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The auctioneer chanted, "Going once at nine . . . going twice at nine . . . going three times--sold at nine minims!" He shoved the boy off the block almost into the beggar's lap. "Take him and get out!"
"Softly," cautioned the Syndonian. "The bill of sale."
Restraining himself, the auctioneer filled in price and new owner on a form already prepared for lot ninety-seven. Baslim paid over nine minims--then had to be subsidized again by the Syndonian, as the stamp tax was more than the selling price. The boy stood quietly by. He knew that he had been sold again and he was getting it through his head that the old man was his new master--not that it mattered; he wanted neither of them. While all were busy with the tax, he made a break.
Without appearing to look the old beggar made a long arm, snagged an ankle, pulled him back. Then Baslim heaved himself erect, placed an arm across the boy's shoulders and used him for a crutch. The boy felt a bony hand clutch his elbow in a strong grip and relaxed himself to the inevitable--another time; they always got careless if you waited.
Supported, the beggar bowed with great dignity. "My lord," he said huskily, "I and my servant thank you."
"Nothing, nothing." The Syndonian flourished his kerchief in dismissal.
From the Plaza of Liberty to the hole where Baslim lived was less than a li, no more than a half mile, but it took them longer than such distance implies
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