“How about the lots that lie south?” cried a voice.

“They are one hundred varas square, same terms, same fees,” replied Hyde.  He stepped down and Brannan began his address.

“The site of San Francisco is known to all navigators and mercantile men to be the most commanding commercial position on the entire eastern coast of the Pacific Ocean,” he shouted, quoting from former Alcalde Bryant’s announcement of three months previous.  “The town itself is destined to become the commercial emporium of western America.”

“Bravo!” supplemented the Dona Briones, waving her fan.  She was the center of a little group composed of Benito and Inez Windham, Adrian Stanley and Nathan Spear.  Near them, keeping out of their observance, stood Aleck McTurpin.

“The property offered for sale is the most valuable in or belonging to the town,” Brannan went on, enthusiastically; “it will require work to make it tenable.  You’ll have to wrest it from the waves, gentlemen ... and ladies,” he bowed to Juana and her companion, “but, take my word for it—­and I’ve never deceived you—­everyone who buys will bless my memory half a dozen years from now....”

“Why don’t ye get in yerself and practice what ye preach?” cried a scoffing sailor.

Brannan looked him up and down.  “Because I’m trying to serve the commonwealth—­which is more than a drunken deserter from his ship can claim,” he shot back hotly, “but I’m going to buy my share, never fear.  Bill Leidesdorff’s my agent.  He has $5,000 and my power of attorney.  That’s fair enough, isn’t it boys?  Or, shall we let the sailor act as auctioneer?”

“No!  No!” a dozen cried. “‘Rah for Sam.  Go on!  You’re doin’ fine!”

“Thank you,” Brannan acknowledged.  “Who’s to make the first bid?  Speak up, now, don’t be bashful.”

“Twenty-five dollars,” called Juana Briones.

“Thirty,” said a voice behind her, a voice that caused young Windham and his sister to start, involuntarily.  “McTurpin,” whispered Inez to Adrian.

“Thirty-five,” spoke Juana, imperturbably.

“Forty.”

Brannan looked straight into McTurpin’s eyes.  “Sold to Juana Briones for thirty-five dollars,” he said, as his improvised gavel fell on the table before him.

“I bid forty!” stormed McTurpin.  All eyes turned to him.  But Brannan paid him no attention.  Someone laughed.

“Next!  Who bids?” invited the auctioneer.

“Twenty-five,” began Benito.

This time there were other bidders, all of whom Brannan recognized courteously and promptly.  Finally, Benito’s bid of fifty seemed to win.  Then McTurpin shouted, “Fifty-five!”

Brannan waited for a moment.  There were no more bids.  “Sold to Benito Windham for fifty dollars,” he announced.

“Curse you!” cried the gambler, pushing forward, “you heard me bid higher, Sam Brannan!”

Into his path stepped the tall figure of Robert Windham.  “We are not taking bids from convicts,” he said, loudly and distinctly.