“Lot 1, gentlemen....”
The sharp rap of the auctioneer’s little ivory hammer, and the buzz in the room was stilled; throats were cleared, heads raised.
“Lot 1, gentlemen. Three cottages adjoining the station, with one acre of ground; coloured green on plan. What bids, gentlemen? Anyone start the bidding? Five hundred guineas? four hundred? Come, come, gentlemen, please,” admonishing them, “we have a great deal to get through. I ask your kind co-operation.”
Knocked down at seven hundred and fifty guineas. Nutley noted the sum in the margin of his catalogue. Webb was a capital auctioneer: he bustled folk, he chaffed them, he got them into a good temper, he made them laugh so that their purses laughed wide in company. He had a jolly round face, a twinkling eye, and a rose-bud in his buttonhole. Five hundred and fifty for the next lot, two cottages; so far, so good.
“Now, gentlemen, we come to something a little more interesting: the farm-house and lands known as Orchards. An excellent house, and a particularly fine brew of ale kept there, too, as I happen to know—though that doesn’t go with the house.” (The audience laughed; it appreciated that kind of pleasantry.) “What offers, gentlemen? Two hundred acres of fine pasture and arable, ten acres of shaw, twenty acres of first-class fruit-trees....” “That’s so, sir,” from Chase’s old apple-dealer friend at the back of the room, and heads were turned smilingly towards him. “There spoke the best authority in the county,” cried the auctioneer, catching on to this, “as nice a little property as you could wish. I’ve a good mind to start the bidding myself. Fifty guineas—I’ll put up fifty guineas. Who’ll go one better?” The audience laughed again; Mr. Webb had a great reputation as a wag. Nutley caught sight of Farebrother’s full-moon face at the back of the room, perfunctorily smiling.
The tenant began bidding for his own farm; he had been to Nutley to see whether a mortgage could be arranged, and Nutley knew the extent of his finances. The voice of the auctioneer followed the bidding monotonously up, “Two thousand guineas ... two thousand two hundred ... come, gentlemen, we’re wasting time ... two thousand five hundred....”
Knocked down to the farmer at three thousand five hundred guineas. A wink passed between Nutley and the purchaser: the place had not sold very well, but Nutley’s firm would get the commission on the mortgage.
Lot 4. Jakes’ cottage. Nutley remembered that Chase had once commented on Jakes’ garden, and he remembered also that old Miss Chase used to favour Jakes and his flowers; he supposed sarcastically that it was hereditary among the Chases to favour Jakes. That same stab of malice came back to him, and this time it included Jakes: the man made himself ridiculous over his garden, carrying (as he boasted) soil and leaf-mould home for it for miles upon his back; that was all over now, and his cottage would first be sold as a building site and then pulled down.
He caught sight of Jakes, standing near a window, his every-day corduroy trousers tied as usual with string round the knees; he looked terribly embarrassed, and was swallowing hard; the Adam’s apple in his throat moved visibly above his collar. He stood twisting his cap between his hands. Nutley derisively watched him, saying to himself that the fellow might be on the point of making a speech. Surely he wasn’t going to bid! a working-man on perhaps forty shillings a week! Nutley was taken up and entertained by this idea, when a stir at the door distracted his attention; he glanced to see who the late-comer was, and perceived Chase.