THE OLD MASTER.
As these things go, I reckon our sale went pretty well. Just before closing time we held a rubbish auction, with Ginger in the chair. Ginger would make an absolute Napoleon among auctioneers. He can bully, lie, despair, wheedle and take you into his confidence in one breath.
He had sold four table-centres and a pair of babies' boots for songs when Mrs. James Allen came up to his platform and explained a parcel which she handed up in agitated whispers.
Ginger accepted it with a whistle that was not without its moral effect on the mass. He released it from its wrappings reverently and, after a short scrutiny, spake out.
"We have here, ladies and gentlemen, what I have no hesitation in regarding as the gem of the sale. It has by a highly unfortunate mischance lain hidden up to five minutes ago. It is nothing less, in fact, than an indisputably genuine Van Ruiter—(sensation)—which Colonel Allen has very nobly consented to sacrifice for—for the splendid cause which has assembled us here to-day. (Applause.) This little canvas, ladies and gentlemen, apart from being an authenticated example of such an artist as Van Ruiter, is a possession which any man might be proud of. It is called 'The Two Windmills' and is, I hope, known to most of you by reputation. What shall we say for this, ladies and gentlemen?"
"Sevenpence," said a humourist.
"Mr. Archer is pleased to be amusing," said Ginger with more than his usual asperity. "Mr. Archer says seven-pence. Well, I'll say five guineas. Any advance on five guineas, ladies and gentlemen? Going, going—"
Now I shouldn't have thought there were sixteen shillings left in the bazaar grounds outside the stall boxes. But before the hammer showed any signs of descent a still small voice from the background said, "Six pounds."