The auctioneer acknowledged the bid and proceeded to urge his audience on to higher flights. The flights were made and my companion capped each with one more lofty. Eight, nine, ten pounds were bid. Heathcroft bid eleven. Someone at the opposite side of the room bid twelve. It seemed ridiculous to me. Possibly my face expressed my feeling; at any rate something caused the immaculate gentleman in the next chair to address me instead of the auctioneer.
“I say,” he said, “that's running a bit high, isn't it?”
“It seems so to me,” I replied. “The number is five hundred and eighty-six and I think we shall do better than that.”
“Oh, do you! Really! And why do you think so, may I ask?”
“Because we are having a remarkably smooth sea and a favorable wind.”
“Oh, but you forget the fog. There's quite a bit of fog about us now, isn't there.”
I wish I could describe the Heathcroft manner of saying “Isn't there.” I can't, however; there is no use trying.
“It will amount to nothing,” I answered. “The glass is high and there is no indication of bad weather. Our run this noon was five hundred and ninety-one, you remember.”
“Yes. But we did have extraordinarily good weather for that.”
“Why, not particularly good. We slowed down about midnight. There was a real fog then and the glass was low. The second officer told me it dropped very suddenly and there was a heavy sea running. For an hour between twelve and one we were making not much more than half our usual speed.”