“Sixteen,” I formed with my mouth.
“Seventeen bid,” cried the hammer-man.
“I will have it,” I muttered, “in spite of the scoundrels, for it would cost twenty for a good Brussels, and there’s no wear in them.”
“Going at seventeen—seventeen—sev-en-teen—sev-en-teen. Going at seven-teen. ‘Eighteen.’ I thank you, sir. Eighteen—eighteen—eighteen. Nineteen is bid,” said the auctioneer, while the Jews grinned and chuckled.
“Not half its vally yet, sir,” cried Mr Isaacs. “Don’t give it away, sir. Orter make fifty pun’, at the least.”
“Thou villainous Shylock,” I muttered to myself, “but I can afford a few pounds sooner than be beaten.”
“This splendid Turkey carpet, fit for any nobleman’s mansion, now stands at nineteen pounds,” cried the man in the rostrum. “Say another pound for you, sir!”
I nodded.
“Twenty pounds—twenty—twenty—guineas—twenty-one pound is offered. It’s against you, sir, at twenty-one pounds.”
I nodded again.