"Five twenty-five."
A brief pause.
"Five forty!"
A longer pause, while the auctioneer redoubled his persuasions.
"Five-forty-five!"
A heavy drag—the auctioneer persuaded, pleaded, implored—it was useless, everybody remained silent—
"Well, then—going, going—one—two—"
"Five hundred and fifty!"
This in a shrill voice, from a bent old man, all hung with rags, and with a green patch over his left eye. Everybody in his vicinity turned and gazed at him. It was Givenaught in disguise. He was using a disguised voice, too.
"Good!" cried the auctioneer. "Going, going—one—two—"