"Well," he said, "I suppose you can't always be gassing if you're not feeling on the spot. Let's start the sale before any more people leave. Come on."
Mr. Waddington led the way to the rostrum. Burton, with a sinking heart, and a premonition of evil, took the place by his side. The first few lots were put up and sold without event, but trouble came with lot number 13.
"Lot number 13—a magnificent oak bedroom—" the auctioneer began. "Eh?
What? What is it, Burton?"
"Stained deal," Burton interrupted, in a pained but audible whisper.
"Stained deal bedroom suite, sir—not oak."
Mr. Waddington seemed about to choke. He ignored the interruption, however, and went on with his description of the lot.
"A magnificent oak bedroom suite, complete and as good as new, been in use for three weeks only. The deceased gentleman whose effects we are disposing of, and who is known to have been a famous collector of valuable furniture, told me himself that he found it at a farmhouse in Northumberland. Look at it, ladies and gentlemen. Look at it. It'll bear inspection. Shall we say forty-five guineas for a start?"
Mr. Waddington paused expectantly. Burton leaned over from his place.
"The suite is of stained deal," he said distinctly. "It has been very cleverly treated by a new process to make it resemble old oak, but if you examine it closely you will see that what I say is correct. I regret that there has been an unfortunate error in the description."
For a moment there was a tumult of voices and some laughter. Mr. Waddington was red in the face. The veins about his temples were swollen and the hammer in his hand showed a desire to descend on his clerk's head. A small dealer had pulled out one of the drawers and was examining it closely.
"Stained deal it is, Mr. Auctioneer," he announced, standing up. "Call a spade a spade and have done with it!"