“Ten cents! ten cents! gallant sailors, for this noble pair of boots,” exclaimed the auctioneer, with affected horror; “I must close the auction, my tars of Columbia; this will never do. But let’s have another bid; now, come,” he added, coaxingly and soothingly. “What is it? One dollar, one dollar then—one dollar; going at one dollar; going, going—going. Just see how it vibrates”—swinging the boot to and fro—“this superior pair of sea-boots vibrating at one dollar; wouldn’t pay for the nails in their heels; going, going—gone!” And down went the boots.
“Ah, what a sacrifice! what a sacrifice!” he sighed, tearfully eyeing the solitary fire-bucket, and then glancing round the company for sympathy.
“A sacrifice, indeed!” exclaimed Jack Chase, who stood by; “Purser’s Steward, you are Mark Antony over the body of Julius Cesar.”
“So I am, so I am,” said the auctioneer, without moving a muscle. “And look!” he exclaimed, suddenly seizing the boot, and exhibiting it on high, “look, my noble tars, if you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this boot. I remember the first time ever old Bob put it on. ’Twas on a winter evening, off Cape Horn, between the starboard carronades—that day his precious grog was stopped. Look! in this place a mouse has nibbled through; see what a rent some envious rat has made, through this another filed, and, as he plucked his cursed rasp away, mark how the bootleg gaped. This was the unkindest cut of all. But whose are the boots?” suddenly assuming a business-like air; “yours? yours? yours?”
But not a friend of the lamented Bob stood by.
“Tars of Columbia,” said the auctioneer, imperatively, “these boots must be sold; and if I can’t sell them one way, I must sell them another. How much a pound, now, for this superior pair of old boots? going by the pound now, remember, my gallant sailors! what shall I have? one cent, do I hear? going now at one cent a pound—going—going—going—gone!”
“Whose are they? Yours, Captain of the Waist? Well, my sweet and pleasant friend, I will have them weighed out to you when the auction is over.”
In like manner all the contents of the bags were disposed of, embracing old frocks, trowsers, and jackets, the various sums for which they went being charged to the bidders on the books of the Purser.
Having been present at this auction, though not a purchaser, and seeing with what facility the most dismantled old garments went off, through the magical cleverness of the accomplished auctioneer, the thought occurred to me, that if ever I calmly and positively decided to dispose of my famous white jacket, this would be the very way to do it. I turned the matter over in my mind a long time.
The weather in Rio was genial and warm, and that I would ever again need such a thing as a heavy quilted jacket—and such a jacket as the white one, too—seemed almost impossible. Yet I remembered the American coast, and that it would probably be Autumn when we should arrive there. Yes, I thought of all that, to be sure; nevertheless, the ungovernable whim seized me to sacrifice my jacket and recklessly abide the consequences. Besides, was it not a horrible jacket? To how many annoyances had it subjected me? How many scrapes had it dragged me into? Nay, had it not once jeopardised my very existence? And I had a dreadful presentiment that, if I persisted in retaining it, it would do so again. Enough! I will sell it, I muttered; and so muttering, I thrust my hands further down in my waistband, and walked the main-top in the stern concentration of an inflexible purpose. Next day, hearing that another auction was shortly to take place, I repaired to the office of the Purser’s steward, with whom I was upon rather friendly terms. After vaguely and delicately hinting at the object of my visit, I came roundly to the point, and asked him whether he could slip my jacket into one of the bags of clothes next to be sold, and so dispose of it by public auction. He kindly acquiesced and the thing was done.