THE AUCTION ROOM
I do not think that this conversation about the Pongo savages who were
said to worship a Gorilla and a Golden Flower was renewed until we
reached my house at Durban. Thither of course I took Mr. Charles
Scroope, and thither also came Brother John who, as bedroom
accommodation was lacking, pitched his tent in the garden.
One night we sat on the step smoking; Brother John’s only concession to
human weakness was that he smoked. He drank no wine or spirits; he never
ate meat unless he was obliged, but I rejoice to say that he smoked
cigars, like most Americans, when he could get them.
“John,” said I, “I have been thinking over that yarn of yours and have
come to one or two conclusions.”
“What may they be, Allan?”
“The first is that you were a great donkey not to get more out of the
Kalubi when you had the chance.”
“Agreed, Allan, but, amongst other things, I am a doctor and the
operation was uppermost in my mind.”
“The second is that I believe this Kalubi had charge of the gorilla-god,
as no doubt you’ve guessed; also that it was the gorilla which bit off
his finger.”
“Why so?”
“Because I have heard of great monkeys called _sokos_ that live in
Central East Africa which are said to bite off men’s toes and fingers. I
have heard too that they are very like gorillas.”
“Now you mention it, so have I, Allan. Indeed, once I saw a _soko_,
though some way off, a huge, brown ape which stood on its hind legs and
drummed upon its chest with its fists. I didn’t see it for long because
I ran away.”
“The third is that this yellow orchid would be worth a great deal of
money if one could dig it up and take it to England.”
“I think I told you, Allan, that I valued it at £20,000, so that
conclusion of yours is not original.”
“The fourth is that I should like to dig up that orchid and get a share
of the £20,000.”
Brother John became intensely interested.
“Ah!” he said, “now we are getting to the point. I have been wondering
how long it would take you to see it, Allan, but if you are slow, you
are sure.”
“The fifth is,” I went on, “that such an expedition to succeed would
need a great deal of money, more than you or I could find. Partners
would be wanted, active or sleeping, but partners with cash.”
Brother John looked towards the window of the room in which Charlie
Scroope was in bed, for being still weak he went to rest early.
“No,” I said, “he’s had enough of Africa, and you told me yourself that
it will be two years before he is really strong again. Also there’s a
lady in this case. Now listen. I have taken it on myself to write to
that lady, whose address I found out while he didn’t know what he was
saying. I have said that he was dying, but that I hoped he might live.
Meanwhile, I added, I thought she would like to know that he did nothing
but rave of her; also that he was a hero, with a big H twice underlined.
My word! I did lay it on about the hero business with a spoon, a real
hotel gravy spoon. If Charlie Scroope knows himself again when he sees
my description of him, well, I’m a Dutchman, that’s all. The letter
caught the last mail and will, I hope, reach the lady in due course. Now
listen again. Scroope wants me to go to England with him to look after
him on the voyage--that’s what he says. What he means is that he hopes
I might put in a word for him with the lady, if I should chance to
be introduced to her. He offers to pay all my expenses and to give me
something for my loss of time. So, as I haven’t seen England since I was
three years old, I think I’ll take the chance.”
Brother John’s face fell. “Then how about the expedition, Allan?” he
asked.
“This is the first of November,” I answered, “and the wet season in
those parts begins about now and lasts till April. So it would be no use
trying to visit your Pongo friends till then, which gives me plenty of
time to go to England and come out again. If you’ll trust that flower
to me I’ll take it with me. Perhaps I might be able to find someone who
would be willing to put down money on the chance of getting the plant on
which it grew. Meanwhile, you are welcome to this house if you care to
stay here.”
“Thank you, Allan, but I can’t sit still for so many months. I’ll go
somewhere and come back.” He paused and a dreamy look came into his dark
eyes, then went on, “You see, Brother, it is laid on me to wander and
wander through all this great land until--I know.”
“Until you know what?” I asked, sharply.
He pulled himself together with a jerk, as it were, and answered with a
kind of forced carelessness.
“Until I know every inch of it, of course. There are lots of tribes I
have not yet visited.”
“Including the Pongo,” I said. “By the way, if I can get the money
together for a trip up there, I suppose you mean to come too, don’t
you? If not, the thing’s off so far as I am concerned. You see, I am
reckoning on you to get us through the Mazitu and into Pongo-land by the
help of your friends.”
“Certainly I mean to come. In fact, if you don’t go, I shall start
alone. I intend to explore Pongo-land even if I never come out of it
again.”
Once more I looked at him as I answered:
“You are ready to risk a great deal for a flower, John. Or are you
looking for more than a flower? If so, I hope you will tell me the
truth.”
This I said as I was aware that Brother John had a foolish objection to
uttering, or even acting lies.
“Well, Allan, as you put it like that, the truth is that I heard
something more about the Pongo than I told you up country. It was after
I had operated on that Kalubi, or I would have tried to get in alone.
But this I could not do then as I have said.”
“And what did you hear?”
“I heard that they had a white goddess as well as a white god.”
“Well, what of it? A female gorilla, I suppose.”
“Nothing, except that goddesses have always interested me. Good night.”
“You are an odd old fish,” I remarked after him, “and what is more you
have got something up your sleeve. Well, I’ll have it down one day.
Meanwhile, I wonder whether the whole thing is a lie, no; not a lie, an
hallucination. It can’t be--because of that orchid. No one can explain
away the orchid. A queer people, these Pongo, with their white god and
goddess and their Holy Flower. But after all Africa is a land of queer
people, and of queer gods too.”
And now the story shifts away to England. (Don’t be afraid, my
adventurous reader, if ever I have one, it is coming back to Africa
again in a very few pages.)
Mr. Charles Scroope and I left Durban a day or two after my last
conversation with Brother John. At Cape Town we caught the mail, a
wretched little boat you would think it now, which after a long and
wearisome journey at length landed us safe at Plymouth. Our companions
on that voyage were very dull. I have forgotten most of them, but one
lady I do remember. I imagine that she must have commenced life as a
barmaid, for she had the orthodox tow hair and blowsy appearance. At any
rate, she was the wife of a wine-merchant who had made a fortune at the
Cape. Unhappily, however, she had contracted too great a liking for her
husband’s wares, and after dinner was apt to become talkative. For some
reason or other she took a particular aversion to me. Oh! I can see her
now, seated in that saloon with the oil lamp swinging over her head (she
always chose the position under the oil lamp because it showed off
her diamonds). And I can hear her too. “Don’t bring any of your
elephant-hunting manners here, Mr. Allan” (with an emphasis on the
Allan) “Quatermain, they are not fit for polite society. You should go
and brush your hair, Mr. Quatermain.” (I may explain that my hair sticks
up naturally.)
Then would come her little husband’s horrified “Hush! hush! you are
quite insulting, my dear.”
Oh! why do I remember it all after so many years when I have even
forgotten the people’s names? One of those little things that stick in
the mind, I suppose. The Island of Ascension, where we called, sticks
also with its long swinging rollers breaking in white foam, its bare
mountain peak capped with green, and the turtles in the ponds. Those
poor turtles. We brought two of them home, and I used to look at them
lying on their backs in the forecastle flapping their fins feebly. One
of them died, and I got the butcher to save me the shell. Afterwards I
gave it as a wedding present to Mr. and Mrs. Scroope, nicely polished
and lined. I meant it for a work-basket, and was overwhelmed with
confusion when some silly lady said at the marriage, and in the hearing
of the bride and bridegroom, that it was the most beautiful cradle
she had ever seen. Of course, like a fool, I tried to explain, whereon
everybody tittered.
But why do I write of such trifles that have nothing to do with my
story?
I mentioned that I had ventured to send a letter to Miss Margaret
Manners about Mr. Charles Scroope, in which I said incidentally that if
the hero should happen to live I should probably bring him home by
the next mail. Well, we got into Plymouth about eight o’clock in the
morning, on a mild, November day, and shortly afterwards a tug arrived
to take off the passengers and mails; also some cargo. I, being an early
riser, watched it come and saw upon the deck a stout lady wrapped in
furs, and by her side a very pretty, fair-haired young woman clad in a
neat serge dress and a pork-pie hat. Presently a steward told me that
someone wished to speak to me in the saloon. I went and found these two
standing side by side.
“I believe you are Mr. Allan Quatermain,” said the stout lady. “Where is
Mr. Scroope whom I understand you have brought home? Tell me at once.”
Something about her appearance and fierce manner of address alarmed me
so much that I could only answer feebly:
“Below, madam, below.”
“There, my dear,” said the stout lady to her companion, “I warned you to
be prepared for the worst. Bear up; do not make a scene before all these
people. The ways of Providence are just and inscrutable. It is your own
temper that was to blame. You should never have sent the poor man off to
these heathen countries.”
Then, turning to me, she added sharply: “I suppose he is embalmed; we
should like to bury him in Essex.”
“Embalmed!” I gasped. “Embalmed! Why, the man is in his bath, or was a
few minutes ago.”
In another second that pretty young lady who had been addressed was
weeping with her head upon my shoulder.
“Margaret!” exclaimed her companion (she was a kind of heavy aunt), “I
told you not to make a scene in public. Mr. Quatermain, as Mr. Scroope
is alive, would you ask him to be so good as to come here.”
Well, I fetched him, half-shaved, and the rest of the business may be
imagined. It is a very fine thing to be a hero with a big H. Henceforth
(thanks to me) that was Charlie Scroope’s lot in life. He has
grandchildren now, and they all think him a hero. What is more, he does
not contradict them. I went down to the lady’s place in Essex, a fine
property with a beautiful old house. On the night I arrived there was a
dinner-party of twenty-four people. I had to make a speech about Charlie
Scroope and the leopard. I think it was a good speech. At any rate
everybody cheered, including the servants, who had gathered at the back
of the big hall.
I remember that to complete the story I introduced several other
leopards, a mother and two three-part-grown cubs, also a wounded
buffalo, and told how Mr. Scroope finished them off one after the other
with a hunting knife. The thing was to watch his face as the history
proceeded. Luckily he was sitting next to me and I could kick him under
the table. It was all very amusing, and very happy also, for these two
really loved each other. Thank God that I, or rather Brother John, was
able to bring them together again.
It was during that stay of mine in Essex, by the way, that I first met
Lord Ragnall and the beautiful Miss Holmes with whom I was destined to
experience some very strange adventures in the after years.
After this interlude I got to work. Someone told me that there was a
firm in the City that made a business of selling orchids by auction,
flowers which at this time were beginning to be very fashionable among
rich horticulturists. This, thought I, would be the place for me to
show my treasure. Doubtless Messrs. May and Primrose--that was their
world-famed style--would be able to put me in touch with opulent
orchidists who would not mind venturing a couple of thousands on the
chance of receiving a share in a flower that, according to Brother John,
should be worth untold gold. At any rate, I would try.
So on a certain Friday, about half-past twelve, I sought out the place
of business of Messrs. May and Primrose, bearing with me the golden
Cypripedium, which was now enclosed in a flat tin case.
As it happened I chose an unlucky day and hour, for on arriving at the
office and asking for Mr. May, I was informed that he was away in the
country valuing.
“Then I would like to see Mr. Primrose,” I said.
“Mr. Primrose is round at the Rooms selling,” replied the clerk, who
appeared to be very busy.
“Where are the Rooms?” I asked.
“Out of the door, turn to the left, turn to the left again and under the
clock,” said the clerk, and closed the shutter.
So disgusted was I with his rudeness that I nearly gave up the
enterprise. Thinking better of it, however, I followed the directions
given, and in a minute or two found myself in a narrow passage that led
to a large room. To one who had never seen anything of the sort before,
this room offered a curious sight. The first thing I observed was a
notice on the wall to the effect that customers were not allowed to
smoke pipes. I thought to myself that orchids must be curious flowers
if they could distinguish between the smoke of a cigar and a pipe, and
stepped into the room. To my left was a long table covered with pots of
the most beautiful flowers that I had ever seen; all of them orchids.
Along the wall and opposite were other tables closely packed with
withered roots which I concluded were also those of orchids. To my
inexperienced eye the whole lot did not look worth five shillings, for
they seemed to be dead.
At the head of the room stood the rostrum, where sat a gentleman with an
extremely charming face. He was engaged in selling by auction so rapidly
that the clerk at his side must have had difficulty in keeping a record
of the lots and their purchasers. In front of him was a horseshoe table,
round which sat buyers. The end of this table was left unoccupied so
that the porters might exhibit each lot before it was put up for sale.
Standing under the rostrum was yet another table, a small one, upon
which were about twenty pots of flowers, even more wonderful than
those on the large table. A notice stated that these would be sold at
one-thirty precisely. All about the room stood knots of men (such ladies
as were present sat at the table), many of whom had lovely orchids
in their buttonholes. These, I found out afterwards, were dealers and
amateurs. They were a kindly-faced set of people, and I took a liking to
them.
The whole place was quaint and pleasant, especially by contrast with
the horrible London fog outside. Squeezing my small person into a corner
where I was in nobody’s way, I watched the proceedings for a while.
Suddenly an agreeable voice at my side asked me if I would like a look
at the catalogue. I glanced at the speaker, and in a sense fell in love
with him at once--as I have explained before, I am one of those to whom
a first impression means a great deal. He was not very tall, though
strong-looking and well-made enough. He was not very handsome, though
none so ill-favoured. He was just an ordinary fair young Englishman,
four or five-and-twenty years of age, with merry blue eyes and one of
the pleasantest expressions that I ever saw. At once I felt that he
was a sympathetic soul and full of the milk of human kindness. He was
dressed in a rough tweed suit rather worn, with the orchid that seemed
to be the badge of all this tribe in his buttonhole. Somehow the costume
suited his rather pink and white complexion and rumpled fair hair, which
I could see as he was sitting on his cloth hat.
“Thank you, no,” I answered, “I did not come here to buy. I know nothing
about orchids,” I added by way of explanation, “except a few I have seen
growing in Africa, and this one,” and I tapped the tin case which I held
under my arm.
“Indeed,” he said. “I should like to hear about the African orchids.
What is it you have in the case, a plant or flowers?”
“One flower only. It is not mine. A friend in Africa asked me to--well,
that is a long story which might not interest you.”
“I’m not sure. I suppose it must be a Cymbidium scape from the size.”
I shook my head. “That’s not the name my friend mentioned. He called it
a Cypripedium.”
The young man began to grow curious. “One Cypripedium in all that large
case? It must be a big flower.”
“Yes, my friend said it is the biggest ever found. It measures
twenty-four inches across the wings, petals I think he called them, and
about a foot across the back part.”
“Twenty-four inches across the petals and a foot across the dorsal
sepal!” said the young man in a kind of gasp, “and a Cypripedium! Sir,
surely you are joking?”
“Sir,” I answered indignantly, “I am doing nothing of the sort. Your
remark is tantamount to telling me that I am speaking a falsehood. But,
of course, for all I know, the thing may be some other kind of flower.”
“Let me see it. In the name of the goddess Flora let me see it!”
I began to undo the case. Indeed it was already half-open when two other
gentlemen, who had either overheard some of our conversation or noted my
companion’s excited look, edged up to us. I observed that they also wore
orchids in their buttonholes.
“Hullo! Somers,” said one of them in a tone of false geniality, “what
have you got there?”
“What has your friend got there?” asked the other.
“Nothing,” replied the young man who had been addressed as Somers,
“nothing at all; that is--only a case of tropical butterflies.”
“Oh! butterflies,” said No. 1 and sauntered away. But No. 2, a
keen-looking person with the eye of a hawk, was not so easily satisfied.
“Let us see these butterflies,” he said to me.
“You can’t,” ejaculated the young man. “My friend is afraid lest the
damp should injure their colours. Ain’t you, Brown?”
“Yes, I am, Somers,” I replied, taking his cue and shutting the tin case
with a snap.
Then the hawk-eyed person departed, also grumbling, for that story about
the damp stuck in his throat.
“Orchidist!” whispered the young man. “Dreadful people, orchidists, so
jealous. Very rich, too, both of them. Mr. Brown--I hope that is your
name, though I admit the chances are against it.”
“They are,” I replied, “my name is Allan Quatermain.”
“Ah! much better than Brown. Well, Mr. Allan Quatermain, there’s a
private room in this place to which I have admittance. Would you mind
coming with that----” here the hawk-eyed gentleman strolled past again,
“that case of butterflies?”
“With pleasure,” I answered, and followed him out of the auction chamber
down some steps through the door to the left, and ultimately into a
little cupboard-like room lined with shelves full of books and ledgers.
He closed the door and locked it.
“Now,” he said in a tone of the villain in a novel who at last has
come face to face with the virtuous heroine, “now we are alone. Mr.
Quatermain, let me see--those butterflies.”
I placed the case on a deal table which stood under a skylight in the
room. I opened it; I removed the cover of wadding, and there,
pressed between two sheets of glass and quite uninjured after all its
journeyings, appeared the golden flower, glorious even in death, and by
its side the broad green leaf.
The young gentleman called Somers looked at it till I thought his eyes
would really start out of his head. He turned away muttering something
and looked again.
“Oh! Heavens,” he said at last, “oh! Heavens, is it possible that such
a thing can exist in this imperfect world? You haven’t faked it, Mr.
Half--I mean Quatermain, have you?”
“Sir,” I said, “for the second time you are making insinuations. Good
morning,” and I began to shut up the case.
“Don’t be offhanded,” he exclaimed. “Pity the weaknesses of a poor
sinner. You don’t understand. If only you understood, you would
understand.”
“No,” I said, “I am bothered if I do.”
“Well, you will when you begin to collect orchids. I’m not mad, really,
except perhaps on this point, Mr. Quatermain,”--this in a low and
thrilling voice--“that marvellous Cypripedium--your friend is right, it
is a Cypripedium--is worth a gold mine.”
“From my experience of gold mines I can well believe that,” I said
tartly, and, I may add, prophetically.
“Oh! I mean a gold mine in the figurative and colloquial sense, not as
the investor knows it,” he answered. “That is, the plant on which it
grew is priceless. Where is the plant, Mr. Quatermain?”
“In a rather indefinite locality in Africa east by south,” I replied. “I
can’t place it to within three hundred miles.”
“That’s vague, Mr. Quatermain. I have no right to ask it, seeing that
you know nothing of me, but I assure you I am respectable, and in short,
would you mind telling me the story of this flower?”
“I don’t think I should,” I replied, a little doubtfully. Then, after
another good look at him, suppressing all names and exact localities,
I gave him the outline of the tale, explaining that I wanted to find
someone who would finance an expedition to the remote and romantic spot
where this particular Cypripedium was believed to grow.
Just as I finished my narrative, and before he had time to comment on
it, there came a violent knocking at the door.
“Mr. Stephen,” said a voice, “are you there, Mr. Stephen?”
“By Jove! that’s Briggs,” exclaimed the young man. “Briggs is my
father’s manager. Shut up the case, Mr. Quatermain. Come in, Briggs,” he
went on, unlocking the door slowly. “What is it?”
“It is a good deal,” replied a thin and agitated person who thrust
himself through the opening door. “Your father, I mean Sir Alexander,
has come to the office unexpectedly and is in a nice taking because he
didn’t find you there, sir. When he discovered that you had gone to the
orchid sale he grew furious, sir, furious, and sent me to fetch you.”
“Did he?” replied Mr. Somers in an easy and unruffled tone. “Well, tell
Sir Alexander I am coming at once. Now please go, Briggs, and tell him I
am coming at once.”
Briggs departed not too willingly.
“I must leave you, Mr. Quatermain,” said Mr. Somers as he shut the door
behind him. “But will you promise me not to show that flower to anyone
until I return? I’ll be back within half an hour.”
“Yes, Mr. Somers. I’ll wait half an hour for you in the sale room, and I
promise that no one shall see that flower till you return.”
“Thank you. You are a good fellow, and I promise you shall lose nothing
by your kindness if I can help it.”
We went together into the sale room, where some thought suddenly struck
Mr. Somers.
“By Jove!” he said, “I nearly forgot about that Odontoglossum. Where’s
Woodden? Oh! come here, Woodden, I want to speak to you.”
The person called Woodden obeyed. He was a man of about fifty,
indefinite in colouring, for his eyes were very light-blue or grey and
his hair was sandy, tough-looking and strongly made, with big hands that
showed signs of work, for the palms were horny and the nails worn down.
He was clad in a suit of shiny black, such as folk of the labouring
class wear at a funeral. I made up my mind at once that he was a
gardener.
“Woodden,” said Mr. Somers, “this gentleman here has got the most
wonderful orchid in the whole world. Keep your eye on him and see that
he isn’t robbed. There are people in this room, Mr. Quatermain, who
would murder you and throw your body into the Thames for that flower,”
he added, darkly.
On receipt of this information Woodden rocked a little on his feet as
though he felt the premonitory movements of an earthquake. It was a
habit of his whenever anything astonished him. Then, fixing his pale
eye upon me in a way which showed that my appearance surprised him, he
pulled a lock of his sandy hair with his thumb and finger and said:
“‘Servant, sir, and where might this horchid be?”
I pointed to the tin case.
“Yes, it’s there,” went on Mr. Somers, “and that’s what you’ve got to
watch. Mr. Quatermain, if anyone attempts to rob you, call for Woodden
and he will knock them down. He’s my gardener, you know, and entirely to
be trusted, especially if it is a matter of knocking anyone down.”
“Aye, I’ll knock him down surely,” said Woodden, doubling his great fist
and looking round him with a suspicious eye.
“Now listen, Woodden. Have you looked at that Odontoglossum Pavo, and if
so, what do you think of it?” and he nodded towards a plant which stood
in the centre of the little group that was placed on the small table
beneath the auctioneer’s desk. It bore a spray of the most lovely white
flowers. On the top petal (if it is a petal), and also on the lip of
each of these rounded flowers was a blotch or spot of which the general
effect was similar to the iridescent eye on the tail feathers of a
peacock, whence, I suppose, the flower was named “Pavo,” or Peacock.
“Yes, master, and I think it the beautifullest thing that ever I saw.
There isn’t a ‘glossum in England like that there ‘glossum Paving,”
he added with conviction, and rocked again as he said the word. “But
there’s plenty after it. I say they’re a-smelling round that blossom
like, like--dawgs round a rat hole. And” (this triumphantly) “they don’t
do that for nothing.”
“Quite so, Woodden, you have got a logical mind. But, look here, we must
have that ‘Pavo’ whatever it costs. Now the Governor has sent for me.
I’ll be back presently, but I might be detained. If so, you’ve got to
bid on my behalf, for I daren’t trust any of these agents. Here’s your
authority,” and he scribbled on a card, “Woodden, my gardener, has
directions to bid for me.--S.S.” “Now, Woodden,” he went on, when he
had given the card to an attendant who passed it up to the auctioneer,
“don’t you make a fool of yourself and let that ‘Pavo’ slip through your
fingers.”
In another instant he was gone.
“What did the master say, sir?” asked Woodden of me. “That I was to get
that there ‘Paving’ whatever it cost?”
“Yes,” I said, “that’s what he said. I suppose it will fetch a good
deal--several pounds.”
“Maybe, sir, can’t tell. All I know is that I’ve got to buy it as you
can bear me witness. Master, he ain’t one to be crossed for money. What
he wants, he’ll have, that is if it be in the orchid line.”
“I suppose you are fond of orchids, too, Mr. Woodden?”
“Fond of them, sir? Why, I loves ‘em!” (Here he rocked.) “Don’t feel for
nothing else in the same way; not even for my old woman” (then with a
burst of enthusiasm) “no, not even for the master himself, and I’m fond
enough of him, God knows! But, begging your pardon, sir” (with a pull
at his forelock), “would you mind holding that tin of yours a little
tighter? I’ve got to keep an eye on that as well as on ‘O. Paving,’ and
I just see’d that chap with the tall hat alooking at it suspicious.”
After this we separated. I retired into my corner, while Woodden took
his stand by the table, with one eye fixed on what he called the “O.
Paving” and the other on me and my tin case.
An odd fish truly, I thought to myself. Positive, the old woman;
Comparative, his master; Superlative, the orchid tribe. Those were his
degrees of affection. Honest and brave and a good fellow though, I bet.
The sale languished. There were so many lots of one particular sort of
dried orchid that buyers could not be found for them at a reasonable
price, and many had to be bought in. At length the genial Mr. Primrose
in the rostrum addressed the audience.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I quite understand that you didn’t come here
to-day to buy a rather poor lot of Cattleya Mossiæ. You came to buy,
or to bid for, or to see sold the most wonderful Odontoglossum that has
ever been flowered in this country, the property of a famous firm of
importers whom I congratulate upon their good fortune in having obtained
such a gem. Gentlemen, this miraculous flower ought to adorn a royal
greenhouse. But there it is, to be taken away by whoever will pay the
most for it, for I am directed to see that it will be sold without
reserve. Now, I think,” he added, running his eye over the company,
“that most of our great collectors are represented in this room to-day.
It is true that I do not see that spirited and liberal young orchidist,
Mr. Somers, but he has left his worthy head-gardener, Mr. Woodden, than
whom there is no finer judge of an orchid in England” (here Woodden
rocked violently) “to bid for him, as I hope, for the glorious flower of
which I have been speaking. Now, as it is exactly half-past one, we will
proceed to business. Smith, hand the ‘Odontoglossum Pavo’ round, that
everyone may inspect its beauties, and be careful you don’t let it fall.
Gentlemen, I must ask you not to touch it or to defile its purity with
tobacco smoke. Eight perfect flowers in bloom, gentlemen, and four--no,
five more to open. A strong plant in perfect health, six pseudo-bulbs
with leaves, and three without. Two black leads which I am advised
can be separated off at the proper time. Now, what bids for the
‘Odontoglossum Pavo.’ Ah! I wonder who will have the honour of becoming
the owner of this perfect, this unmatched production of Nature. Thank
you, sir--three hundred. Four. Five. Six. Seven in three places. Eight.
Nine. Ten. Oh! gentlemen, let us get on a little faster. Thank you,
sir--fifteen. Sixteen. It is against you, Mr Woodden. Ah! thank you,
seventeen.”
There came a pause in the fierce race for “O. Pavo,” which I occupied in
reducing seventeen hundred shillings to pounds sterling.
My word! I thought to myself, £85 is a goodish price to pay for one
plant, however rare. Woodden is acting up to his instructions with a
vengeance.
The pleading voice of Mr. Primrose broke in upon my meditations.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” he said, “surely you are not going to allow the
most wondrous production of the floral world, on which I repeat there
is no reserve, to be knocked down at this miserable figure. Come, come.
Well, if I must, I must, though after such a disgrace I shall get no
sleep to-night. One,” and his hammer fell for the first time. “Think,
gentlemen, upon my position, think what the eminent owners, who with
their usual delicacy have stayed away, will say to me when I am obliged
to tell them the disgraceful truth. Two,” and his hammer fell a second
time. “Smith, hold up that flower. Let the company see it. Let them know
what they are losing.”
Smith held up the flower at which everybody glared. The little ivory
hammer circled round Mr. Primrose’s head. It was about to fall, when a
quiet man with a long beard who hitherto had not joined in the bidding,
lifted his head and said softly:
“Eighteen hundred.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Primrose, “I thought so. I thought that the owner of
the greatest collection in England would not see this treasure slip from
his grasp without a struggle. Against you, Mr. Woodden.”
“Nineteen, sir,” said Woodden in a stony voice.
“Two thousand,” echoed the gentleman with the long beard.
“Twenty-one hundred,” said Woodden.
“That’s right, Mr. Woodden,” cried Mr. Primrose, “you are indeed
representing your principal worthily. I feel sure that you do not mean
to stop for a few miserable pounds.”
“Not if I knows it,” ejaculated Woodden. “I has my orders and I acts up
to them.”
“Twenty-two hundred,” said Long-beard.
“Twenty-three,” echoed Woodden.
“Oh, damn!” shouted Long-beard and rushed from the room.
“‘Odontoglossum Pavo’ is going for twenty-three hundred, only
twenty-tree hundred,” cried the auctioneer. “Any advance on twenty-three
hundred? What? None? Then I must do my duty. One. Two. For the last
time--no advance? Three. Gone to Mr. Woodden, bidding for his principal,
Mr. Somers.”
The hammer fell with a sharp tap, and at this moment my young friend
sauntered into the room.
“Well, Woodden,” he said, “have they put the ‘Pavo’ up yet?”
“It’s up and it’s down, sir. I’ve bought him right enough.”
“The deuce you have! What did it fetch?”
Woodden scratched his head.
“I don’t rightly know, sir, never was good at figures, not having much
book learning, but it’s twenty-three something.”
“£23? No, it would have brought more than that. By Jingo! it must be
£230. That’s pretty stiff, but still, it may be worth it.”
At this moment Mr. Primrose, who, leaning over his desk, was engaged in
animated conversation with an excited knot of orchid fanciers, looked
up:
“Oh! there you are, Mr. Somers,” he said. “In the name of all this
company let me congratulate you on having become the owner of the
matchless ‘Odontoglossum Pavo’ for what, under all the circumstances, I
consider the quite moderate price of £2,300.”
Really that young man took it very well. He shivered slightly and turned
a little pale, that is all. Woodden rocked to and fro like a tree about
to fall. I and my tin box collapsed together in the corner. Yes, I was
so surprised that my legs seemed to give way under me. People began to
talk, but above the hum of the conversation I heard young Somers say in
a low voice:
“Woodden, you’re a born fool.” Also the answer: “That’s what my mother
always told me, master, and she ought to know if anyone did. But what’s
wrong now? I obeyed orders and bought ‘O. Paving.’”
“Yes. Don’t bother, my good fellow, it’s my fault, not yours. I’m the
born fool. But heavens above! how am I to face this?” Then, recovering
himself, he strolled up to the rostrum and said a few words to the
auctioneer. Mr. Primrose nodded, and I heard him answer:
“Oh, that will be all right, sir, don’t bother. We can’t expect an
account like this to be settled in a minute. A month hence will do.”
Then he went on with the sale.