“A hundred and ninety!” said Forster.
“And five!” said the Major, as if it were a mere casual observation.
You might have heard an ant walk, a bleak swim, a moth fly, a worm wriggle, or a microbe wag its tail—if it has a tail.
Gilmour allowed a few moments to pass, which seemed like centuries. The consignee of codfish continued reading his newspaper and jotting down figures on the margin which had evidently nothing to do with the matter on hand. Had he reached the length of his tether? Had he made his last bid? Did this price of 195 cents the square mile, or 793,050 dollars for the whole, appear to him to have reached the last limit of absurdity?
“One hundred and ninety-five cents!” said the auctioneer. “Going at one hundred and ninety-five cents!”
And he raised his hammer.
“One hundred and ninety-five cents! Going! Going!”
And every eye was turned on the representative of the North Polar Practical Association.
That extraordinary man drew a large handkerchief from his pocket, and, hiding his face in it, blew a long, sonorous blast with his nose.
Then J. T. Maston looked at him, and Mrs. Scorbitt’s eyes took the same direction. And by the paleness of their features it could be seen how keen was the excitement they were striving to subdue. Why did Forster hesitate to outbid the Major?