In this auction-room they easily got a place at the table, but did not find it heaven; for a number of secondhand carpets were in the sale, and these, brimful of dust, were all shown on the table, and the dirt choked, and poisoned our fair friends.  Brokers pestered them, until at last Rosa, smarting under her late exposure, addressed the auctioneer quietly, in her silvery tones:  “Sir, these gentlemen are annoying me by forcing their services on me.  I do not intend to buy at all unless I can be allowed to bid for myself.”

When Rosa, blushing and amazed at her own boldness, uttered these words, she little foresaw their effect.  She had touched a popular sore.

“You are quite right, madam,” said a respectable tradesman opposite her.  “What business have these dirty fellows, without a shilling in their pockets, to go and force themselves on a lady against her will?”

“It has been complained of in the papers again and again,” said another.

“What! mayn’t we live as well as you?” retorted a broker.

“Yes, but not to force yourself on a lady.  Why, she’d give you in charge of the police if you tried it on outside.”

Then there was a downright clamor of discussion and chaff.

Presently up rises very slowly a countryman so colossal, that it seemed as if he would never have done getting up, and gives his experiences.  He informed the company, in a broad Yorkshire dialect, that he did a bit in furniture, and at first starting these brokers buzzed about him like flies, and pestered him.  “Aah damned ’em pretty hard,” said he, “but they didn’t heed any.  So then ah spoke ’em civil, and ah said, ’Well, lads, I dinna come fra Yorkshire to sit like a dummy and let you buy wi’ my brass; the first that pesters me again ah’ll just fell him on t’ plaace, like a caulf, and ah’m not very sure he’ll get up again in a hurry.’  So they dropped me like a hot potato; never pestered me again.  But if they won’t give over pestering you, mistress, ah’ll come round and just stand behind your chair, and bring nieve with me,” showing a fist like a leg of mutton.

“No, no,” said the auctioneer, “that will not do.  I will have no disturbance here.  Call the policeman.”

While the clerk went to the door for the bobby, a gentleman reminded the auctioneer that the journals had repeatedly drawn attention to the nuisance.

“Fault of the public, not mine, sir.  Policeman, stand behind that lady’s chair, and if anybody annoys her put him quietly into the street.”

“This auction-room will be to let soon,” said a voice at the end of the table.

“This auction-room,” said the auctioneer, master of the gay or grave at a moment’s notice, “is supported by the public and the trade; it is not supported by paupers.”

A Jew upholsterer put in his word.  “I do my own business; but I like to let a poor man live.”

“Jonathan,” said the auctioneer to one of his servants, “after this sale you may put up the shutters; we have gone and offended Mr. Jacobs.  He keeps a shop in Blind Alley, Whitechapel.  Now then, lot 69.”