Hildie would stare from the shadow of the barn. And the sightseers would gaze soberly back as though what they saw were as insensible as the black-and-white images of a television documentary.
But this time the motor was Gore’s. And this time he had Perly Dunsmore with him.
Hildie started down the hill at a run, and Mim and John walked quickly after her.
Gore’s truck stopped in the dooryard, the passenger door opened, and the auctioneer’s golden retriever bounded out. Lassie backed off, barking wildly. The retriever moved cautiously toward Lassie. Lassie stopped, and the two dogs circled each other, their tails held high.
Behind the picket fence that ran between the house and the barn, Hildie stopped, struck shy, as the tall auctioneer unfolded himself from the truck and stooped with a smile to greet her.
“Do you like your red wagon, Hildie?” he coaxed.
Hildie nodded and came out from behind the fence, but still stood at a distance sucking her thumb.
“Come and see what I have for you,” said the auctioneer, digging into his pocket.
Hildie took her thumb out of her mouth and waited for her parents. She took Mim’s hand, and moved with them toward Gore and Dunsmore.