“O, nonsense!” said the auctioneer. “If you make no advance, I'll knock it down to Mr. Pinkerton.”
“I warn you,” cried the attorney, with sudden shrillness. “Have a care what you're about. You are here to sell for the underwriters, let me tell you—not to act for Mr. Douglas Longhurst. This sale has been already disgracefully interrupted to allow that person to hold a consultation with his minions; it has been much commented on.”
“There was no complaint at the time,” said the auctioneer, manifestly discountenanced. “You should have complained at the time.”
“I am not here to conduct this sale,” replied Bellairs; “I am not paid for that.”
“Well, I am, you see,” retorted the auctioneer, his impudence quite restored; and he resumed his sing-song. “Any advance on fifty thousand dollars? No advance on fifty thousand? No advance, gentlemen? Going at fifty thousand, the wreck of the brig Flying Scud—going—going—gone!”
“My God, Jim, can we pay the money?” I cried, as the stroke of the hammer seemed to recall me from a dream.
“It's got to be raised,” said he, white as a sheet. “It'll be a hell of a strain, Loudon. The credit's good for it, I think; but I shall have to get around. Write me a cheque for your stuff. Meet me at the Occidental in an hour.”
I wrote my cheque at a desk, and I declare I could never have recognised my signature. Jim was gone in a moment; Trent had vanished even earlier; only Bellairs remained exchanging insults with the auctioneer; and, behold! as I pushed my way out of the exchange, who should run full tilt into my arms, but the messenger boy?
It was by so near a margin that we became the owners of the Flying Scud.
