A CHEAP LOT
In spite of the fact that it was the luncheon hour when Ventimore
reached Hammond's Auction Rooms, he found the big, skylighted gallery
where the sale of the furniture and effects of the late General
Collingham was proceeding crowded to a degree which showed that the
deceased officer had some reputation as a _connoisseur_.
The narrow green baize tables below the auctioneer's rostrum were
occupied by professional dealers, one or two of them women, who sat,
paper and pencil in hand, with much the same air of apparent apathy and
real vigilance that may be noticed in the Casino at Monte Carlo. Around
them stood a decorous and businesslike crowd, mostly dealers, of various
types. On a magisterial-looking bench sat the auctioneer, conducting the
sale with a judicial impartiality and dignity which forbade him, even in
his most laudatory comments, the faintest accent of enthusiasm.
The October sunshine, striking through the glazed roof, re-gilded the
tarnished gas-stars, and suffused the dusty atmosphere with palest gold.
But somehow the utter absence of excitement in the crowd, the calm,
methodical tone of the auctioneer, and the occasional mournful cry of
"Lot here, gentlemen!" from the porter when any article was too large to
move, all served to depress Ventimore's usually mercurial spirits.
For all Horace knew, the collection as a whole might be of little value,
but it very soon became clear that others besides Professor Futvoye had
singled out such gems as there were, also that the Professor had
considerably under-rated the prices they were likely to fetch.
Ventimore made his bids with all possible discretion, but time after
time he found the competition for some perforated mosque lantern,
engraved ewer, or ancient porcelain tile so great that his limit was
soon reached, and his sole consolation was that the article eventually
changed hands for sums which were very nearly double the Professor's
estimate.
Several dealers and brokers, despairing of a bargain that day, left,
murmuring profanities; most of those who remained ceased to take a
serious interest in the proceedings, and consoled themselves with cheap
witticisms at every favourable occasion.
The sale dragged slowly on, and, what with continual disappointment and
want of food, Horace began to feel so weary that he was glad, as the
crowd thinned, to get a seat at one of the green baize tables, by which
time the skylights had already changed from livid grey to slate colour
in the deepening dusk.
A couple of meek Burmese Buddhas had just been put up, and bore the
indignity of being knocked down for nine-and-sixpence the pair with
dreamy, inscrutable simpers; Horace only waited for the final lot marked
by the Professor--an old Persian copper bowl, inlaid with silver and
engraved round the rim with an inscription from Hafiz.
The limit to which he was authorised to go was two pounds ten; but, so
desperately anxious was Ventimore not to return empty-handed, that he
had made up his mind to bid an extra sovereign if necessary, and say
nothing about it.
However, the bowl was put up, and the bidding soon rose to three pounds
ten, four pounds, four pounds ten, five pounds, five guineas, for which
last sum it was acquired by a bearded man on Horace's right, who
immediately began to regard his purchase with a more indulgent eye.
Ventimore had done his best, and failed; there was no reason now why he
should stay a moment longer--and yet he sat on, from sheer fatigue and
disinclination to move.
"Now we come to Lot 254, gentlemen," he heard the auctioneer saying,
mechanically; "a capital Egyptian mummy-case in fine con---- No, I beg
pardon, I'm wrong. This is an article which by some mistake has been
omitted from the catalogue, though it ought to have been in it.
Everything on sale to-day, gentlemen, belonged to the late General
Collingham. We'll call this No. 253_a_. Antique brass bottle. Very
curious."
One of the porters carried the bottle in between the tables, and set it
down before the dealers at the farther end with a tired nonchalance.
It was an old, squat, pot-bellied vessel, about two feet high, with a
long thick neck, the mouth of which was closed by a sort of metal
stopper or cap; there was no visible decoration on its sides, which were
rough and pitted by some incrustation that had formed on them, and been
partially scraped off. As a piece of _bric-a-brac_ it certainly
possessed few attractions, and there was a marked tendency to "guy" it
among the more frivolous brethren.
"What do you call this, sir?" inquired one of the auctioneer, with the
manner of a cheeky boy trying to get a rise out of his form-master. "Is
it as 'unique' as the others?"
"You're as well able to judge as I am," was the guarded reply. "Any one
can see for himself it's not modern rubbish."
"Make a pretty little ornament for the mantelpiece!" remarked a wag.
"Is the top made to unscrew, or what, sir?" asked a third. "Seems fixed
on pretty tight."
"I can't say. Probably it has not been removed for some time."
"It's a goodish weight," said the chief humorist, after handling it.
"What's inside of it, sir--sardines?"
"I don't represent it as having anything inside it," said the
auctioneer. "If you want to know my opinion, I think there's money in
it."
"'Ow much?"
"Don't misunderstand me, gentlemen. When I say I consider there's money
in it, I'm not alluding to its contents. I've no reason to believe that
it contains anything. I'm merely suggesting the thing itself may be
worth more than it looks."
"Ah, it might be _that_ without 'urting itself!"
"Well, well, don't let us waste time. Look upon it as a pure
speculation, and make me an offer for it, some of you. Come."
"Tuppence-'ap'ny!" cried the comic man, affecting to brace himself for a
mighty effort.
"Pray be serious, gentlemen. We want to get on, you know. Anything to
make a start. Five shillings? It's not the value of the metal, but I'll
take the bid. Six. Look at it well. It's not an article you come across
every day of your lives."
The bottle was still being passed round with disrespectful raps and
slaps, and it had now come to Ventimore's right-hand neighbour, who
scrutinised it carefully, but made no bid.
"That's all _right_, you know," he whispered in Horace's ear. "That's
good stuff, that is. If I was you, I'd _'ave_ that."
"Seven shillings--eight--nine bid for it over there in the corner," said
the auctioneer.
"If you think it's so good, why don't you have it yourself?" Horace
asked his neighbour.
"Me? Oh, well, it ain't exactly in my line, and getting this last lot
pretty near cleaned me out. I've done for to-day, I 'ave. All the same,
it is a curiosity; dunno as I've seen a brass vawse just that shape
before, and it's genuine old, though all these fellers are too ignorant
to know the value of it. So I don't mind giving you the tip."
Horace rose, the better to examine the top. As far as he could make out
in the flickering light of one of the gas-stars, which the auctioneer
had just ordered to be lit, there were half-erased scratches and
triangular marks on the cap that might possibly be an inscription. If
so, might there not be the means here of regaining the Professor's
favour, which he felt that, as it was, he should probably forfeit,
justly or not, by his ill-success?
He could hardly spend the Professor's money on it, since it was not in
the catalogue, and he had no authority to bid for it, but he had a few
shillings of his own to spare. Why not bid for it on his own account as
long as he could afford to do so? If he were outbid, as usual, it would
not particularly matter.
"Thirteen shillings," the auctioneer was saying, in his dispassionate
tones. Horace caught his eye, and slightly raised his catalogue, while
another man nodded at the same time. "Fourteen in two places." Horace
raised his catalogue again. "I won't go beyond fifteen," he thought.
"Fifteen. It's _against_ you, sir. Any advance on fifteen? Sixteen--this
very quaint old Oriental bottle going for only sixteen shillings.
"After all," thought Horace, "I don't mind anything under a pound for
it." And he bid seventeen shillings. "Eighteen," cried his rival, a
short, cheery, cherub-faced little dealer, whose neighbours adjured him
to "sit quiet like a good little boy and not waste his pocket-money."
"Nineteen!" said Horace. "Pound!" answered the cherubic man.
"A pound only bid for this grand brass vessel," said the auctioneer,
indifferently. "All done at a pound?"
Horace thought another shilling or two would not ruin him, and nodded.
"A guinea. For the last time. You'll _lose_ it, sir," said the
auctioneer to the little man.
"Go on, Tommy. Don't you be beat. Spring another bob on it, Tommy," his
friends advised him ironically; but Tommy shook his head, with the air
of a man who knows when to draw the line. "One guinea--and that's not
half its value! Gentleman on my left," said the auctioneer, more in
sorrow than in anger--and the brass bottle became Ventimore's property.
He paid for it, and, since he could hardly walk home nursing a large
metal bottle without attracting an inconvenient amount of attention,
directed that it should be sent to his lodgings at Vincent Square.
But when he was out in the fresh air, walking westward to his club, he
found himself wondering more and more what could have possessed him to
throw away a guinea--when he had few enough for legitimate expenses--on
an article of such exceedingly problematical value.