To return, however, from this little episode. Grundy and I, in pursuance of our determination to visit the auction, got into our palankeens, and soon found ourselves amidst the dust, noise, and motion of Tank Square, near which the auction, or outcry (as it is more usually termed in India) is held. A long covered place, something like a repository, filled with palankeens, carriages, horses, &c., for sale, had to be passed through before we reached the auction-room, where goods of all kinds were disposed of. This we found crammed with natives, low Europeans, black Portuguese, and others of the motley population of Calcutta, mingled with a few civilians, and a “pretty considerable” sprinkling of redcoats from Barrackpore or the fort, all more or less intent upon the bidding.
The auctioneer, a good-looking man and remarkably fluent, was mounted on his rostrum, and holding forth upon the merits of certain goods, which a native assistant, on a platform a little lower than the pulpit, was handing round for inspection. Grundy and I forced our way in, watching anxiously to see if any thing “in our way” was exhibiting. At last, the auctioneer took up a goodly-sized knife, with some dozen blades, &c. These he opened daintily and deliberately, and then, holding up the knife and turning it about, he said,
“Now here’s a pretty thing—a highly-finished article—a perfect multum in parvo. Don’t all of you bid for this at once, gentlemen, if you please. Here’s a large blade, you see, to cut bread and cheese with, a small one to mend your pens, a corkscrew to open a bottle of Hodgson’s pale ale when you are out shooting, tweezers to pull the thorns out of your toes, pincers, file, gimlet—all complete. A most useful article that, and (with marked emphasis, and an eye towards Grundy and me, which made us exchange looks significant of purchase), one which no young sportsman should be without.”
That was sufficient; I was determined to have it, and after an eager bid or two, it was knocked down to me. I found afterwards, however, to my extreme surprise and dismay, I had unconsciously purchased a lot of three dozen of them, enough to set up a cutler’s stall in a small way. There was no help for it, however; I was obliged to take them all, though I determined in future to study well the catalogue before I ventured on a bid.
The dogs, I found, had attracted the particular notice of more sportsmen than myself. A young ensign from Barrackpore carried off the greyhound hitch for Rs. 200, a little more than a month’s pay. A writer in the buildings bought the French mastiff and the terrier, which went high, and I was obliged to content myself with one of the bull-dogs, a sinister-looking old fellow, with one eye, who went cheap, and would have been cheaper still, had not Grundy, whom I requested to secure it, bidden silently against me in the crowd several times before I had providentially discovered my opponent. Poor beast! he died three months after, on my way up, of nostalgia, I rather think, and I gave him decent sepulture on a spit of sand in the Ganges.
From the auction we proceeded to the China bazaar.
“Grundy,” said I, as we went along, rather nonchalamment, “you need not say anything to Captain Marpeet, about my buying those knives.”
“What knives?” he asked.
“I have my reasons for it,” said I, “that’s enough.”
Grundy promised to be mum.