“It was worth six shillings to have a fender you could always tell that joke on,” said Mr. Clintup, laughing low and apologetically to his next neighbor.  He was a diffident though distinguished nurseryman, and feared that the audience might regard his bid as a foolish one.

Meanwhile Joseph had brought a trayful of small articles.  “Now, ladies,” said Mr. Trumbull, taking up one of the articles, “this tray contains a very recherchy lot—­a collection of trifles for the drawing-room table—­and trifles make the sum of human things—­nothing more important than trifles—­(yes, Mr. Ladislaw, yes, by-and-by)—­but pass the tray round, Joseph—­these bijoux must be examined, ladies.  This I have in my hand is an ingenious contrivance—­ a sort of practical rebus, I may call it:  here, you see, it looks like an elegant heart-shaped box, portable—­for the pocket; there, again, it becomes like a splendid double flower—­an ornament for the table; and now”—­Mr. Trumbull allowed the flower to fall alarmingly into strings of heart-shaped leaves—­“a book of riddles!  No less than five hundred printed in a beautiful red.  Gentlemen, if I had less of a conscience, I should not wish you to bid high for this lot—­ I have a longing for it myself.  What can promote innocent mirth, and I may say virtue, more than a good riddle?—­it hinders profane language, and attaches a man to the society of refined females.  This ingenious article itself, without the elegant domino-box, card-basket, &c., ought alone to give a high price to the lot.  Carried in the pocket it might make an individual welcome in any society.  Four shillings, sir?—­four shillings for this remarkable collection of riddles with the et caeteras.  Here is a sample:  `How must you spell honey to make it catch lady-birds?  Answer—­ money.’  You hear?—­lady-birds—­honey money.  This is an amusement to sharpen the intellect; it has a sting—­it has what we call satire, and wit without indecency.  Four-and-sixpence—­five shillings.”

The bidding ran on with warming rivalry.  Mr. Bowyer was a bidder, and this was too exasperating.  Bowyer couldn’t afford it, and only wanted to hinder every other man from making a figure.  The current carried even Mr. Horrock with it, but this committal of himself to an opinion fell from him with so little sacrifice of his neutral expression, that the bid might not have been detected as his but for the friendly oaths of Mr. Bambridge, who wanted to know what Horrock would do with blasted stuff only fit for haberdashers given over to that state of perdition which the horse-dealer so cordially recognized in the majority of earthly existences.  The lot was finally knocked down at a guinea to Mr. Spilkins, a young Slender of the neighborhood, who was reckless with his pocket-money and felt his want of memory for riddles.

“Come, Trumbull, this is too bad—­you’ve been putting some old maid’s rubbish into the sale,” murmured Mr. Toller, getting close to the auctioneer.  “I want to see how the prints go, and I must be off soon.”