for yourself.  You’re a judge and I am willing to take your word.  Did you ever see a finer, a more magnificent piece of mahogany?  There is no deception about it.  Feel it, look at it, test it in any way you like.  I tell you, ladies and gentlemen, this is a lot I have examined myself, and if I could afford it I’d have bought it privately.  I made a bid but the executors wouldn’t listen to me.  Now then, ladies and gentlemen, make me an offer for the suite.”

“Fine bit o’ wood,” the half-intoxicated furniture dealer pronounced, leaning up against the table and examining it with clumsy gravity.  “A genuine bit o’ stuff.”

“You’re right, Mr. Sherwell,” the auctioneer agreed, impressively.  “It is a unique piece of wood, sir—­a unique piece of wood, ladies and gentlemen.  Now how much shall we say for the suite?  Lot number 85—­twelve chairs, the table you are leaning up against, two sideboards, and butler’s tray.  Shall we say ninety guineas, Mr. Sherwell?  Will you start the bidding in a reasonable manner and make it a hundred?”

“Fifty!” Mr. Sherwell declared, striking the table with his fist.  “I say fifty!”

Mr. Waddington for a moment looked pained.  He laid down the hammer and glanced around through the audience, as though appealing for their sympathy.  Then he shrugged his shoulders.  Finally, he took up his hammer again and sighed.

“Very well, then,” he consented, in a resigned tone, “we’ll start it at fifty, then.  I don’t know what’s the matter with every one to-day, but I’m giving you a turn, Mr. Sherwell, and I shall knock it down quick.  Fifty guineas is bid for lot number 85.  Going at fifty guineas!”

Burton rose once more to his feet.

“Does Mr. Sherwell understand,” he asked, “that the remainder of the suite is different entirely from the table?”

Mr. Sherwell stared at the speaker, shifted his feet a little unsteadily and gripped the table.

“Certainly I don’t,” he replied,—­“don’t understand anything of the sort!  Where is the rest of the suite, young man?”

“Just behind you, sir,” Burton pointed out, “up against the wall.”

Mr. Sherwell turned and looked at a miserable collection of gimcrack articles piled up against the wall behind him.  Then he consulted the catalogue.

“One mahogany dining-table, two sideboards, one butler’s tray, twelve chairs.  These the chairs?” he asked, lifting one up.

“Those are the chairs, sir,” Burton admitted.  Mr. Sherwell, with a gesture of contempt, replaced upon the floor the one which he had detached from its fellows.  He leaned unsteadily across the table.

“A dirty trick, Mr. Auctioneer,” he declared.  “Shan’t come here any more!  Shan’t buy anything!  Ought to be ashamed of yourself.  Yah!”

Mr. Sherwell, feeling his way carefully out, made an impressive if not very dignified exit.  Mr. Waddington gripped his clerk by the arm.