“And fifty,” reiterated the voice, which I was now able to trace to its origin, on the lips of a small, unseemly rag of human-kind.  The speaker’s skin was gray and blotched; he spoke in a kind of broken song, with much variety of key; his gestures seemed (as in the disease called Saint Vitus’s dance) to be imperfectly under control; he was badly dressed; he carried himself with an air of shrinking assumption, as though he were proud to be where he was and to do what he was doing, and yet half expected to be called in question and kicked out.  I think I never saw a man more of a piece; and the type was new to me; I had never before set eyes upon his parallel, and I thought instinctively of Balzac and the lower regions of the Comedie Humaine.

Pinkerton stared a moment on the intruder with no friendly eye, tore a leaf from his note-book, and scribbled a line in pencil, turned, beckoned a messenger boy, and whispered, “To Longhurst.”  Next moment the boy had sped upon his errand, and Pinkerton was again facing the auctioneer.

“Two hundred dollars,” said Jim.

“And fifty,” said the enemy.

“This looks lively,” whispered I to Pinkerton.

“Yes; the little beast means cold drawn biz,” returned my friend.  “Well, he’ll have to have a lesson.  Wait till I see Longhurst.  Three hundred,” he added aloud.

“And fifty,” came the echo.

It was about this moment when my eye fell again on Captain Trent.  A deeper shade had mounted to his crimson face:  the new coat was unbuttoned and all flying open; the new silk handkerchief in busy requisition; and the man’s eye, of a clear sailor blue, shone glassy with excitement.  He was anxious still, but now (if I could read a face) there was hope in his anxiety.

“Jim,” I whispered, “look at Trent.  Bet you what you please he was expecting this.”

“Yes,” was the reply, “there’s some blame’ thing going on here.”  And he renewed his bid.

The figure had run up into the neighbourhood of a thousand when I was aware of a sensation in the faces opposite, and looking over my shoulder, saw a very large, bland, handsome man come strolling forth and make a little signal to the auctioneer.

“One word, Mr. Borden,” said he; and then to Jim, “Well, Pink, where are we up to now?”

Pinkerton gave him the figure.  “I ran up to that on my own responsibility, Mr. Longhurst,” he added, with a flush.  “I thought it the square thing.”

“And so it was,” said Mr. Longhurst, patting him kindly on the shoulder, like a gratified uncle.  “Well, you can drop out now; we take hold ourselves.  You can run it up to five thousand; and if he likes to go beyond that, he’s welcome to the bargain.”

“By the by, who is he?” asked Pinkerton.  “He looks away down.”

“I’ve sent Billy to find out.”  And at the very moment Mr. Longhurst received from the hands of one of the expensive young gentlemen a folded paper.  It was passed round from one to another till it came to me, and I read:  “Harry D. Bellairs, Attorney-at-Law; defended Clara Varden; twice nearly disbarred.”