one at a time, through a small door in the rear of the warehouse.
Like most sailors, Mr. Gibney had a passion for horseback riding,
and in a spirit of adventure he resolved to acquaint himself with
the ins and outs of an old horse sale.

"How much might a man have to give for one of the critters?" he
asked. "And are they worth a whoop after you get them?"

"Twenty-five cents up," was the answer. "You go it blind at an
old horse sale, as a rule. Perhaps you get something that's
worthless, and then again you may get something that has heaps of
value, and perhaps you only pay half a dollar for it. It all
depends on the bidding. I once sold an old horse to a chap and he
took it home and opened it up, and what d'ye suppose he found
inside?"

"Bots," replied Mr. Gibney, who prided himself on being something
of a veterinarian, having spent a few months of his youth around
a livery stable.

"A million dollars in Confederate greenbacks," replied the
auctioneer. "Of course they didn't have any value, but just
suppose they'd been U.S.?"

"That's right," agreed Mr. Gibney. "I suppose the swab that owned
the horse starved him until the poor animal figgered that all's
grass that's green. As the feller says, 'Truth is sometimes
stranger than fiction.' If you throw in a saddle and bridle
cheap, I might be induced to invest in one of your old horses,
shipmate."