Heathcroft was silent. The auctioneer, having forced the bid on number five hundred and eighty-six up to thirteen pounds ten, was imploring his hearers not to permit a certain winner to be sacrificed at this absurd figure.
“Fourteen pounds, gentlemen,” he begged. “For the sake of the wife and children, for the honor of the star spangled banner and the union jack,—DON'T hesitate—don't even stammer—below fourteen pounds.”
He looked in our direction as he said it. Mr. Heathcroft made no sign. He produced a gold cigarette box and extended it in my direction.
“Will you?” he inquired.
“No, thank you,” I replied. “I will smoke a cigar, if you don't mind.”
He did not appear to mind. He lighted his cigarette, readjusted his monocle, and stared stonily at the gesticulating auctioneer.
The bidding went on. One by one the numbers were sold until all were gone. Then the auctioneer announced that bids for the “high field,” that is, any number above five hundred and ninety-four, were in order. My companion suddenly came to life.
“Ten pounds,” he called.
I started. “For mercy sake, Mr. Heathcroft,” I protested, “don't let anything I have said influence your bidding. I may be entirely wrong.”
He turned and surveyed me through the eyeglass.