Mr Dewy, the auctioneer, sat with his clerk at the end of the table, arranging his papers and unrolling his map of the property.  He was a fussy little man, and made a great pother because the map as soon as unrolled started to roll itself up again.  He weighted one corner with the inkpot, and for a second weight reached out a hand for one of three hyacinth vases which decorated the centre of the table.  The bulb toppled over and, sousing into the inkpot, sent up a jet d’encre, splashes of which distributed themselves over the map, over the clerk, over Mr Baker’s neat pepper-and-salt suit, and over Mr. Dewy’s own fancy waistcoat.  Much blotting-paper was called into use, and many apologies were hastily offered to Mr Baker; in the midst of which commotion ’Bias strolled into the room, and took a seat near the door.

Having mopped the worst of the damage on the map and offered his handkerchief to Mr Baker (who declined it), Mr Dewy picked up a small ivory hammer, stained his fingers with an unnoticed splash of ink on its handle, licked them, wiped them carefully with his handkerchief, picked up the hammer again, and announced that the sale had begun.

“Lot I.—­All that Oak Coppice known as Higher Penpyll.  Eighteen acres, one rood, eleven perches.  Aspect south and south-west. . . .  But there, gentlemen, you are all acquainted with the property, I make no doubt. . . .  Any one present not possessed of the sale catalogue?  Yes, I see a gentleman over there without one.  Mr Chivers, would you oblige?”

The clerk, still attempting to remove some traces of ink from his person, distributed half a dozen copies of the printed catalogue.  He gave one to Cai.  ’Bias, too, held out a hand and received one.

“Lot I.,” resumed Mr Dewy.  “All that desirable woodland (oak coppice) known as Higher Penpyll.  Eighteen acres and a trifle over. Now, what shall we say, gentlemen?”

“Fifty pounds,” said Mr Middlecoat promptly.

The auctioneer glanced at Mr Baker, who frowned.

“Now, Mr Middlecoat!  Now really, sir! . . .  This is serious business, and you offer me less than three pounds an acre!  The coppice is good coppice, too.”

“’Twill hardly pay to clear,” answered Mr Middlecoat.  “But why can’t ye lump this lot in with the two next? . . .  That’s my suggestion.  If Mr Baker is agreeable?  They all run in one stretch, so to speak; and, in biddin’ for the whole, a man would know where he’s to.”

Mr Dewy, speaking in whispers behind his palm, held consultation with Mr Baker.

“Very well,” he announced at length.  “Mr Baker, actin’ on behalf of Squire Willyams, consents to the three lots bein’ put up together—­ ong block, as the French would say.  No objection?  Very well, then.  Lot 1, Higher Penpyll, eighteen acres, one rood, eleven perches:  Lot 2, Lower Penpyll, forty-two acres, three perches—­forty-two almost exact:  Lot 3, Wooda Wood, forty acres, one rood, one perch; all in oak coppice, two to five years’ growth.  What offers, gentlemen, for this very desirable timbered estate?”