“Thirty thousand,” said Pinkerton, making a leap of close upon three thousand dollars.
I could see doubt in Bellairs’s eye; then, sudden resolution. “Thirty-five thousand,” said he.
“Forty thousand,” said Pinkerton.
There was a long pause, during which Bellairs’s countenance was as a book, and then, not much too soon for the impending hammer, “Forty thousand and five dollars,” said he.
Pinkerton and I exchanged eloquent glances. We were of one mind. Bellairs had tried a bluff; now he perceived his mistake, and was bidding against time; he was trying to spin out the sale until the messenger boy returned.
“Forty-five thousand dollars,” said Pinkerton: his voice was like a ghost’s and tottered with emotion.
“Forty-five thousand and five dollars,” said Bellairs.
“Fifty thousand,” said Pinkerton.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Pinkerton. Did I hear you make an advance, sir?” asked the auctioneer.
“I—I have a difficulty in speaking,” gasped Jim. “It’s fifty thousand, Mr. Borden.”