THE TRUTHFUL AUCTIONEER
At a little before ten on the following morning, Burton stood upon the
pavement outside, looking with some amazement at the house in Wenslow
Square. The notices "To Let" had all been torn down. A small army of
paper-hangers and white-washers were at work. A man was busy fastening
flower boxes in the lower windows. On all hands were suggestions of
impending occupation. Burton mounted the steps doubtfully and stood in
the hall, underneath a whitewasher's plank. The door of the familiar
little room stood open before him. He peered eagerly in. It was swept
bare and completely empty. All traces of its former mysterious occupant
were gone.
"Is this house let?" he inquired of a man who was deliberately stirring
a pail of shiny whitewash.
The plasterer nodded.
"Seems so," he admitted. "It's been empty long enough."
Burton looked around him a little vaguely.
"You all seem very busy," he remarked.
"Some bloke from the country's taken the 'ouse," the man grumbled, "and
wants to move in before the blooming paint's dry. Nobody can't do
impossibilities, mister," he continued, "leaving out the Unions, which
can't bear to see us over-exert ourselves. They've always got a
particular eye on me, knowing I'm a bit too rapid for most of them when
I start."
"Give yourself a rest for a moment," Burton begged. "Tell me, what's
become of the rugs and oddments of furniture from that little room
opposite?"
The man produced a pipe, contemplated it for a moment thoughtfully, and
squeezed down a portion of blackened tobacco with his thumb.
"Poor smoking," he complained. "Got such a family I can't afford more
than one ounce a week. Nothing but dust here."
"I haven't any tobacco with me," Burton regretted, "but I'll stand a
couple of ounces, with pleasure," he added, producing a shilling.
The man pocketed the coin without undue exhilaration, struck a vilely
smelling match, and lit the fragment of filth at the bottom of his pipe.
"About those oddments of furniture?" Burton reminded him.
"Stolen," the man asserted gloomily,--"stolen under our very eyes, as
it were. Some one must have nipped in just as you did this morning, and
whisked them off. Easy done with a covered truck outside and us so
wrapped up in our work, so to speak."
"When was this?" Burton demanded, eagerly.
"Day afore yesterday."
"Does Mr. Waddington know about it?"
The man removed his pipe from his teeth and gazed intently at his
questioner.
"Is this Mr. Waddington you're a-speaking of a red-faced
gentleman--kind of auctioneer or agent? Looks as though he could shift
a drop?"
Burton recognized the description.
"That," he assented, "is Mr. Waddington."
The workman replaced the pipe in the corner of his mouth and nodded
deliberately.
"He knows right enough, he does. Came down here yesterday afternoon
with a friend. Seemed, from what I could hear, to want to give him
something to eat out of that room. I put him down as dotty, but my!
you should have heard him when he found out that the stuff had been
lifted!"
"Was he disappointed?" Burton asked.
Words seemed to fail the plasterer. He nodded his head a great many
times and spat upon the floor.
"That may be the word I was looking for," he admitted. "Can't say as I
should have thought of it myself. Anyway, the bloke never stopped for
close on five minutes, and old Joe--him on the ladder there--he came all
the way down and listened with his mouth open, and he don't want no
laming neither when there's things to be said. Kind of auctioneer they
said he was. Comes easy to that sort, I suppose."
"Did he--did Mr. Waddington obtain any clue as to the whereabouts of
the missing property?" Burton asked, with some eagerness.
"Not as I knows on," the plasterer replied, picking up his brush, "and
as to the missing property, there was nowt but a few mouldy rugs and a
flower-pot in the room. Some folks does seem able to work themselves up
into a fuss about nothing, and no mistake! Good morning, guvnor! Drop
in again some time when you're passing."
Burton turned out of Wenslow Square and approached the offices and
salesrooms of Messrs. Waddington & Forbes with some misgiving. Bearing
in mind the peculiar nature of the business conducted by the firm, he
could only conclude that ruin, prompt and absolute, had been the
inevitable sequence of Mr. Waddington's regrettable appetite. He was
somewhat relieved to find that there were no evidences of it in the
familiar office which he entered with some diffidence.
"Is Mr. Waddington in?" he inquired.
A strange young man slipped from his stool and found his questioner
gazing about him in a bewildered manner. There was much, indeed, that
was surprising in his surroundings. The tattered bills had been torn
down from the walls, the dust-covered files of papers removed, the
ceilings and walls painted and papered. A general cleanliness and sense
of order had taken the place of the old medley. The young man who had
answered his inquiry was quietly dressed and not in the least like the
missing office-boy.
"Mr. Waddington is at present conducting a sale of furniture," he
replied. "I can send a message in if your business is important."
Burton, who had always felt a certain amount of liking for his late
employer, was filled now with a sudden pity for him. Truth was a great
and marvelous thing, but the last person who had need of it was surely
an auctioneer engaged in the sale of sham articles of every description!
It was putting the man in an unfair position. A vague sense of loyalty
towards his late chief prompted Burton's next action. If help were
possible, Mr. Waddington should have it.
"Thank you," he said, "I will step into the sales-room myself. I know
the way."
Burton pushed open the doors and entered the room. To his surprise, the
place was packed. There was the usual crowd of buyers and many strange
faces; the usual stacks of furniture of the usual quality, and other
lots less familiar. Mr. Waddington stood in his accustomed place but
not in his accustomed attitude. The change in him was obvious but in a
sense pathetic. He was quietly dressed, and his manner denoted a new
nervousness, not to say embarrassment. Drops of perspiration stood upon
his forehead. The strident note had gone from his voice. He spoke
clearly enough, but more softly, and without the familiar roll.
"Gentlemen--ladies and gentlemen," he was saying as Burton entered, "the
next item on the catalogue is number 17, described as an oak chest, said
to have come from Winchester Cathedral and to be a genuine antique."
Mr. Waddington leaned forward from his rostrum. His tone became more
earnest.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he continued, "I am bound to sell as per
catalogue, and the chest in question is described exactly as it was sent
in to us, but I do not myself for a moment believe either that it came
from Winchester or that it is in any way antique. Examine it for
yourselves--pray examine it thoroughly before you bid. My impression is
that it is a common oak chest, treated by the modern huckster whose
business it is to make new things look like old. I have told you my
opinion, ladies and gentlemen. At what shall we start the bidding? It
is a useful article, anyhow, and might pass for an antique if any one
here really cares to deceive his friends. At any rate, there is no
doubt that it is--er--a chest, and that it will--er--hold things. How
much shall we say for it?"
There was a little flutter of conversation. People elbowed one another
furiously in their desire to examine the chest. A dark, corpulent man,
with curly black hair and an unmistakable nose, looked at the auctioneer
in a puzzled manner.
"Thay, Waddington, old man, what'th the game, eh? What have you got up
your sleeve that you don't want to thell the stuff? Blow me if I can
tumble to it!"
"There is no game at all," Mr. Waddington replied firmly. "I can
assure you, Mr. Absolom, and all of you, ladies and gentlemen, that I
have simply told you what I believe to be the absolute truth. It is my
business to sell whatever is sent to me here for that purpose, but it is
not my business or intention to deceive you in any way, if I can help
it."
Mr. Absolom re-examined the oak chest with a puzzled expression. Then
he strolled away and joined a little knot of brokers who were busy
discussing matters. The various remarks which passed from one to
another indicated sufficiently their perplexed condition of mind.
"The old man's dotty!"
"Not he! There's a game on somewhere!"
"He wants to buy in some of the truck!"
"Old Waddy knows what he's doing!"
Mr. Absolom listened for a while and then returned to the rostrum.
"Mr. Waddington," he asked, "ith it the truth that there are one or two
pieces of real good stuff here, thent in by an old farmer in Kent?"
"Quite true," Mr. Waddington declared, eagerly. "Unfortunately, they
all came in together and were included with other articles which have
not the same antecedents. You may be able to pick out which they are.
I can't. Although I am supposed to be in the business, I never could
tell the difference myself."
There was a chorus of guffaws. Mr. Waddington mopped his forehead with
a handkerchief.
"It is absolutely true, gentlemen," he pleaded. "I have always posed as
a judge but I know very little about it. As a matter of fact I have had
scarcely any experience in real antique furniture. We must get on,
gentlemen. What shall we say for lot number 17? Will any one start the
bidding at one sovereign?"
"Two!" Mr. Absolom offered. "More than it'th worth, perhaps, but I'll
rithk it."
"It is certainly more than it's worth," Mr. Waddington admitted,
dolefully. "However, if you have the money to throw away--two pounds,
then."
Mr. Waddington raised his hammer to knock the chest down, but was met
with a storm from all quarters of the room.
"Two-ten!"
"Three!"
"Three-ten!"
"Four!"
"Four-ten!"
"Five!"
"Six pounds!"
"Seven!"
"Seven-ten!"
"Ten pounds!"
Mr. Absolom, who so far had held his own, hesitated at the last bid. A
gray-haired old gentleman looked around him fiercely. The gentleman was
seemingly opulent and Mr. Absolom withdrew with a sigh. Mr.
Waddington eyed the prospective buyer sorrowfully.
"You are quite sure that you mean it, sir?" he asked. "The chest is not
worth the money, you know."
"You attend to your business and I'll attend to mine!" the old gentleman
answered, savagely. "Most improper behavior, I call it, trying to buy
in your own goods in this bare-faced manner. My name is Stephen
Hammonde, and the money's in my pocket for this or anything else I care
to buy."
Mr. Waddington raised his hammer and struck the desk in front of him.
As his clerk entered the sale, the auctioneer looked up and caught
Burton's eye. He beckoned to him eagerly. Burton came up to the
rostrum.
"Burton," Mr. Waddington exclaimed, "I want to talk to you! You see
what's happened to me?" he went on, mopping his forehead with his
handkerchief.
"Yes, I see!
"It's that d--d bean!" Mr. Waddington declared. "But look here,
Burton, can you tell me what's happened to the other people?"
"I cannot," Burton confessed. "I am beginning to get an idea, perhaps."
"Stand by for a bit and watch," Mr. Waddington begged. "I must go on
with the sale now. Take a little lunch with me afterwards. Don't
desert me, Burton. We're in this together."
Burton nodded and found a seat at a little distance from the rostrum.
From here he watched the remainder of the morning's sale. The whole
affair seemed to resolve itself into a repetition of the sale of the
chest. The auctioneer's attempts to describe correctly the wares he
offered were met with mingled suspicion and disbelief. The one or two
articles which really had the appearance of being genuine, and over
which he hesitated, fetched enormous prices, and all the time his eager
clients eyed him suspiciously. No one trusted him, and yet it was
obvious that if he had advertised a sale every day, the room would have
been packed. Burton watched the proceedings with the utmost interest.
Once or twice people who recognized him came up and asked him questions,
to which, however, he was able to return no satisfactory reply. At one
o'clock precisely, the auctioneer, with a little sigh of relief,
announced a postponement. Even after he had left the rostrum, the
people seemed unwilling to leave the place.
"Back again this afternoon, sir?" some one called out.
"At half-past two," the auctioneer replied, with a smothered groan.