"Five ten--five ten--six--six ten--seven--seven ten--eight ten--nine
ten. Nine ten," said the auctioneer, drawing bid after bid from
different parts of the room, while, forgetting my nodding system in the
excitement of the moment, I stood confessed. Now I had set ten pounds
down in my own mind as the price I would go to, and was rather surprised
to find how quickly it had reached to "nine ten," as the auctioneer
termed it. However, seeing that the carpet was pretty good, and my room
large, I thought I would go a little farther, for I must confess to
feeling a little spite against the party of Jews who now seemed to be
running me up again. So on went the bidding again, till it had reached
to fourteen pounds.
"Let the gentleman have it," said Mr Isaacs, with a grin. But, no,
"fifteen pounds" was bid from somewhere else--evidently by a
confederate.
"Sixteen," I formed with my mouth.
"Seventeen bid," cried the hammer-man.
"I will have it," I muttered, "in spite of the scoundrels, for it would
cost twenty for a good Brussels, and there's no wear in them."
"Going at seventeen--seventeen--_sev-en-teen--sev-en-teen_. Going at
seven-_teen_. `Eighteen.' I thank you, sir. Eighteen--eighteen--
eighteen. Nineteen is bid," said the auctioneer, while the Jews grinned
and chuckled.
"Not half its vally yet, sir," cried Mr Isaacs. "Don't give it away,
sir. Orter make fifty pun', at the least."
"Thou villainous Shylock," I muttered to myself, "but I can afford a few
pounds sooner than be beaten."
"This splendid Turkey carpet, fit for any nobleman's mansion, now stands
at nineteen pounds," cried the man in the rostrum. "Say another pound
for you, sir!"