Vermeer merely smiled. The auctioneer cried, "Two hundred notes. Two hundred and ten," as another man bid. "Twenty. Twenty. Thirty." The bidding was growing lively.
"Three hundred," said Vermeer.
"Three hundred and five," Norman echoed.
"Five hundred," said Vermeer without blinking an eye.
Realizing that the two men were bidding against each other the rest dropped out. The audience seemed to settle back in expectancy. Men had been known to pay the complete prize money of a venture for a girl.
"Five hundred and five," Norman said in a determined voice.
"Really," said Vermeer; "you're wasting your time. I intend to have that girl. From one venture you can't possibly have enough money to outbid me. One thousand notes," he addressed the auctioneer.
"A thousand notes, I'm offered," chanted the auctioneer.
"A thousand notes. Do I hear more?"
Norman bit his lip. It was only too true that Vermeer could outbid him. With a sudden grim determination he balled his fist, walloped Vermeer in the temple. All his indignation was behind that blow, all the bone and gristle of six-foot-two of lecturer on Ancient History. Vermeer went down and out like a pole axed steer.