The Open Gate

by Kate Seredy

  “Oh, but they are, Mother. Gran has asked. That’s why he is tied up so he wouldn’t run away. Oh, Dad . . . PLEASE.”

  Father frowned. “I can’t believe it. A man’s own dog . . . sold to the highest bidder—”

  “But the man whose dog he was died, Dad, and everything is sold and he has no home, Funnyface here hasn’t . . . oh gee,” Dick’s face was flushed and his eyes were pleading. “I bet he could follow the horses and scare up . . . foxes and things . . .

  Father looked at Mother. Mother looked at Father. They had a way of saying things to each other without words. Dick could never discover how they did it; not even now when he was all eyes and ears. He only knew that they had been talking over the fate of Funnyface in their mysterious way, for Father’s face was crinkling into a broad smile and he said in an ‘I give up’ sort of voice: “ALL RIGHT, Molly. He is a nice pup. Oh, Lord,” he groaned, “the best laid plans of man come to naught when . . .”

  “When he loves his family,” Mother finished, squeezing his arm. “It’s fun though, John. Let’s just . . . float, shall we? Let things just happen and come what may?”

  Dick suddenly realized that they were going to buy Funnyface. He jumped to his feet, the yapping little dog still clutched in his arms. “Oh gee, Dad . . . oh, Mom . . . oh gosh, oh gee . . .”

  Father patted him on the shoulder. “All right, Dick. It’s a reward for a very good report card. Now . . .” he hesitated, then went on in a puzzled voice: “How does one go about buying things at an auction anyway? Where is Gran? She’ll know.”

  Where indeed was Gran? They wandered around, Father and Mother, like helpless babes in the woods, looking for Gran. They stumbled over rusty farm machinery, got entangled in scraps of barbed wire fencing, bumped into people left and right, looking for Gran, calling Gran. It was a hot day and Father was getting red in the face.

  “I know she’s right in the thick of the crowd,” he sighed, wiping his forehead. “Look at that jam of people . . . it’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack.”

  “Where in the world have you been, John?” Gran’s voice suddenly spoke from beneath his elbow. “You look as if you had been through a washing machine.”

  Father started to sputter but Gran, looking just as fresh and crisp as she was early that morning, went on briskly: “Isn’t this wonderful? They’re going to sell the farm next, when he is through with the furniture. It’s a lovely farm; I’ve been through the house and around the outbuildings. Two hundred acres of good land go with it; run down considerably but . . .”

  Father held up his hand. “Mom, I am not interested in the farm. Just tell me how I can get that dog for Dick and let’s get out of here.”

  “Wait your turn,” Gran said calmly and prattled right on about the farm: “It has two brooks, a twenty-acre woodland, a pond, the barn has stanchions for fifty cows and there is a chicken building, corncrib, woodshed, granary, cooling pit, hoghouse and a good tight stable for two teams. Orchard, strawberry patch, blackberry patch. . .” She talked on and on, eager, shining, more alive than Father had seen her in many years. Mother was looking around at the magnificent old spruces by the house, at the neglected but still lovely slope of green grass stretching from the old house toward the road; at the beautiful view from the yard—a view of hills and mountains all around them. “It is a beautiful spot. And all that land! Two hundred acres . . . just think of it. It’ll bring a fortune.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised how chea . . .“ Gran drowned her voice in a violent sneeze and cast a quick glance at Father. He hadn’t heard; he was frowning in the direction of the auctioneer. “Take all day,” he muttered. Gran folded her hands and composed her face into a sweet mask of innocent indifference. Her voice was a little louder and very, very distinct when she spoke again: “Oh yes. If anybody can afford to pay what the place is worth . . . it’s the investment of a lifetime.”

  “What is?“ Father asked absentmindedly, not really interested.

  “This farm,” Gran said casually. “Bring a stiff price . . . just wait and see.”

  “Oh that!” Father shrugged. “I suppose so. The camp we are buy . . . are thinking of buying, has only one eighth of an acre and a small cottage for three thousand dollars . . . eight hundred times that much land ought to bring a fortune.”

  “Oh my,” Mother sighed. “How much do you think it will sell for?“ Father, like most city people, had no idea what farmland is worth. He frowned importantly though and said: “Oh as a rough guess I’d say . . . at least thirty thousand.”

  A small, odd sound made him glance at Gran, but she was still serenely contemplating her hands. “And worth every bit of any amount the buyer pays for it,” she said dryly.

  “Yes. I’ll be surprised if it goes for less,” Father said, his voice positive now. “Out of our class . . . even if we were interested. All I want to know is . . . when do we get that dog?”

  The crowd had become quite noisy and the auctioneer raised his voice: “Attention, people!” He rapped his cane against the porch column. Gradually the hubbub abated and he began to talk again:

  “Now, folks, before we go on with the rest of the stuff, and we have a lot of good things to sell yet, I want your undivided attention. This farm, as you know, is going to be sold today according to the wishes of the heirs of the late Mr. Crawford. Most of you know that this is one of the best farms around here . . . or used to be. This sale has been well advertised and all of you who are interested, have had time to inspect the farm and buildings. Is there anyone present, interested in the farm, who does not know the details?”

  He waited but no one spoke up. “All right then. I am going to sell this farm with a clear title to the highest bidder. Terms of the sale as follows: Highest bid is final and irrevocable. Ten percent in cash to be paid at the conclusion of the sale of realty; balance to be paid within three months, unless other arrangements are made with the executor. Start bidding, people. How much am I offered for land and buildings? The best farm in Orange County and you have a chance to buy it at your own figure. How much am I bid? Two hundred acres of prime land and buildings. . . .”

  No one spoke. Most of the crowd had walked away from the auctioneer; there were only about thirty men, mostly overall clad farmers, who seemed to pay any attention. Even they were watching each other more than looking at the perspiring auctioneer. He went on with his chanting: “Don’t just stand there, people . . . start bidding. Will SOMEBODY start! How much is it worth to you . . . come on!”

  “What’s the matter with them?” Father asked in a puzzled voice.

  “Nothing,” Gran said. “Nobody ever wants to start the bidding; if it’s too low, they make fun of him, if it’s too high, he feels like a fool. Sometimes it takes hours before he gets a first bid.”

  Father looked indignant. “Let that poor man yell his lungs out! It’s just wasting time too. We can’t stay here all day!”

  “You could start the bidding, John; what do you care what they think. It would break the ice; after that they’ll get going quick enough.” Gran spoke as if she were a little bored, looking at her fingernails.

  “Well . . . anything to get them going. What shall I say? Ten thousand?”

  “Oh NO!” Gran looked alarmed. “Always start way, way low. It’s the way auctions are done. I’d say . . . well . . . a thousand dollars.”

  “A thousand . . . oh, no use fooling around, Mom, I want to get out of here TODAY.” Father took a deep breath and yelled as loud as he could: “Three thousand dollars.”

  All the men turned to look at him; the auctioneer gave him a thankful grin.

  “Three thousand dollars I am bid, now who will give me four? I am bid three thousand dollars . . . who’ll say four? You can’t go wrong, men. Three thousand . . .”

  “Well, I did my share,” Father chuckled, turning away. “Let’s sit in the shade until it’s over.” They walked away toward the orchard where Dick and Janet were playing with the dog. As they passed a group of
farmers, Father heard one of them say: “City man, doesn’t know any better.” He blushed. “Should have said ten thousand. I knew it!”

  Gran shook her head and muttered: “That would have been SOMETHING.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t let me, Mom. Anyway, they don’t know me from Adam and won’t ever see me again, so let them laugh. What— what was it you said, Mom?”

  Gran was smiling serenely. “Oh, not much. I . . .“ she seemed to listen intently. A funny expression came into her face. “Oh well. I guess . . . I said . . . that . . . you’ll be surprised.” But Father was watching Dick and Janet romping with the dog. He sighed. “What ever we’ll do in the fall, I don’t know. Can’t keep that pup in a city apartment and Dick will be heartbroken if he has to part with it.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that . . . NOW,” Gran commented. “I guess . . . I don’t feel so very well.” She sighed in a feeble way, as she sat down on the bench. Father was on his knees and put his arms around her. “Oh, Mom . . . too much excitement . . . I knew it! Here, Dick . . . Molly . . . somebody get a glass of water for Mom . . she’s fainting.”

  “I’ll get it,” Dick and Janet cried together, sprinting away. Mother sat down by Gran and patted her hand. “Just sit still, dear, it’ll pass off. You were so active on a hot day like this . . . you shouldn’t have done all you did today.”

  “I know it,” Gran quavered. “You won’t be angry with me, children? I didn’t know it was going to happen like this.”

  “Of course not, Mom,” Father reassured her. “You just sit here for a while and if you aren’t well enough to travel . . . we’ll find a hotel or some place to spend the night. Don’t you worry.” He smiled at her, bending close to her face. He looked closer, glanced up at Mother: “She has such a high color . . . it can’t be sunstroke or something?” Mother lifted both shoulders as if to say, “I don’t know either.”

  “Here,” Dick panted, arriving with a glass of water, Janet on his heels with another one, “drink this, Gran, fresh out of that funny well.”

  Gran opened one eye, then the other. For a second she stared at something over Father’s head, then hastily closed both eyes . . . tight. “Give it to your father, Dick,” she sighed, her cheeks growing pinker and pinker, “he’ll need it.” Her head dropped on Father’s shoulder. “Oh, John . . . say you aren’t angry with your old mother.”

  “You are the most wonderful Mom in the world and you haven’t done anything I could be angry for,” Father soothed her, really concerned now. Then he turned impatiently: “Yes, what is it?” for somebody had touched his shoulder and a voice said:

  “Excuse me, sir; we’ll need you for a moment.”

  Father got to his feet. The auctioneer and his clerk were standing there, smiling at him. “Congratulations,” said the auctioneer jovially. “Now, if you will just go through a few formalities, Mr. Green, my clerk, is a notary; he’ll give you a receipt for your deposit and title can be passed at your convenience.”

  Father’s face was a study of varying emotions. Impatience gave way to bewilderment to turn shortly into a cool, amused smile.

  “There must be some mistake,” he said easily. “I am just waiting for this dog to be sold; my son has taken a liking to it.”

  “Good,” smiled the auctioneer. “I am glad to hear that. May I have your name and present address, sir?”

  “John Ward Preston, Sixty-Four East . . . say! What’s this, anyway?“ Father exclaimed. “Do I have to furnish a pedigree to buy a dog?”

  It was the auctioneer’s turn to look puzzled. “Why, no, Mr. Preston but it is necessary to have your name to record the sale at the courthouse. And,” he added, his smile a little forced now, “we do like to know the name of our new neighbor. We are a close-knit community here, as you’ll find out. Or did you buy the farm just as an investment?”

  “Buy . . . ME! Me . . . buy the farm?” Father stuttered, then started to laugh. “I told you that you’d made a mistake. I didn’t buy the farm . . . I just . . . opened the bidding for you.”

  “A bid of three thousand dollars,” the auctioneer said, watching him intently.

  “That’s right.”

  The auctioneer’s face relaxed. “Well, Mr. Preston, then there is no mistake. You were the highest and only bidder and, in a few minutes, will be the owner of this farm.”

  The sound Father made was more like a hiccup than anything else.

  Gran jumped to her feet. “Easy, John. Drink this up,” she said, holding a glass of water up to him. He drained it in one gulp, without seeming to know what he was doing. Then he drew a deep, shuddering breath and sat down on the bench. Mother stood very still; Dick and Janet looked excitedly from one grownup to the other.

  “Jimminy!” Dick’s voice exploded as if he had been holding his breath too long, “Jimminy hot diggety dog! You mean it’s ours?” he yelled suddenly, planting himself in front of the bewildered auctioneer. “All of it? House, barns, orchard . . . well, bench . . . everything?”

  The auctioneer smiled at him. “It will be, as soon as your father signs these papers. How about it, Mr. Preston? I have a long way to go to sell all that machinery and the other stuff . . . I’d appreciate your attention to this matter.”

  Father shook his head like someone who is just waking up. He looked around in a dazed way. First at Mother, searching her face. “Just . . . sort of float . . . come what may . . .” he muttered, then his eyes rested on Gran’s flushed face. “City man. Doesn’t know any better.” He pointed an accusing finger at Gran. “But you knew . . . why, you . . . engineered the whole thing.”

  Gran puckered her lips, trying to look penitent but her eyes were snapping. “Just one of those things that . . . happen. Besides, you’ve promised not to be angry, John. I . . . I didn’t really think I could that is, that this would happen!”

  “Mr. Preston, please,” urged the auctioneer, holding a sheaf of papers under Father’s nose. Father cocked an eye at him. “Highest bid is final and irrevocable . . . is that what you said?”

  “In this case . . . I’ll have to hold you to it, Mr. Preston. The other interested parties have already left and . .

  “All right,” groaned Father. “Oh ALL RIGHT. Give me that pen.”

  The auctioneer bustled. “Sign this . . . and this . . . there we are. Three hundred in cash . . . here is your receipt, sir. Now, we are glad to have you in our community, Mr. Preston, call on me for any help you may need . . . here is my card. Good luck to you, neighbor.”

  Father allowed his hand to be shaken vigorously and said in a faraway voice: “Thank you. Thank you, Mr.”—he glanced at the card— “Mr. Feller. Wait a moment,” he cried as the men started to walk away. “The dog . . . what . . . when . . . oh, never mind,” he suddenly laughed, hitting his forehead with the palm of his hand, “there is no hurry any more. We . . . seem to have . . . landed.”

  Mr. Felter hesitated. “Well, I’ve got to put that dog up . . . valuable hound, you see,” he glanced at Dick’s frightened face and gave him a wink. “Don’t worry, son, I’ll fix it somehow.” He swung around and let out his voice:

  “All right, people, step this way for a moment. Come on, come on let’s get going.” He didn’t wait for all the stragglers to reach him but went on quickly: “I’m going to sell this dog now and I want action. We haven’t got all day. Come on, come on!”

  He bent close to Dick and whispered: “When I ask how much, you yell twenty-five. Now, people, how much am I offered? . . .“

  “Twenty-five cents,” Dick choked in his excitement and his voice didn’t carry very far.

  “Twenty-five I am bid for this dog—who’ll give me thirty, twenty- five . . . thank you, thirty I am bid now, who’ll make it . . .“ he turned toward Dick, who nodded soundlessly. Thirty-five it is and who’ll make it forty and thirty-five cents buys it, take it away.”

  “Hey, Lou, wait a MINUTE,” cried the short, stout, hardfaced man who was the only bidder against Dick. “I was bidding in dollars an
d mybid is still good. Thirty DOLLARS!”

  “Sorry, Ike; better luck next time,” said Mr. Felter, moving away. The man stalked after him, waving his arms and talking in a loud, angry voice. But Mr. Felter just shrugged. He climbed up on a farm wagon. “This way, people . . .“ his loud voice rang out, drowning the angry protests of the man.

  “Thirty DOLLARS,” Dick breathed in an awestruck voice, gazing at the little dog with respect. An elderly farmer chuckled. “You sure stole that hound, son; she’s worth money.”

  “I didn’t know . . .“ Dick stuttered. “But Lou Felter did,” said the farmer with a broad smile. “Never knowed Lou to do anything but what’s right,” he went on, speaking to Father. “Ike Johannsen hadn’t ought to be allowed to keep dogs any way you look at it. Has a cruel, heavy hand with critters, Ike has, and no love for anything but money. I’m your next door neighbor,” he said, jerking a thumb in the general direction of the road. “Live over the hill down the road a ways, but our lands join from the road to the Kill. Good fishing in the Kill if you’re that minded.” He was still eyeing the dog. “Aim to breed her?”

  “Why . . . I don’t know yet, Mr. . . . Mr. . . .“ Father hesitated. “Van Keuran. Jacob Van Keuran. Glad to know you folks,” he said when Father in turn introduced himself and his family. “Reason I’m asking ‘bout Bluebell here . . . that’s her name; Bluebell out of My Own Lass by Pride of Orange . . . ‘cause she’s too good a pup to let just run wild. She’s valuable, she is. Old John Crawford—God rest his soul—paid seventy-five dollars for her dam. John raised hounds, like me. He sold out before he went to the hospital; Bluebell is. the last of Lassie’s litter. I took care of her for quite a spell; tried to buy her too, but old John’s kinfolk are scattered all over the states ‘n everything had to be put up at auction. Take good care of her, son,” he smiled at Dick, “you’ll never get a finer hound at any price. Well, I’ve got to be gettin’ home for milkin’. Anything I can do for you folks?“ he asked, looking at Mother.