THE NORTH POLE IS KNOCKED DOWN TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER.
That the sale of the 3rd of December should take place in the Auction
Mart might appear strange. As a rule, only furniture, instruments,
pictures, and objects of art were sold there. But for this curious
departure from the ordinary practice in the sale of land a precedent was
discoverable, as already a portion of our planet had changed hands under
the hammer.
A few years before, at San Francisco, in California, an island in the
Pacific Ocean, Spencer Island, had been sold to the rich W. W. Kolderup,
when he outbid J. R. Taskinar, of Stockton.[1] Spencer Island was
habitable; it was only a few degrees from the Californian coast; it had
forests, watercourses, a fertile soil, and fields and prairies fit for
cultivation; it was not an indefinite region, covered perhaps with sea
and perpetual ice, which probably no one would ever occupy. For Spencer
Island four hundred thousand dollars had been paid; for the polar
territories it was not to be expected that anything like that amount
would be forthcoming.
Footnote 1:
See “Godfrey Morgan,” by the same author.
Nevertheless, the strangeness of the affair had brought together a
considerable crowd, chiefly of lookers-on, to witness the result. The
sale was to take place at noon, and all the morning the traffic in
Bolton Street was seriously interfered with. Long before the hour fixed
for the sale the room was full, with the exception of a few seats railed
off and reserved for the delegates; and when Baldenak, Karkof, Jansen,
Harald, Donellan, and Todrin had taken these places, they formed a
compact group, shoulder to shoulder, and looked as if they were a
veritable storming column ready for the assault of the Pole.
Close to them was the consignee of codfish, whose vulgar visage
expressed the sublimest indifference. He looked the least excited of all
the crowd, and seemed to be thinking only of how he could most
profitably dispose of the cargoes now on their way to him from
Newfoundland. Who were the capitalists represented by this man, with
probably millions of dollars at his command?
There was nothing to show that J. T. Maston and Mrs. Scorbitt had
anything to do with the affair. How could it be supposed that they had?
They were there, though, but lost in the crowd, and were surrounded by a
few of the principal members of the Gun Club, apparently simply as
spectators and quite disinterested. William S. Forster seemed to have
not the least knowledge of their existence.
As it was impossible to hand round the North Pole for the purposes of
examination, a large map of the Arctic regions had been hung behind the
auctioneer’s desk. Seventeen degrees above the Arctic Circle a broad red
line around the eighty-fourth parallel marked off the portion of the
globe which the North Polar Practical Association had brought to the
hammer. According to the map, the region was occupied by a sea covered
with an ice-cap of considerable thickness. But that was the affair of
the purchasers. At least, no one could complain that they had been
deceived as to the nature of the goods.
As twelve o’clock struck, the auctioneer, Andrew R. Gilmour, entered by
a little door behind his desk. He surveyed the assembly for an instant
through his glasses, and then, calling for silence by a tap from his
hammer, he addressed the crowd as follows:—
“Gentlemen, I have been instructed by the Federal Government to offer
for sale a property situated at the North Pole, bounded by the
eighty-fourth parallel of latitude, and consisting of certain continents
and seas, either solid or liquid—but which I am not quite sure. Kindly
cast your eyes on this map. It has been compiled according to the latest
information. You will see that the area is approximately four hundred
and seven thousand square miles. To facilitate the sale it has been
decided that the biddings for this extensive region shall be made per
square mile. You will therefore understand that every cent bid will
represent in round numbers 407,000 cents, and every dollar 407,000
dollars. I must ask you to be silent, gentlemen, if you please.”
The appeal was not superfluous, for the impatience of the public was
producing a gradually-increasing tumult that would drown the voices of
the bidders.
When tolerable quietness had been established thanks to the intervention
of Flint, the auctioneer’s porter, who roared like a siren on a foggy
day, Gilmour continued,—
“Before we begin the biddings, I think it right to remind you of three
things. The property has only one boundary, that of the eighty-fourth
degree of north latitude. It has a guaranteed title. And it will remain
the property of the purchasers, no matter what geographical or
meteorological modifications the future may produce.”
Always this curious observation!
“Now, gentlemen,” said Gilmour; “what offers?” and, giving his hammer a
preliminary shake, he continued in a vibrating nasal tone, “We will
start at ten cents the square mile.”
Ten cents, the tenth of a dollar, meant 40,700 dollars for the lot.
Whether Gilmour had a purchaser at this price or not, the amount was
quickly increased by Baldenak.
“Twenty cents!” he said.
“Thirty cents!” said Jansen for the Dutchmen.
“Thirty-five!” said Professor Harald.
“Forty!” said the Russian.
That meant 162,800 dollars, and yet the bidding had only begun. The
Canadians had not even opened their mouths. And William S. Forster
seemed absorbed in the _Newfoundland Mercury_.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Gilmour, “any advance on forty cents? Forty
cents! Come, the polar cap is worth more than that; it is—”
What he would have added is unknown; perhaps it was, “guaranteed pure
ice;” but the Dane interrupted him with—
“Fifty cents!”
Which the Dutchman at once capped with—
“Sixty!”
“Sixty cents the square mile! Any advance on sixty cents?”
These sixty cents made the respectable sum of 244,200 dollars.
At Jansen’s bid, Donellan raised his head and looked at Todrin; but at
an almost imperceptible negative sign from him he remained silent.
All that Forster did was to scrawl a few notes on the margin of his
newspaper.
“Come, gentlemen,” said the auctioneer; “wake up! Surely you are going
to give more than that?”
And the hammer began to move up and down, as if in disgust at the
weakness of the bidding.
“Seventy cents!” said Harald, in a voice that trembled a little.
“Eighty cents!” said Karkof, almost in the same breath.
A nod from Todrin woke up the Major, as if he were on springs.
“Hundred cents!” said the Canadian.
That meant 407,000 dollars!
Four hundred and seven thousand dollars! A high price to pay for a
collection of icebergs, ice-fields, and ice-floes!
And the representative of the North Polar Practical Association did not
even raise his eyes from his newspaper. Had he been instructed not to
bid? If he had waited for his competitors to bid their highest, surely
the moment had come? In fact, their look of dismay when the Major fired
his “hundred cents” showed that they had abandoned the battle.
“A hundred cents the square mile!” said the auctioneer. “Any advance? Is
that so? Is that so? No advance?”
And he took a firm grasp on his hammer, and looked round him.
“Once!” he continued. “Twice! Any advance?”
“A hundred and twenty cents!” said Forster, quietly, as he turned over a
page of his newspaper.
“And forty!” said the Major.
“And sixty!” drawled Forster.
“And eighty!” drawled the Major, quite as placidly.
“A hundred and ninety!” said Forster.
“And five!” said the Major, as if it were a mere casual observation.
You might have heard an ant walk, a bleak swim, a moth fly, a worm
wriggle, or a microbe wag its tail—if it has a tail.
Gilmour allowed a few moments to pass, which seemed like centuries. The
consignee of codfish continued reading his newspaper and jotting down
figures on the margin which had evidently nothing to do with the matter
on hand. Had he reached the length of his tether? Had he made his last
bid? Did this price of 195 cents the square mile, or 793,050 dollars for
the whole, appear to him to have reached the last limit of absurdity?
“One hundred and ninety-five cents!” said the auctioneer. “Going at one
hundred and ninety-five cents!”
And he raised his hammer.
“One hundred and ninety-five cents! Going! Going!”
And every eye was turned on the representative of the North Polar
Practical Association.
That extraordinary man drew a large handkerchief from his pocket, and,
hiding his face in it, blew a long, sonorous blast with his nose.
Then J. T. Maston looked at him, and Mrs. Scorbitt’s eyes took the same
direction. And by the paleness of their features it could be seen how
keen was the excitement they were striving to subdue. Why did Forster
hesitate to outbid the Major?
Forster blew his nose a second time; then, with an even louder blast, he
blew it a third time. And between the blasts he quietly observed,—
“Two hundred cents!”
A shudder ran through the hall.
The Major seemed overwhelmed, and fell back against Todrin. At this
price per square mile, the Arctic regions would cost 814,000 dollars.
The Canadian limit had evidently been passed.
“Two hundred cents!” said Gilmour. “Once! Twice! Any advance?” he
continued.
The Major looked at the Professor, and the Colonel, and the Dutchman,
and the Dane; and the Professor, and the Colonel, and the Dutchman, and
the Dane looked at the Major.
“Going! Going!” said the auctioneer.
Every one looked at the codfish man.
“Gone!”
And down came Gilmour’s hammer.
The North Polar Practical Association, represented by William S.
Forster, had become the proprietors of the North Pole and its promising
neighbourhood. And when William S. Forster had to name the real
purchasers, he placidly drawled,—“Barbicane & Co!”