Another dead silence followed.
‘Fiech!’ said David MacLunder suddenly, without moving a muscle of his face.
‘Seven pound! Seven pounds! Will nane o’ you speak? Will I hae to bide here a’ the day crying on ye? Seven pound, I tell ye! Seven pound!’
‘Seven pound five,’ said a slow voice from behind a haystack.
‘I canna see ye, but you’re a grand man for a’ that,’ cried the auctioneer, ‘an’ I wish there was mair like ye.’
‘Seven ten,’ said Jimmy Stirk.
‘Aicht,’ continued the man behind the haystack.
Though Gilbert knew lot fifty-seven to be worth more than all the money in Jimmy’s palm, he hoped that the beast’s extreme unsuitability to the requirements of those present might tell in the lad’s favour. The price rose to eight pound ten.
‘Nine,’ said Jimmy.
‘And ten to that,’ came from the haystack.