THE AUCTION.
One result of the paragraph in 'The Troy Herald' was to harden the two
friends' estrangement just at the moment when it promised to melt.
Troy with its many amenities has a deplorable appetite for gossip; and
to this appetite the contention of Captain Hocken and Captain Hunken for
Mrs Bosenna's hand gave meat and drink. (There was, of course, no
difficulty in guessing what Mr Shake Benny would have called "the
_inamorata's_ identity.") Malicious folk, after their nature, assumed
the pair to be in quest of her money. The sporting ones laid bets.
Every one discussed the item with that frankness which is so
characteristic of the little town, and so engaging when you arrive at
knowing us, though it not infrequently disconcerts the newcomer.
Barber Toy--having Cai at his mercy next morning, with a razor close to
his throat--heartily wished him success.
"Not," added Mr Toy, "that I bear any ill-will to Cap'n Hunken. But I
back a shaved chin on principle, for the credit of the trade."
A sardonic and travelled seaman, waiting his turn in the corner,
hereupon asked how he managed when it came to the Oxford and Cambridge
boat-race.
"I'll tell you," answered Mr Toy. "I wasn't at Oxford myself--_nor_ at
Cambridge; and for years I'd back one or 'nother, 'cordin' to the
newspapers. But that isn't a satisfactory way. When you're dealin'
with an honest event--_honest_, mind you--as goes on year after year
between two parties both ekally set on winnin', the only way to get real
satisfaction is to pick your fancy an' go on backin' it. That gives ye
a different interest altogether, like with Liberal or Conservative at a
General Election. If you don't win this time, you look forward to next.
. . . Well, one day Mr Philp here came into the shop wearin' a dark blue
tie, and says I, 'You're Oxford.' 'Am I?' says he--'It's the first I've
heard tell of it.' 'You're Oxford,' says I: 'and I'm Cambridge, for
half-a-crown.' Odd enough, Cambridge won that year by eight lengths."
"I wonder you have the face to tell this story," put in Mr Philp.
The barber grinned. "Well, I thought as we'd both settled 'pon our
fancy, in a neighbourly way. But be dashed if, soon after the followin'
Christmas, Mr Philp didn't send his tie to the wash, and it came back
any blue you pleased. 'Make it one or t'other--_I_ don't care,' said I:
and he weighed the choice so long, bein' a cautious man, that we missed
to make up any bet at all. If you'll believe me, that year they rowed a
dead heat."
"Very curious," commented Cai.
"But that isn' the end," continued the barber. "Next year he'd washed
his necktie again, and that 'twas Cambridge he couldn' dispute. So we
put on another half-crown, and Oxford won by two lengths. . . . 'Twas a
pity I could never induce him to bet again, for his tie went on getting
Cambridger and Cambridger, while Oxford won four years out o' five."
"If you believe there was any honesty in it!" said Mr Philp.
"'Twas only my suspicious natur' as saved me."
The whole town, indeed, was watching the rivals, and with an open
interest very difficult to resent. Nay, since it was impossible to tell
every second man in the street to mind his own business, Cai and 'Bias
accepted the publicity perforce and turned their resentment upon one
another.
They continued, of course, to live apart, and Mrs Bowldler soon learned
to avoid playing the intermediary, even to the extent of suggesting
(say) some concerted action over the coal supplies. After the first
fortnight no messages passed between them--
"They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs that had been rent asunder."
If they met, in shop or roadway, they nodded, but exchanged no other
greeting. They never met at Rilla Farm. How it was agreed I know not,
though Mrs Bosenna must have contrived it somehow; but they now
prosecuted their wooing openly on alternate days. Sunday she reserved
for what Sunday ought to be--a day of rest.
"The artfulness!" exclaimed Mrs Bowldler on making discovery of this
arrangement. "But the men are no match for us, my dear"--this to
Fancy--"an' the oftener they marry us the cleverer they leave us."
"Then 'tis a good job Henry the Eighth wasn' a woman," commented Fancy.
"There was some such case in the Scriptures, if you'll remember; and it
says that last of all the woman died also. If she did, you may be sure
as 'twasn't till she chose."
"I heard Mr Rogers say t'other day, 'Never marry a widow unless her
first husband was hanged.'"
"Pray let us change the subjeck," said Mrs Bowldler hastily.
"Why? . . . What did Mr Bowldler die of? I've often meant to ask," said
Fancy, "and then again I've wondered sometimes if there ever was any
such person."
"There _was_ such a person." Mrs Bowldler half-closed her eyes in
dreamy reminiscence. "Further than that I would not like to commit
myself."
"He's dead, then?"
"He was a fitter in a ladies' tailorin', and naturally gay by
temperament. It led to misunderstandin's. . . . Dead? No, not that I
am aware of. For all I know he's still starrin' it somewhere in the
provinces."
She protested that for the moment she must drop the subject, which
invariably affected her with palpitations; but promised to return to it
in confidence when she felt stronger.
Throughout these days, however, and for many days to come, she
discoursed at large on the diplomacy of widows; warning Palmerston to
shape his course in avoidance of them. And that budding author--who had
already learnt to take his good things where he found them--boldly
transferred her warnings to the pages of 'Pickerley,' which thereby
arrived at resembling 'Pickwick' in one respect if in no other.
From these generalities she would hark back, at shortest notice, to the
practical present.
"It behoves us--seein' as how a tempory cloud has descended between
these two establishments--it behoves us, I say, to watch out for its
silver lining in one form or another. Which talking of silver reminds
me of electro, and I'll ask you, Palmerston, if that's the way to leave
a mustard-pot and call yourself an indoor male?"
Their estrangement had endured some three months before the rivals came
again into public collision.
The beginning of it happened through a very excusable misunderstanding.
Is Christmas Day to be reckoned as an ordinary day of the week, or as a
Sunday, or as a _dies non?_ The reader must decide.
Christmas Day that year fell on a Friday--one of the three week-days
tacitly allotted to Cai, who may therefore be forgiven that he chose to
reckon it as coming within the ordinary routine. He did so, and at
about three o'clock in the afternoon (which was bright and sunny) he
reached the small gate of Rilla, to be aware of 'Bias striding up the
pathway ahead of him.
He gave chase in no small choler.
"Look here," he protested, panting; "haven't you made some mistake?
This is Friday."
"Christmas Day," answered 'Bias, wheeling about.
"I can't help that. 'Tis Friday."
"An' next year 'twill be Saturday," retorted 'Bias with a sour grin;
"it that'll content you, when it comes. None of us can't help it.
Th' almanack says 'tis Christmas Day, and ord'nary days o' the week
don't count. Besides, 'tis quarter-day, and I've brought my rent."
"I've brought mine, too," replied Cai. "Well, we'll leave it to Mrs
Bosenna to settle."
They walked up to the house in silence. Dinah, who answered the bell,
appeared to be somewhat upset at sight of the two on the doorstep
together. (Yet we know that Dinah never opened the front door without a
precautionary survey.) She admitted them to the front parlour, and
opining that her mistress was somewhere's about the premises, departed
in search of her.
'Bias took up a position with his back to the fire and his legs
a-straddle. Cai stuck his hands in his pockets and stared gloomily out
of window. For some three minutes neither spoke, then Cai, of a sudden,
gave a start.
"There's that Middlecoat!" he exclaimed.
"Hey?" 'Bias hurried to the window, but the young farmer had already
passed out of sight.
"Look here," suggested Cai, "it's just an well we turned up, one or
both. That man's a perfect bully, so she tells me."
"She've told me the same, more than once."
"Always pickin' some excuse for a quarrel. It ain't right for a woman
to live alongside such a neighbour unprotected."
"So I've told her."
"Well, he's in the devil of a rage just now,--to judge by the look of
him, an' the way he was smackin' his leg with an ash-plant as he went
by."
"Was he now?" 'Bias considered for a moment. "You may depend he took
advantage, not expectin' either of us to turn up to-day. . . .
I shouldn't wonder if the maid properly scared him with news we were
here."
Sure enough Dinah returned in a moment to report that her mistress was
in her rose-garden; and following her thither, they found Mrs Bosenna,
flushed of face and evidently mastering an extreme discomposure.
"I,--I hardly expected you," she began.
"It's Friday," said Cai.
"It's Christmas Day," said 'Bias. "I reckon he counted on that,--that
Middlecoat, I mean."
"Eh? . . . Mr Middlecoat--"
"Saw him takin' his leave, not above three minutes ago."
"You,--you saw him taking his leave?"
"Stridin' down the hill, angry as a bull," Cai assured her.
"He's a dreadful man to have for a neighbour," confessed Mrs Bosenna,
recovering grip on her composure. "The way he threatens and bullies!"
"I'll Middlecoat him, if he gives me but half a chance!" swore 'Bias.
"If I'd known either of you was in hail. . . . But I reckoned you'd both
be countin' this for a Sunday."
"Christmas Day isn't Sunday, not more'n once in seven years," objected
'Bias.
"It's Friday this year," said Cai, with simple conviction.
"Fiddlestick!" retorted 'Bias. "You can't make it out to be like an
ordinary Friday--I defy you. There's a--a _feelin'_ about the day."
"It feels like Friday to me," maintained Cai.
But here Mrs Bosenna interposed. "'Twon't feel like Christmas to _me_
then if you two start arguin'. 'Peace and goodwill' was the motto, as I
thought; but I don't see much of either abroad this afternoon."
The pair started guiltily and avoided each other's eyes. Many a time in
distant ports they had talked together of Christmas in England and of
Christmas fare--the goose, the plum-pudding. They had promised
themselves a rare dinner to celebrate their first Christmas in England,
and it had come to--what? To a dull meal eaten apart, served by a Mrs
Bowldler on the verge of tears, and by a Palmerston frankly ravaged by
woe. It had happened--happened past recall, and as Mrs Bowldler had
more than once observed in the course of the morning, the worst was not
over yet. "For," as she said, "out of two cold geese and two cold
puddings I'll trouble you this next week for your entrays and what-not."
"What was Middlecoat's business, ma'am?--makin' so bold," inquired
'Bias.
"Oh!" she answered quickly, "he's a terrible young man! Wants his own
way in everything, like most farmers, and turns violent when he can't
get it. . . . He came about next week's sale, among other things."
"What sale, ma'am?"
"Why, surely you must have seen? The bills have been out for days.
Squire Willyams is gettin' rid of his land this side of the stream,
right down from here to the railway station. Fifty acres you may call
it; the most of it waste or else coppice,--and coppice don't pay for
cuttin'. You've almost to go down on your knees before anybody will
cart it away."
"I _did_ hear some word of it down in Toy's shop, now I come to think,"
said Cai. "But if the land's worthless--"
"It's worth little enough to any one but me and Mr Middlecoat. You see,
it marches right alongside our two farms, between them and the Railway
Company's strip along the waterside, and--well, Rilla's freehold and
Middlecoat's is freehold, and it's nature, I suppose, to be jealous of
any third party interlopin'. But I don't want the land, and so I've
told him; nor I won't bid against him and run up the price,--though
that's what they're aimin' at by an auction."
"Then what in thunder does the fellow want?" demanded 'Bias.
"If you'll climb 'pon the hedge yonder--that's my boundary--you'll see a
little strip of a field, not fifty yards wide, runnin' down this side of
the plantation. It widens a bit, higher up the hill, but 'tis scarcely
more than a couple acres, even so. Barton's Orchard, they call it."
"But what about it?" asked Cai, craning his neck over to examine the
plot.
"Why, to be sure I want to take it in for my roses. It lies rather too
near the trees, to be sure; but one could trench along the far side and
fill the trench with concrete, to check their roots from spreadin' this
way; and all the soil is good along this side of the valley."
"Then why not buy it, ma'am, since 'tis for sale? Though for my part,"
added Cai, looking round upon the beds which, just now, were unsightly
enough, with stiff leafless shoots protruding above their winter mulch,
"I can't think what you want with more roses than you have already."
"One can never have too many roses," declared Mrs Bosenna. "Let be that
there's new ones comin' out every year, faster than you can keep count
with them. Folks'll never persuade me that the old H.P.'s don't do best
for Cornwall; but when you go in for exhibition there's the judges and
their fads to be considered, and the rage nowadays is all for Teas and
high centres. . . . When first I heard as that parcel of ground was
likely to come in the market, I sat down and planned how I'd lay it out
with three long beds for the very best Teas, and fence off the top with
a rose hedge--Wichurianas or Penzance sweet briars--and call it my
Jubilee Garden; next year bein' the Diamond Jubilee, you know. All the
plants could be in before the end of February, and I'll promise myself
that by June, when the Queen's day came round, there shouldn't be a
loyaller-bloomin' garden in the land."
"Well," allowed Cai, "that's sensibler anyway than puttin' up arches and
mottoes. But what's to prevent ye?"
"'Tis that nasty disagreeable Mr Middlecoat," answered Mrs Bosenna
pettishly. "He comes and tells me now as that strip has always been the
apple of his eye. . . . It's my belief he wants to grow roses against
me; and what's more, it's my belief he'd swallow up all Rilla if he
could; which is better land than his own, acre for acre. It angers him
to live alongside a woman and be beaten by her at every point o'
farmin'."
"But you've the longer purse, ma'am, as I understand," suggested 'Bias.
"Talkin' o' which--" He fumbled in his breast-pocket and produced an
envelope.
"My rent, ma'am."
"Ay, to be sure: and mine, ma'am," Cai likewise produced his rent.
"You are the most punctual of tenants!" laughed Mrs Bosenna, taking the
two envelopes. "But after all, they say, short reckonin's make long
friends."
She divided a glance between them, to be shared as they would.
"But as I was suggestin' ma'am--why not attend the sale and outbid the
fellow?"
"So I can, of course: and so I will, perhaps. Still it's not pleasant
to live by a neighbour who thinks he can walk in and hector you, just
because you're a woman."
"You want protection: that's what you want," observed 'Bias fatuously.
"In your place," said Cai with more tact, "I should forbid him the
premises."
For some reason Mrs Bosenna omitted to invite them to stay and drink
tea: and after a while they took their leave together. At the foot of
the descent, as they gained the highroad, Cai faced about and asked,
"Which way?"
"I was thinkin' to stretch my legs around Four Turnin's," answered
'Bias, although as a matter of fact the intention had that instant
occurred to him.
"Well, so long!" Cai nodded and turned towards the town. "Compliments
of the season," he added.
"Same to you."
They walked off in opposite directions.
On his way home through the town Cai took occasion to study the Bill of
Auction on one of the hoardings. It advertised the property in separate
small lots, of which Barton's Orchard figured as No. 9. The bill gave
its measurement as 1 acre, 1 rood, 15 perches. The sale would take
place at the Ship Hotel, Troy, on Monday, January 4,1897, at 2.30 P.M.
Messrs Dewy and Moss, Auctioneers.
In the course of the next week he made one or two attempts to sound Mrs
Bosenna and assure himself that she meant to attend the sale and secure
Lot 9; but she spoke of it with an irritating carelessness. Almost it
might have persuaded him--had he been less practised in her wayward
moods--that she had dismissed the affair from her mind. But on Friday
(New Year's Day) as he took leave of her, she recurred to it.
"Dear me," said she meditatively, "I shall not be seeing you for several
days, shall I?"
"Eh? Why not?"
"To-morrow's Saturday; then Sunday's our day of rest, as Dinah calls it.
On Monday's the auction--"
"Ah, to be sure!" Cai had forgotten this consequence of it, and was
dashed in spirits for the moment. "But I shall see you there?"
"Perhaps," she answered negligently. "Shall you be attendin'?
Really, now!"
With an accent of reproach he asked how she could imagine that a
business so nearly concerning her could find him other than watchful.
On leaving he repeated his good wishes for the twelvemonth to come, and
with a warmth of intention which she perversely chose to ignore.
To be sure he meant to attend the sale. Nor was he surprised on
entering the Ship Inn next Monday, some ten minutes ahead of the
advertised time, to find 'Bias in the bar with a glass of hot brandy and
water at his elbow. Cai ordered a rum hot.
"Where's the auction to be held?" he inquired of Mr Oke, the landlord.
"Long Room as usual." Mr Oke jerked a thumb towards the stairs; and
Cai, having drained his glass, went up.
In the Long Room, which is a handsome apartment with waggon roof and
curious Jacobean mouldings dating from the time when The Ship was built
to serve as "town house" for one of Troy's great local families, Cai
found a sparse company waiting for the sale to open, and noted with
momentary dismay that Mrs Bosenna had not yet arrived. But after all,
he reflected, there was no need for extreme punctuality, it would take
the auctioneer some time to reach Lot 9.
The company included young Mr Middlecoat, of course; and, equally of
course, Mr Philp, who had no interest in the sale beyond that of
curiosity; some three or four farmers from the back-country, who had
apparently come for no purpose but to lend Mr Middlecoat their moral
support, since, as it turned out, not one of them made a serious bid;
Squire Willyams' steward, Mr Baker,--a tall, clean-shaven man with a
watchful non-committal face; one or two frequenters of The Ship's
bar-parlour; and the Quaymaster, by whom (as Barber Toy remarked) any
new way of neglecting his duties was hailed as a godsend.
Mr Dewy, the auctioneer, sat with his clerk at the end of the table,
arranging his papers and unrolling his map of the property. He was a
fussy little man, and made a great pother because the map as soon as
unrolled started to roll itself up again. He weighted one corner with
the inkpot, and for a second weight reached out a hand for one of three
hyacinth vases which decorated the centre of the table. The bulb
toppled over and, sousing into the inkpot, sent up a _jet d'encre_,
splashes of which distributed themselves over the map, over the clerk,
over Mr Baker's neat pepper-and-salt suit, and over Mr. Dewy's own fancy
waistcoat. Much blotting-paper was called into use, and many apologies
were hastily offered to Mr Baker; in the midst of which commotion 'Bias
strolled into the room, and took a seat near the door.
Having mopped the worst of the damage on the map and offered his
handkerchief to Mr Baker (who declined it), Mr Dewy picked up a small
ivory hammer, stained his fingers with an unnoticed splash of ink on its
handle, licked them, wiped them carefully with his handkerchief, picked
up the hammer again, and announced that the sale had begun.
"Lot I.--All that Oak Coppice known as Higher Penpyll. Eighteen acres,
one rood, eleven perches. Aspect south and south-west. . . .
But there, gentlemen, you are all acquainted with the property, I make
no doubt. . . . Any one present not possessed of the sale catalogue?
Yes, I see a gentleman over there without one. Mr Chivers, would you
oblige?"
The clerk, still attempting to remove some traces of ink from his
person, distributed half a dozen copies of the printed catalogue.
He gave one to Cai. 'Bias, too, held out a hand and received one.
"Lot I.," resumed Mr Dewy. "All that desirable woodland (oak coppice)
known as Higher Penpyll. Eighteen acres and a trifle over. _Now_, what
shall we say, gentlemen?"
"Fifty pounds," said Mr Middlecoat promptly.
The auctioneer glanced at Mr Baker, who frowned.
"Now, Mr Middlecoat! Now really, sir! . . . This is serious business,
and you offer me less than three pounds an acre! The coppice is good
coppice, too."
"'Twill hardly pay to clear," answered Mr Middlecoat. "But why can't ye
lump this lot in with the two next? . . . That's my suggestion.
If Mr Baker is agreeable? They all run in one stretch, so to speak;
and, in biddin' for the whole, a man would know where he's _to_."
Mr Dewy, speaking in whispers behind his palm, held consultation with Mr
Baker.
"Very well," he announced at length. "Mr Baker, actin' on behalf of
Squire Willyams, consents to the three lots bein' put up together--
_ong block_, as the French would say. No objection? Very well, then.
Lot 1, Higher Penpyll, eighteen acres, one rood, eleven perches: Lot 2,
Lower Penpyll, forty-two acres, three perches--forty-two almost exact:
Lot 3, Wooda Wood, forty acres, one rood, one perch; all in oak coppice,
two to five years' growth. What offers, gentlemen, for this very
desirable timbered estate?"
"Three-fifty!"
"Come, Mr Middlecoat!" protested the auctioneer, after another glance at
Mr Baker. "Indeed, sir, you will not drive me to believe as you're
jokin'?"
Mr Middlecoat, whose gaze had rested on Mr Baker, faced about, and,
looking down the table, caught the eye of one of his supporters, who
nodded.
"Three-seven-five!" called out the supporter.
"Four hundred!" Mr Middlecoat promptly capped
the bid.
"That's a little better, gentlemen," Mr Dewy encouraged them.
Apparently, too, it was the best. For some three minutes he exhorted
and rebuked them, but could evoke no further bid. There was a prolonged
pause. The auctioneer glanced again at Mr Baker, who, while seemingly
unaware of the appeal, slightly inclined his head. Mr Middlecoat's eyes
had rested on Mr Baker all the while.
"One hundred acres, as you may say, at less than four pounds the acre!
Well, if any man had prophesied this to me on the day when I entered
business--" Mr Dewy checked himself, and let fall the hammer.
"Mr Middlecoat, sir, you're a lucky man." He announced, "Lot 4--Two
arable fields, known as Willaparc Veor and Willapark Vear respectively:
the one of six acres, one rood, and six perches; the other of three and
a half acres."
As the auction proceeded, even the guileless Cai could not help
detecting an air of unreality about it. Mr Middlecoat bid for
everything. Now and again, if Mr Middlecoat miscalculated, a friend
helped and raised the price by a very few pounds for Mr Middlecoat to
try again: which Mr Middlecoat duly did. It became obvious that Mr
Middlecoat had somehow possessed himself of a pretty close guess at what
price Squire Willyams would part with each lot instead of "buying in";
that Mr Baker knew it; that the auctioneer knew it; that everyone in the
room knew they knew; and that nobody in the room was disposed to prevent
Mr Middlecoat's acquiring whatever was offered.
Under these conditions the sale proceeded swiftly, pleasantly, and
without a hitch. Cai cast frequent glances back at the door. But the
minutes sped on, and still Mrs Bosenna did not appear.
"Lot 9--A field known as Barton's Orchard. Two perches only short of
two acres--"
"Say twenty-five," said Mr Middlecoat carelessly.
Again Cai glanced back. The farm land had been fetching on an average
some twenty to twenty-five pounds an acre. . . . Why was Mrs Bosenna not
here?
On an impulse--annoyed, perhaps, by the young farmer's
take-it-for-granted tone--he called out "Thirty!"
The auctioneer and Mr Baker--who had just signified, by a slight frown,
that he could not accept the young farmer's bid--glanced up incuriously.
Mr Middlecoat, too, turned about, not recognising the voice of his new
"bonnet,"--to use a term not unfamiliar in auctioneering.
But Cai did catch their glances: for at the same moment he, too, wheeled
about at the sound of a deep voice by the door.
"Forty!"
"Eh?" murmured Mr Dewy and Mr Baker, together taken by surprise.
And "Hullo, what the dev--" began Mr Middlecoat, when Cai promptly
chimed "Fifty!"
For the new bidder was 'Bias, of course: and well, in a flash, Cai
guessed his game. Since Mrs Bosenna chose to tarry, 'Bias was bidding
against him. It was a duel. Should 'Bias win and present her with
these coveted two acres? Never!
"Sixty!"
"Here, I say!" Mr Middlecoat was heard to gasp in protest. But he too
began to suspect a game. "Sixty-five!" The duel had become triangular.
"Seventy!"
"Eighty!" intoned 'Bias.
"A hundred!" Cai's jaw was set.
By this time all heads were turned to the new competitors. Two or three
of the farmers were whispering, asking if by any chance there was
mineral in dispute. One had heard--or so he alleged--that "manganese"
had been discovered somewhere up the valley--before his time--but he
could remember his father telling of it.
Mr Middlecoat stepped to the window and glanced out in to the square for
a moment. He returned, and nervously bid "Ten more!"
"Excuse me," the auctioneer corrected him blandly; "the gentleman at the
far end of the room--I didn't catch his name--"
"Hunken," said 'Bias.
"_Captain_ Hunken," prompted Mr Philp.
"Er--excuse me, Mr Middlecoat, but Captain Hunken has just offered a
hundred-and-twenty."
"And thirty!" chimed Cai.
"Fifty!" intoned back the voice by the door.
Mr Middlecoat passed a hand over his brow. "Another ten," he murmured
to the auctioneer. "Is there a boy handy? I--I want to send out a
message?"
"Certainly, Mr Middlecoat," agreed the accommodating but bewildered
auctioneer, and turned to his clerk.
"Mr Chivers, would you oblige?"
The young farmer scribbled a word or two on a piece of paper, which he
folded and gave to Mr Chivers with some hurried instruction; and Mr
Chivers steered his way out with agility. But meanwhile the bidding for
Barton's Orchard had risen to two hundred.
"Say another ten, to keep it going," proposed Mr Middlecoat, wiping his
brow although the weather was chilly. To gain time, he suggested that
maybe there was some mistake; that the gentlemen, maybe, had not
examined the map of the property and might be bidding for some other lot
under a misapprehension.
Mr Baker objected to this. The description of the lots on the catalogue
was precise and definite. The two gentlemen obviously knew what they
were about. The field was a small field, but the soil was undeniably of
the best, and in the interests of the vendor--
"Two hundred and thirty!" interrupted 'Bias.
"--and fifty!" bid Cai.
There was a pause. Mr Dewy looked at Mr Middlecoat, who under his gaze
admitted himself willing to stake two hundred and sixty. "Though 'tis
the price of building land!"
"Apparently you are willing to give it rather than let the purchase go,"
observed Mr Baker drily. "For aught you know both these gentlemen may
be desiring it for a building site. Did I hear one of them say
two-seventy-five? Captain--er--Hunken, if I caught the name?"
"Two-eighty," persisted Cai.
"Two-ninety!"
"Well, make it three hundred, and I've done!" groaned Mr Middlecoat
collapsing.
"Three--"
"What's all this?" interrupted a voice, very sweet and cool in the
doorway.
"Mrs Bosenna?--Your servant, ma'am!" Mr Dewy rose halfway in his seat
and made obeisance. "We are dealing with a lot which may concern you,
ma'am; for it runs "--he consulted his map--"Yes--I thought so--right
alongside your property at Rilla. A trifle over two acres, ma'am, and
Mr Middlecoat has just bid three hundred for it."
"And"--began Cai: but Mrs Bosenna (taken though she must have been by
surprise) was quick and frowned him to silence.
"And a deal more than its value, as Captain Hocken was about to say.
Will any fool bid more for such a patch?"
Cai and 'Bias stared together, interrogating her. But there was no
further bid, and Mr Dewy knocked down the lot at 300 pounds.
"Which," said Mrs Bosenna meditatively to Dinah that night, "you may
call two hundred and fifty clean thrown into the sea. And the worst is
that though Captain Hocken and Captain Hunken are a pair of fools and Mr
Middlecoat a bigger fool than either--as it turns out, I'm the biggest
fool of all."
"How, mistress?"
"Why, you ninny! They were buying, one against the other, to make me a
present, and I stepped in and saved young Middlecoat's face. Yet," she
mused, "I don't see what else he could have done. . . . Well, thank the
Lord! he'll be humble now, which the others were and he wasn't."
"He's young, anyway," urged Dinah.
"That's something," her mistress conceded. "It gives the more time to
rub in his foolishness, and he'll never hear the last of it."
"Three hundred pounds, too!" ejaculated Dinah. "The very sound of it
frightens me. A terrible sum to throw to waste!"
"I wouldn't say that altogether. . . . Yes, you may unlace me.
What fools men are!"