“I—I have a difficulty in speaking,” gasped Jim. “It's fifty thousand, Mr. Borden.”
Bellairs was on his feet in a moment. “Auctioneer,” he said, “I have to beg the favour of three moments at the telephone. In this matter, I am acting on behalf of a certain party to whom I have just written——”
“I have nothing to do with any of this,” said the auctioneer, brutally. “I am here to sell this wreck. Do you make any advance on fifty thousand?”
“I have the honour to explain to you, sir,” returned Bellairs, with a miserable assumption of dignity. “Fifty thousand was the figure named by my principal; but if you will give me the small favour of two moments at the telephone—”
“O, nonsense!” said the auctioneer. “If you make no advance, I'll knock it down to Mr. Pinkerton.”
“I warn you,” cried the attorney, with sudden shrillness. “Have a care what you're about. You are here to sell for the underwriters, let me tell you—not to act for Mr. Douglas Longhurst. This sale has been already disgracefully interrupted to allow that person to hold a consultation with his minions. It has been much commented on.”
“There was no complaint at the time,” said the auctioneer, manifestly discountenanced. “You should have complained at the time.”
“I am not here to conduct this sale,” replied Bellairs; “I am not paid for that.”
“Well, I am, you see,” retorted the auctioneer, his impudence quite restored; and he resumed his sing-song. “Any advance on fifty thousand dollars? No advance on fifty thousand? No advance, gentlemen? Going at fifty thousand, the wreck of the brig Flying Scud—going—going—gone!”
“My God, Jim, can we pay the money?” I cried, as the stroke of the hammer seemed to recall me from a dream.