"To seek the outer world was a perilous undertaking for fear that the
triply-named knife might come to grief; but a snug harbor was reached at
last, and hugging the precious bit, the Spectator mysteriously
disappeared on reaching his home. No one must know of his success until
the mystery was cleaned, brightened, and restored to pristine beauty.
The Spectator rubbed the gummy surface with kerosene, and then polished
it with flannel. Then warm water and a tooth brush were brought into
play, and the oil all removed. Then a long dry polishing, and the
restoration was complete. Certainly no other Smalltowner had such a
wooden knife; and it was indeed beautiful. Black in a cross light, red
in direct light, and kaleidoscopic by gaslight. Ah, such a prize! The
family knew that something strange was transpiring, but what no one had
an inkling. They must wait patiently, and they did. The Spectator
proudly appeared, his prize in hand. 'See there!' he cried in triumph,
and they all looked eagerly; and when the Spectator's pride was soaring
at its highest, a younger daughter cried, 'Why, papa, it's the back of a
hair-brush!' And it was."

An auctioneer usually tries to be off-hand, waggish, and brisk--a cross
between a street peddler and a circus clown, with a hint of the forced
mirth of the after-dinner speaker. Occasionally the jokes are good and
the answers from the audience show the ready Yankee wit.

Once an exceedingly fat man, too obese to descend from his high wagon,
bought an immense dinner bell and he was hit unmercifully. A rusty old
fly-catcher elicited many remarks--as "no flies on that." I bought
several chests, half full of rubbish, but found, alas! no hidden
treasure, no missing jewels, no money hid away by miserly fingers and
forgotten. Jake Corey, who was doing some work for me, encouraged me to