“Eighteen!” This from Job Jagway.

“Go easy there, Job!” hissed Adam, edging a little nearer to him, “go easy, now,—­Nineteen!”

“Come, come Gentlemen!” remonstrated the Auctioneer, “this isn’t a coal-scuttle, nor a broom, nor yet a pair of tongs,—­this is a magnificent mahogany side-board,—­and you offer me—­nineteen pound!”

“Twenty!” said Job.

“Twenty-one!” roared Adam, making his last bid, and then, turning, he hissed in Job’s unwilling ear,—­“go any higher, an’ I’ll pound ye to a jelly, Job!”

“Twenty-five!” said Parsons.

“Twenty-seven!”

“Twenty-eight!”

“Thirty!” nodded Grimes, scowling at Adam.

“Thirty-two!” cried Parsons.

“Thirty-six!”

“Thirty-seven!”

“Forty!” nodded Grimes.

“That drops me,” said Parsons, sighing, and shaking his head.

“Ah!” chuckled the Corn-chandler, “well, I’ve waited years for that side-board, Parsons, and I ain’t going to let you take it away from me—­nor nobody else, sir!”

“At forty!” cried the Auctioneer, “at forty!—­this magnifi—­”

“One!” nodded Bellew, beginning to fill his pipe.

“Forty-one’s the bid,—­I have forty-one from the gent in the corner—­”

“Forty-five!” growled the Corn-chandler.

“Six!” said Bellew.

“Fifty!” snarled Grimes.

“One!” said Bellew.

“Gent in the corner gives me fifty-one!” chanted the Auctioneer—­“any advance?—­at fifty-one—­”

“Fifty-five!” said Grimes, beginning to mop at his neck harder than ever.

“Add ten!” nodded Bellew.

“What’s that?” cried Grimes, wheeling about.

“Gent in the corner offers me sixty-five,—­at sixty-five,—­this magnificent piece at sixty-five!  What, are you all done?—­at sixty-five, and cheap at the price,—­come, gentlemen, take your time, give it another look over, and bid accordingly.”

The crowd had dwindled rapidly during the last hour, which was scarcely to be wondered at seeing that they were constantly out-bid—­either by a hoarse voiced, square-shouldered fellow in a neck-cloth, or a dreamy individual who lolled in a corner, and puffed at a pipe.

But now, as Grimes, his red cheeks puffed out, his little eyes snapping in a way that many knew meant danger (with a large D)—­as the rich Corn-chandler, whose word was law to a good many, turned and confronted this lounging, long-legged individual,—­such as remained closed round them in a ring, in keen expectation of what was to follow.  Observing which, the Corn-chandler feeling it incumbent upon him now or never, to vindicate himself as a man of property, and substance, and not to be put down, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, spread his legs wide apart, and stared at Bellew in a way that most people had found highly disconcerting, before now.  Bellew, however, seemed wholly unaffected, and went on imperturbably filling his pipe.