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 and I have yet to see her come home from one of these things with something of any more use to her than a second nose. While personally I could never cuddle up to them, there's a lot of our sex who go to these auction sales like they'd go to a show. They hang around all day, bid their heads off on every article offered for sale, eat the usual nifty lunch put out by the hoarse auctioneer and his merry men and then go home with a second-hand vacuum cleaner or something that cost them about four dollars more than they could get a new one for in a store.

Well, anyways, on this day Hazel and me ran amuck and blew about a hundred dollars each on a choice collection of knick-knacks that no self-respecting junk dealer would be found deceased with, really. The auctioneer rubbed his hands together and said we got a bargain for our hundred, but Hazel sneered that it was about the same kind of a bargain as we'd have got by paying a hundred dollars for a cauliflower. Mr. Auctioneer, who wasn't any more girlproof than the rest of 'em, then tries to promote himself with us and plied us each with a Japanese pin tray—value, about three marks. Always looking for the best of it, Hazel is talking herself into a carved mantel clock when I hear a familiar voice behind me and wheel to see the grinning face of Mr. Hershel Rosenberg, née Kid Rose.

"Vell, vell, vell—vot a small voild it turned out to