The words were scarcely out of her mouth, when they were greeted with a roar of Homeric laughter that literally shook the room, and this time not at the expense of the innocent speaker.
“That's into your mutton, governor.”
“Sharp's the word this time.”
“I say, governor, don't you want a broker to bid for ye?”
“Wink at me next time, sir; I'll do the office for you.”
“No greenhorns left now.”
“That lady won't give a ten-pund note for her grandfather's armchair.”
“Oh, yes, she will, if it's stuffed with banknotes.”
“Put the next lot up with the owner's name and the reserve price. Open business.”
“And sing a psalm at starting.”