There was a general stir in the room, of chairs being shifted, and legs
uncrossed and recrossed. Mr. Webb gave a little cough, while he laid
aside his catalogue in favour of the more elaborate booklet, which he
opened on the desk in front of him, flattening down the pages with a
precise hand. He drew himself up, took off his glasses, and tapped the
booklet with them, surveying his audience. “As you know, ladies and
gentlemen—as, in fact, this monograph, which you have all had in your
hands, will have told you if you did not know it before—we have in
Blackboys one of the most perfect examples of the Elizabethan
manor-house in England. I don’t think I need take up your time and my
own by enlarging upon that, or by pointing out the historical and
artistic value of the property about to be disposed of; I can safely
leave the ancient building, and the monograph so ably prepared by my
friend Mr. Nutley, to speak for themselves. It only remains for me to
beg those intending to bid, to second my efforts in putting the sale
through as quickly as possible, for we still have a large portion of the
catalogue to deal with, and to bear in mind that a reserve figure of
reasonable proportions has been placed upon the manor-house and
surrounding grounds.—Lot 16, the manor-house known as Blackboys Priory,
the pleasure-grounds of eight acres, and one hundred and twenty-five
acres of park land adjoining.”
A short silence succeeded Mr. Webb’s little speech. The Brazilian and
his solicitor whispered together. The representatives of the various
agencies looked at one another to see who would take the first step.
Finally a voice said, “Eight thousand guineas.”
“Come, come,” smiled Mr. Webb.
“Nine thousand,” said another voice.
“I told you, gentlemen, that a reasonable reserve had been placed upon
this lot,” said the auctioneer in a tone of restrained impatience, “and
you must all of you be sufficiently acquainted with the standard of
sale-room prices to know that nine thousand guineas comes nowhere near a
reasonable figure for a property such as the one we have now under
consideration.”
Thus rebuked, the man who had first spoken said, “All right—twelve
thousand.”
“And five hundred,” said the second man.
“Sticky, sticky,” murmured Nutley, shaking his head.
Still neither the Brazilian nor his solicitor made any sign. The agents
were evidently unwilling to show their hands; then a little man began to
bid on behalf of an American standing at his elbow: “Thirteen thousand
guineas.”
This stirred the agents, and between them all the bidding crackled up to
eighteen thousand. Mr. Webb, judging that the American was probably good
for twenty or twenty-five, and wishing to entice the Brazilian into
competition, said in the same resigned tone, “I am unwilling to withdraw
this lot, but I am afraid we cannot afford to waste time in this
fashion.”
“Make it twenty, sir,” called out the American, “and let’s get a move
on.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Webb, in the midst of a laugh. “I am bid
twenty thousand guineas for Lot 16, twenty thousand guineas _are_
bid ... and five hundred on my right ... twenty-one thousand on my
left ... thank you again, sir: twenty-two thousand guineas. Twenty-two
thousand guineas. Surely no one wishes to see this lot withdrawn?
Twenty-two thousand guineas. And five hundred. And two hundred and fifty
more. Twenty-two thousand seven hundred and fifty guineas....”
“Twenty-three thousand,” said the solicitor who had come with the
Brazilian.
People craned forward now to see and to hear. The Brazilian had been
generally pointed out as the most likely buyer, and until he or his man
took up the bidding it could be disregarded as preliminary. The small
fry of the agents served to run it up into workable figures, after which
it would certainly pass beyond them. The duel, it was guessed, would lie
between the American and the Brazilian.
“Twenty-four thousand,” called out one of the agents in a sort of dying
flourish.
“And five hundred,” said another, not to be outdone.
“Twenty-five thousand,” said the Brazilian’s solicitor.
“Twenty-five thousand guineas _are_ bid,” said the auctioneer.
“Twenty-five thousand guineas. I am authorised by Mr. Nutley, the
solicitor acting for this estate, to tell you ...” he glanced down at
Nutley, who nodded, “... to tell you that this sum had already been
offered, and refused, at the estate office. If, therefore, no gentleman
is willing to pass beyond twenty-five thousand guineas, I shall be
compelled ... and five hundred, thank you, sir. Twenty-five thousand
five hundred guineas.”
Most people present supposed that this sum came very near to being
adequate, and a murmur to this effect passed up and down the room.
People looked at Chase, who was as white as death and sat with his eye
fixed upon the floor. The American, good-humouredly enough, was trying
to take the measure of the unruffled young man; judging from the slight
shrug he gave, he did not think he stood much chance, but nevertheless
he called, “Keep the ball rolling. Two hundred and fifty more.”
The room began to take sides, most preferring the straight forward
vulgarity of the jolly American to the outlandishness of the young man,
which baffled and put them ill at their ease. (Nutley found time to
think that the youth of the neighbourhood would need some time before it
recovered from the influence of that young man, even if he were to pass
away with the day.) Those who had the habit of sale-rooms thought Chase
lucky in having two men, both keen, against one another to run up a high
price. They bent forward with their elbows on their knees and their
chins in their hands, to listen.
“And two hundred and fifty more,” capped the solicitor.
“Twenty-six thousand guineas are bid,” said Mr. Webb, who by now was
leaning well over his desk and whose glances kept travelling sharply
between the rivals. He was sure that the Brazilian intended, if
necessary, to go to thirty thousand.
“Twenty-seven,” said the American, recklessly.
“Twenty-eight,” said the solicitor after a word with his employer.
The American shook his head; he was very jovial and friendly, and bore
no malice. He laughed, but he shook his head.
“If that is your last word, gentlemen, I regret to say that the lot must
be withdrawn, as the reserve has not been reached,” said Mr. Webb. “I am
sure that Mr. Nutley will pardon me the slight irregularity in giving
you this information, under the exceptional circumstances....” Nutley
assented; he greatly enjoyed being referred to, especially now in
Chase’s presence.... “I only do so in order to give you the chance of
continuing should you wish....”
“All right, anything to make a running,” said the American, who was
certainly the favourite of the excited and eager audience; “two hundred
and fifty better than the last bid.”
The auctioneer caught the Brazilian’s nod.
“I am bid twenty-eight thousand five hundred guineas ... twenty-nine
thousand,” he added, as the American nodded to him.
“Thirty,” said the Brazilian quietly.
He had not spoken before, and every gaze was turned upon him as,
perfectly cool, he stood leaning against the wall in the bay of a
window. He was undisturbed, from the sleekness of his head down to his
immaculate shoes. He had all the assurance of one who is certain of
having spoken the last word.
“I’m out of this,” said the American.
“Thirty thousand guineas _are_ bid,” said the auctioneer; “for Lot 16
thirty thousand guineas. THIRTY THOUSAND GUINEAS,” he enunciated;
“going, for the sum of thirty thousand guineas, going, going,...”
Chase tottered to his feet.
“Thirty-one thousand,” he cried in a strangled voice, “thirty-one
thousand!”