“Come forth, thou traitor,” shrieked the madman, tearing at the clothes so fiercely, that a huge bundle rolled off the bed on to the floor, wherein, half-smothered, lay poor Mr Smith, in a most profuse state of perspiration.
All at once there was a cessation of the kicks and thumps, but a threatening of an increased state of suffocation, for there seemed to the covered man to be a struggle going on, and two or three people fell upon him. Then there came the buzz of voices, and he found himself gently unrolled from the mass of clothing, to sit up, staring around with white head and flushed face at the room full of people, while in one corner closely guarded by his keeper stood the Grand Porkendillo, sucking his thumb, and leering at every one in turn. For this gentleman having made his escape from the neighbouring establishment of a famous doctor, had taken refuge in the Golden Bull, whose landlord was most profuse in his apologies to Mr Smith, for the mistake that had been made.
But, as the chambermaid said when Mr Smith had taken his departure:—
“Lor’, Sir, as soon as they said the poor man’s head was shaved, I made sure it was him.”
Chapter Twenty Two.
To be Sold by Auction.
“Sale now on,” was stuck upon the door-posts of a good-sized house that I was passing the other day—a house that an agent would call “a genteel family mansion;” for the agent, taught by his trade, knows that it is not always expedient to call a spade a spade, so he tickles the taste of his customers by talking of “villas, cottages ornées, snug boxes, delightful residences,” etcetera; in short, anything but what a plain, matter-of-fact person would bring forth to dub the home wherein he passed his hours of rest. “Sale now on,” in black letters six inches high. There were bills in the windows bearing the name of a well-known auctioneer, which was in itself sufficient to guarantee that it was a genuine sale; a large hearthrug was swung, banner fashion, out of the first-floor window, bearing also a bill, enumerating the valuable household furniture, and about the door were several snuffy-looking men in carpet caps, some with very Israelitish aspects, but all looking very fleecy and fluffy, and wearing the appearance of buying a secondhand suit of clothes once in a year, putting it on, and keeping it on until it dropped off of its own accord.
Being something of a saunterer, auction sales very frequently come under my notice, and possess something of an attraction for me; not that I go as a bargain hunter, for it is only on very, very rare occasions that I make a purchase; but I like to see how my fellow-man and woman buy their bargains, and also to moralise, in my own small way, upon the changes that may have taken place in the house before the “whole of the valuable and modern household furniture” was placed in the hands of the “going, going, gone” man, to dispose of without reserve. I have been in some strange places in my travels, and seen some strange auctions, especially those in the electro-plate line at a shop in a leading thoroughfare; but the touter at the door never asks me in now, and the gentleman in the rostrum never seeks to catch my eye for another bid. My impression is that they do not want me, but look upon me as a rogue towards them; and verily I believe that I am, if they occupy the standard position of honest men. I could fill some pages with the reflections I have made upon different auctions at which I have been present—of the struggling, failing tradesman, turned out of house and home, watching with bitterness his household gods sacrificed upon the altar of Mammon—of the recklessly furnished house of the bankrupt speculator—of the little four-roomed house in the suburbs—all have their own especial history; but upon this occasion I am writing of the buyers more especially, and of the especial house spoken of at the head of this paper.