“A word with you, Mr. Auctioneer. A disgraceful trick is being played here—I never saw such a dirty thing done before—a trick which Mr. van Nerekool, Mr. Grenits and myself are determined to frustrate. For every gentleman who wishes to buy at this sale, and who may happen to fall under this novel condition of having to pay ready money, we will stand security.”
“Bravo! bravo!” was the general shout.
“Does that satisfy you, Mr. Auctioneer?”
The man nodded assent. He could not do otherwise. This incident served to rouse a general enthusiasm; the third lot of flowers brought eighty guilders; the last no less a sum than two hundred and fifty. True it is that before this last lot was put up Grenits had cried:
“Crotons! magnificent crotons! The Adal-adal! (Croton Tiglium); the Camilla (Rothlera tinctoria); the Kamillakkian (Croton Corylifolius) and the wax-bearing Croton (Croton sebiferus)! Who will bid for them? I bid sixty guilders!”
A cheer followed his words; the game went on merrily—seventy—eighty—ninety guilders! Higher and higher still went the bids, until the two hundred and fifty guilders were reached. The lucky man who secured the lot received quite an ovation, just as if he had drawn the first prize in the State lottery.
That set the ball a-rolling. Chairs, tables, mats, lamps, wardrobes, mirrors, pictures, all went for the same fabulous prices. At last it became a mad charge in which every one seemed bent on securing something, no matter at what cost. Long faces were drawn indeed; but it was not because the bids were too high but because the prices were wholly out of the reach of some pockets. It was in the back gallery, however, that the excitement rose to its highest pitch.
“Twelve liqueur glasses!” shouted the auctioneer. They were very ordinary little glasses—in Holland they might be worth a penny a-piece—in India they might cost perhaps five or six pence.
“Twelve liqueur glasses!” again shouted the man.
“Out of which the bitters taste remarkably good!” cried Grashuis, “I know that by experience.”