Chase entered hurriedly, and asked a question of a man standing by; he looked haggard and ill, but the answer to his question appeared to reassure him, and he slipped quietly to the chair that somebody offered him. Several people recognized him, and pointed him out to one another. Nutley stared, incredulous and indignant. Just like his sly ways again! Why take the trouble to write and say he was detained by press of business, when he had every intention of coming? Sly. Well, might he enjoy himself, listening to the sale of his house; Nutley, with an angry shrug, wished him joy.
Meanwhile Mr. Webb’s voice, above him, continued to advocate Jakes’ cottage, “either as a building site or as a tea-room, gentlemen; I needn’t point out to you the advantages of either in the heart of a picturesque village on a well-frequented motor route. The garden’s only a quarter of an acre, but you have seen it to-day on your way from the station; a perfect picture. What offers? Come! We’re disposed to let this lot go cheap as the cottage is in need of repair. It’s a real chance for somebody.”
“One hundred guineas,” called out a fat man, known to Nutley as the proprietor of an hotel in Eastbourne.
“And fifty,” said Jakes in a trembling voice.
Nutley suppressed a cackle of laughter.
“And seventy-five,” said the fat man, after glaring at Jakes.
“Two hundred,” said Jakes.
Chase sat on the edge of his chair, twisting his fingers together and keeping his eyes fixed on Jakes. So the man was trying to save his garden!—and the flowers, through whose roots he said he would put a bagginhook sooner than let them pass to a stranger. Where did he imagine he could get the money? poor fool. The fat man was after the cottage for some commercial enterprise. What had the auctioneer suggested?—a tea-room? That was it, without a doubt—a tea-room! A painted sign-board hanging out to attract motorists; little tin tables in the garden, perhaps, on summer evenings.
The fat man ran Jakes up to two hundred and fifty before Jakes began to falter. Something in the near region of two hundred and fifty was the limit, Chase guessed, to which his secret and inscrutable financial preparations would run. What plans had he made before coming, poor chap; what plans, full of a lamentable pathos, to meet the rivalry of those who might possibly have designs upon his tenement? Surely not very crafty plans, or very adequate? They had reached two hundred and seventy-five. Jakes was distressed; and to Nutley, scornfully watching, as to Chase, compassionately watching, and as to the auctioneer, impartially watching, it was clear that neither conscience nor prudence counselled him to go any further.
“Two hundred and seventy-five guineas are bid,” said the voice of the auctioneer; “two hundred and seventy-five guineas,”—pause—“going, going....”