Now, what was Plumley’s little game? And wasn’t he anyhow a good man of business?
He was at least such a sure student of human nature as to have made no miscalculation in the matter of Bull and Hacker’s predilections. They seized, on the strength of Mr. Gardener’s artful insinuations, the very picture on which the defaulter was supposed to set a value, and put it up to sale one afternoon on the tail of a general auction. Mr. Gardener bid for it (the practice was common enough amongst the firm’s employés, acting for private clients, and Bull rather admired the man’s astuteness in having suggested a seizure so prospectively profitable to himself), and a strange dealer opposed him. They ran one another up merrily, and the room gaped and sniggered and whispered. It was an afternoon of surprises.
“Forty-six,” cried the auctioneer—“any advance on forty-six?”
A local lawyer, Bittern by name, was observed pushing his way through the crowd.
“Good Lord!” he was muttering; “is the man daft!”
“Forty-seven,” said the dealer.
“Forty-eight,” bawled Gardener.
“Forty-nine,” said the dealer monotonously.
“Fifty!” cried Gardener stoutly; and hung on the bid which was to quit and relieve him.
It did not come.