“Sixteen hunderd I’m offered by the gentleman who has just arrived. Sixteen hunderd, going!”
“Two thousand!” piped the little man in the creased checked suit.
“Twenty-one hundred!” shouted the latest comer, his eyes blazing.
“Twenty-three hundred!” said the engineer in a dogged monotone.
“Twenty-five hundred!” wheezed the man in checks, squinting through his glasses at the paper on which he was setting down the bids with painstaking neatness.
“Twenty-five hunderd dollars I’m offered!” shrilled the auctioneer. “Do you raise it?” He turned to Whitcomb.
“Twenty-six hundred!” cried the engineer excitedly.
“Three thousand!” the hoarse voice of the shabby little stranger interposed.
“Three thousand, one hundred!” snapped Whitcomb.