"A guinea!" nodded he of the patches.
"Twenty-five shillin's!" said Adam.
"At twenty-five shillings!" cried the Auctioneer, "any advance?—a genuine, hand-painted, antique screen,—going at twenty-five—at twenty-five,—going—going—gone! To the large gentleman in the neckcloth, Theodore!"
"Theer be that Job Jagway, sir," said Adam, leaning across the side-board to impart this information,—"over yonder, Mr. Belloo sir,—'im as was bidding for the screen,—the tall chap wi' the patches. Two patches be pretty good, but I do wish as I'd give him a couple more, while I was about it, Mr. Belloo sir." Here, the Auctioneer's voice put an end to Adam's self-reproaches, and he turned back to the business in hand.
"The next lot I'm going to dispose of, gentlemen, is a fine set of six chairs with carved antique backs, and upholstered in tapestry. Also two arm-chairs to match,—wheel 'em out, Theodore! Now what is your price for these eight fine pieces,—look 'em over and bid accordingly."
"Thirty shillings!" Again from the depths of the crowd.
"Ha! ha!—you joke sir!" laughed the Auctioneer, rubbing his hands in his most jovial manner, "you joke! I can't see you, but you joke of course, and I laugh accordingly, ha! ha! Thirty shillings for eight, fine, antique, tapestried, hand-carved chairs,—Oh very good,—excellent, upon my soul!"
"Three pound!" said the fiery-necked Corn-chandler.
"Guineas!" said the rat-eyed Parsons.
"Four pound!" nodded the Corn-chandler.