“Eighteen.”
“Nineteen,” gasped the colonel.
“Two thousand.”
“Twenty-one hundred,” roared the colonel, desperately.
“Twenty-two,” laughed the major.
The colonel was listening to the remonstrance of his lawyer, and the auctioneer was permitted to dwell on the last bid for a moment.
“Twenty-three!” shouted the colonel.
“Twenty-three hundred dollars—twenty-three, twenty-three, twenty-three,” chipped the auctioneer, with professional formality, when the major did not instantly follow the last bid. “Going at twenty-three hundred! Are you all done?”
“Knock it off!” growled the colonel, savagely, but in a low tone.
“Going at twenty-three hundred—one—two—three—and gone, to Colonel Wimpleton, at twenty-three hundred,” added the auctioneer, as he brought down his hammer for the last time.