“You may wish to bid yourself,” he drawled. “Careless of me. So sorry. Shall I withdraw the bid?”
“No, no. I'm not going to bid. I only—”
“Eleven pounds I am offered, gentlemen,” shouted the auctioneer. “Eleven pounds! It would be like robbing an orphan asylum. Do I hear twelve?”
He heard twelve immediately—from Mr. Heathcroft.
Thirteen pounds were bid. Evidently others shared my opinion concerning the value of the “high field.” Heathcroft promptly raised it to fourteen. I ventured another protest. So far as effect was concerned I might as well have been talking to one of the smoke-stacks. The bidding was lively and lengthy. At last the “high field” went to Mr. A. Carleton Heathcroft for twenty-one pounds, approximately one hundred and five dollars. I thought it time for me to make my escape. I was wondering where I should hide next day, when the run was announced.
“Greatly obliged to you, I'm sure,” drawled the fortunate bidder. “Won't you join me in a whisky and soda or something?”
I declined the whisky and soda.
“Sorry,” said Mr. Heathcroft. “Jolly grateful for putting me right, Mr.—er—”
“Knowles is my name,” I said. He might have remembered it; I remembered his perfectly.
“Of course—Knowles. Thank you so much, Knowles. Thank you and the second officer. Nothing like having professional information—eh, what? Rather!”