“Four and six,” said one of the carmen chaffingly.
“No, no!” said the auctioneer rather coldly. “I enjoy a joke as well as anyone, but ’pon my word—”
“Five bob!”
“I’m very good tempered,” went on the auctioneer, getting red in the face, “and I can stand as much as most men. But—”
“Five and six!”
“Well,” with resignation, “have your own way about it. Five and six is offered; five and six in two places; six shillings. I thank you, sir! Who’ll say ’alf a sov’, eh? Seven shillings! Very well then. But do let’s go on a shilling at a time; I can’t take sixpenny advances. You know the old story of the girl—”
Erb, looking round with a determined smile on his features, saw Spanswick entering from the pavement; with him a gentleman whose eyes were watery and whose gait was uncertain. Spanswick gave a casual nod to the clump of men, and beckoned to Erb in such an authoritative way that Erb crossed the room when the pianoforte—poor Louisa’s pianoforte, that she would allow no one to play—had been knocked down for twenty-five shillings. The auctioneer ordered his man to show the horsehair sofa and chairs.
“My friend Doubleday,” said Spanswick, introducing his companion. Mr. Doubleday removed his silk hat with care, for the brims seemed rather weak, and in a husky voice declared himself honoured. “One of the cleverest men in South London,” whispered Spanswick to Erb, “only he won’t recognise the fact. Educated, too!”
“This is a noble action of yours, sir,” said Mr. Doubleday, trying to clear his voice. “Reflects the highest credit on what I may venture to term the manhood of South London.” Spanswick looked at Erb proudly, as though to say, “He can talk, can’t he?” “The newspapers will ring with your praises, sir. Capital will sneak away, abashed and ashamed in the presence of such a brilliant example of self-sacrifice and whole-hearted devotion. I suppose you haven’t got such a thing as a pipe full of tobacco about you? I’ve come out without my pouch.”
“Always comes out without his pouch,” remarked Spanswick admiringly.