“Oh, damn!” shouted Long-beard and rushed from the room.
“‘Odontoglossum Pavo’ is going for twenty-three hundred, only twenty-tree hundred,” cried the auctioneer. “Any advance on twenty-three hundred? What? None? Then I must do my duty. One. Two. For the last time—no advance? Three. Gone to Mr. Woodden, bidding for his principal, Mr. Somers.”
The hammer fell with a sharp tap, and at this moment my young friend sauntered into the room.
“Well, Woodden,” he said, “have they put the ‘Pavo’ up yet?”
“It’s up and it’s down, sir. I’ve bought him right enough.”
“The deuce you have! What did it fetch?”
Woodden scratched his head.
“I don’t rightly know, sir, never was good at figures, not having much book learning, but it’s twenty-three something.”
“£23? No, it would have brought more than that. By Jingo! it must be £230. That’s pretty stiff, but still, it may be worth it.”
At this moment Mr. Primrose, who, leaning over his desk, was engaged in animated conversation with an excited knot of orchid fanciers, looked up: