The next day the auctioneer, who was an Irishman, after disposing of several lots of ordinary things, reached the pictures.
“I needn't say anything about them,” he remarked. “They speak for themselves: I think you'll all agree with me that there's not one of them that isn't a speaking likeness. What shall we say for this one—No. 137 in the catalogue, “Lady Betty————,” by Sir Joshua Reynolds? Look at her, ladies and gentlemen, and tell me if you think there are many artists in this county who could do anything better than this—all hand painted, and guaranteed. What shall we say?”
“A pound,” suggested my dealer quite boldly. The auctioneer turned a cold eye upon him for a moment, and then I saw that there was a twinkle on its glossy surface.
“Very well, sir,” he said. “A pound is bid for the picture—twenty-five shillings, thirty shillings, thirty-five, two pounds—thank you, sir; we're getting on—two-ten; I'm obliged to you, ma'am—three pounds ten—three pounds ten—three pounds ten bid for the portrait of Lady Betty. Oh, ladies and gentlemen, wouldn't it be a shame if such a picture was to be knocked down for seventy shillings and it worth nearly as many pounds. Four pounds—thank you, sir. The bidding is against you, ma'am. Well, if there's no advance——”
It was my dealer who had made the last bid, and I must confess that for some seconds I actually fancied that I was to be placed in possession of a Reynolds for four pounds!
“Four pounds—going at four pounds,” came the voice of the auctioneer. “If there's no advance—going at four pounds—going—for the last time—five hundred—six hundred—seven hundred—a thousand—fifteen hundred—two thousand—guineas—five hundred—guineas—three thousand—guineas—going for three thousand guineas, ladies and gentle-men, it's giving the picture away that I am; but still the times are bad. Going at three thousand guineas—going—going—Mr. Agnew.”
The hammer fell, and everyone was laughing except the Irish auctioneer and my dealer.