The London dealer was glancing keenly at his unknown opponent, and he was asking himself whether this was a genuine rival, or whether it was a device of some sort—an agent of Flynn’s perhaps—for running up the price. Little Mr. Strellenhaus, the same apple-faced gentleman whom Dodds had noticed in the coffee-room, stood looking at the horses with the sharp, quick glances of a man who knows what he is looking for.
“Thirty-one,” said Holloway, with the air of a man who has gone to his extreme limit.
“Thirty-two,” said Strellenhaus, promptly.
Holloway grew angry at this persistent opposition. His red face flushed redder still.
“Thirty-three!” he shouted.
“Thirty-four,” said Strellenhaus.
Holloway became thoughtful, and entered a few figures in his note-book. There were seventy horses. He knew that Flynn’s stock was always of the highest quality. With the hunting season coming on he might rely upon selling them at an average of from forty-five to fifty. Some of them might carry a heavy weight, and would run to three figures. On the other hand, there was the feed and keep of them for three months, the danger of the voyage, the chance of influenza or some of those other complaints which run through an entire stable as measles go through a nursery. Deducting all this, it was a question whether at the present price any profit would be left upon the transaction. Every pound that he bid meant seventy out of his pocket. And yet he could not submit to be beaten by this stranger without a struggle. As a business matter it was important to him to be recognised as the head of his profession. He would make one more effort, if he sacrificed his profit by doing so.
“At the end of your rope, Mr. Holloway?” asked the salesman, with the suspicion of a sneer.
“Thirty-five,” cried Holloway gruffly.
“Thirty-six,” said Strellenhaus.