Wanna Buy a Horse? A feu• months ago this question, if addressed to an automobile owner, would bring a laugh. Today the horse has the laugh. Out in the Vest and the Middle IJ est horses are still plentiful, but in the East they are scarce. And yet there is a firm of horse auction eers operating in Greater New York—Potters and Greenberg—where private sales on horses arc held every day of the week and special auctions on Fridays. Photos show you ichat goes on. 'wKftidnKm ^.xTTPnVPP^ kV^mPpI This might pass for a picture of the Axis high command, but actually it is one of some of the steeds uniting to be auctioned off. Not a gift horse. Deftly the buyer tnkes the horse's tongue in one hand and examines the teeth, to determine age. Horses have many foot ail ments, and seasoned horse trad ers know all about them and just u hat to look for. Frequently a piece of harness goes on the block iitsteail of a horse. Here you see a halter going to a bidder for three dollars. Auctioneer Greenberg is knocking it down. This man has taken on the dif ficult job of selling a horse to the auctioneer. tf hen bidding lags on a horse the animal is made to strut his stuff, as shown here. It Is No Disgrace tfrfcrseJ W Hy KARL GRAYSON Associated Newspapers—WNU Service THE Griswold family, with the exception of Old Bill, had gathered in the library of the stately Griswold mansion, to discuss ways and means. Old Bill Griswold, for forty years Ashland's leading citizen, and for the same number of years president of the successful and heretcnore flourishing Ashland Rug Mills, was on the verge of bankruptcy. ‘‘It's a pity,” Rilla, daughter of the house. 19, blonde, dazzlingly beautiful, belle of Ashland’s young er set, was saying. "It's a pity fa ther couldn't have told us this was going to happen. Warned us of it. It’s—it’s all so much of a shock.” Allen, two years his sister s senior, handsome as she was beau tiful, gestured disgustingly “He didn’t tell us," he explained, “for the same reason he never told us about any of his business troubles. He probably thought he could pull out of this hole as he’s pulled out of others. Dad's a brick, and al ways has been. We oughtn’t to crab now." “I’m not crabbing, silly. I’m merely saying he should have warned us, so we could do some thing about it." "Do something? That’s a laugh! What can we do?" Allen swung one leg over the arm of his chair and scowled. "There’s a lot we can do, Allen.” This from Stanley, 23, a product of Harvard's 1941 graduating class. "We can get jobs. We can sell our cars. We can move into a smaller house, sell this one, and take care of Dad. He's always taken care of "Hello, mother," he said, and came toward her and placed an arm about her shoulder. us, given us everything we could ever want. Now it’s our turn to take care of him." At this point Old Bill’s wife, moth er of the children, sweet and gentle to look upon, entered the conver sation. "It isn’t so much the money,” she said. "We could get along somehow. It’s the disgrace. Whatever will people think?” "Think!” Allen bounded to his feet. "What do we care what they think’’ Anyway, they couldn’t think a thing. Why, there’s hardly a man or woman in this town that Dad hasn’t helped one way or another. He hasn't an enemy in the world. Everyone around here thinks he's about the finest man alive. That's why he’s broke now—because he’s spent all his money helping folks who were down and out.” Stanley smiled gently at this and looked at his brother reprovingly. "It’s easy, Allen, for folks to think and say a man is great when he has plenty of money and is generous [ with it It’s when he’s broke that , a man finds he’s alone in the world." "You’re wrong, Stanley. Dead : wrong.” Allen strode over to the fireplace and leaned against the | mantel. "You’ve been away at col lege and you don’t know how Dad | has been helping folks. Personally I have more faith in humanity than to think they’d turn against him now They may not be able to help him financially, but they won't con demn him for going under. It isn't as if he wasted the money.” Stanley shrugged and lapsed into silence. And after a while Mrs. Griswold got up and went out. The children watched her go sadly. They pitied their mother and Old Bill, too. They had lived their lives. There wasn't much to look forward to. Nothing much but failure and dis I grace. It was a burden hard to bear. Mrs. Griswold went to her room. She wanted to be alone. It wasn’t easy to be brave, to look at the thing as the children looked at it Sitting s^t her dressing table she smiled a little wistfully, thinking of Allen Poor Allen. He had always been something of an idealist It was a pity his illusions had to be so rudely shattered; a pity he didn’t understand people better. Even Stanley, stating those bitter truths, had failed to shake his faith. Mrs. Griswold caught herself wishing that Allen could have been right, that people were like that; unforgetful and appreciative. But they weren’t. Otherwise, they’d all be like Old Bill Griswold. And there was only one Bill Griswold. It was three o’clock and Bill ! would be home any minute. She j must be brave, for Bill's spirits would be low. This afternoon he was to sign the papers that would reveal to the world that they were failures. She shuddered involuntarily at the thought. Even now Bill must be | facing Benjamin Cheney. Ken Morse j and Nat Murray. Friends of long I standing. Men who had loaned him i money, knowing that Old Bill’s word ; was better than his bond, that their | investments with him would be safe. Poor Bill. A man had to have nerve and courage to go through an ordeal like that. A man had to have it to face the future, too. For those three men would despise him hereafter. They’d look at him with accusing glances and talk about him behind j his back. No, it wasn't the money. It was the disgrace that was hard to bear, the future that would break their spirits. The wound to their pride. You couldn’t blame these men. Their attitude was something in evitable, something that must be faced and conquered. The front door opened and closed and a man’s voice boomed out a greeting to the children below stairs. Mrs. Griswold almost winced That was Old Bill come home. Bluff and hale as ever, al- j most jovial. She looked into the mirror for a Anal inspection then stood up, smil ing. Old Bill was standing in the i doorway behind her. Hello, mother, he said, and came toward her and placed an arm about her shoulder. “Well, it’s over. I’ve just come from the shop—” “I know. Bill. I know.’’ She was talking to him much the same as she would have talked to Allen or Stanley or Rilla when they were children; looking up at him, pat ting his shoulder. “Mother, you’ve been fine about 1 all this, you an