“One thousand dollars is bid,” said the auctioneer, reluctantly.
I looked at Colonel Wimpleton, who stood near me. His face was red, and his portly frame quaked with angry emotions. My father’s property in the house was saved. We looked at each other, and smiled our gratitude.
“Toppleton must not have the property,” said Colonel Wimpleton to his lawyer, who stood next to him, while his teeth actually grated with the savage ire which shook his frame. “He will put a nuisance under my very nose. Eleven hundred,” gasped the great man of Centreport, with frantic energy; and he was so furious at the interference of the major that I do not think he knew what he was about.
“Twelve hundred,” added Major Toppleton, quietly, now that this bid had been taken.
“Thirteen,” hoarsely called the colonel.
“Fourteen.”
“Fifteen.”
The crowd stood with their mouths wide open, waiting the issue with breathless eagerness. The auctioneer repeated the bids as he would have pronounced the successive sentences of his own death warrant. Colonel Wimpleton had by this time forgotten all about my father, and was intent only on preventing his great enemy from buying the estate.
“Sixteen,” said the major, who, seeing the torture he was inflicting upon his malignant rival, was in excellent humor.
“Seventeen,” promptly responded Colonel Wimpleton.