pg5247 [135]
"Now, gentlemen," said the auctioneer, "what do you say for these famous premises? I think I do not exaggerate when I use the word 'famous.'"
Some one said a thousand pounds, in the terrorized voice of a delinquent.
"A thousand pounds," repeated the auctioneer, paused, sipped, and smacked.
"Guineas," said another voice self-accused of iniquity.
"A thousand and fifty," said the auctioneer.
Then there was a long interval, an interval that tightened the nerves of the assembly.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer adjured.
The first voice said sulkily: "Eleven hundred."
And thus the bids rose to fifteen hundred, lifted bit by bit, as it were, by the magnetic force of the auctioneer's personality. The man was now standing up, in domination. He bent down to the solicitor's head; they whispered together.
"Gentlemen," said the auctioneer, "I am happy to inform you that the sale is now open." His tone translated better than words his calm professional beatitude. Suddenly in a voice of wrath he hissed at the waiter: "Waiter, why don't you serve these gentlemen?"
"Yes, sir; yes, sir."
The auctioneer sat down and sipped at leisure, chatting with his clerk and the solicitor and the solicitor's clerk.
When he rose it was as a conqueror. "Gentlemen, fifteen hundred is bid.
Now, Mr. Critchlow."
Mr. Critchlow shook his head. The auctioneer threw a courteous glance at Constance, who avoided it.
After many adjurations, he reluctantly raised his hammer, pretended to let it fall, and saved it several times.
And then Mr. Critchlow said: "And fifty."
"Fifteen hundred and fifty is bid," the auctioneer informed the company, electrifying the waiter once more. And when he had sipped he said, with feigned sadness: "Come, gentlemen, you surely don't mean to let this magnificent lot go for fifteen hundred and fifty pounds?"
But they did mean that.
The hammer fell, and the auctioneer's clerk and the solicitor's clerk took Mr. Critchlow aside and wrote with him.
Nobody was surprised when Mr. Critchlow bought Lot No. 2, his own shop.
Constance whispered then to Cyril that she wished to leave. They left, with unnatural precautions, but instantly regained their natural demeanour in the dark street.
"Well, I never! Well, I never!" she murmured outside, astonished and disturbed.
She hated the prospect of Mr. Critchlow as a landlord. And yet she could not persuade herself to leave the place, in spite of decisions.
The sale demonstrated that football had not entirely undermined the commercial basis of society in Bursley; only two Lots had to be withdrawn.
II
On Thursday afternoon of the same week the youth whom Constance had ended by hiring for the manipulation of shutters and other jobs unsuitable for fragile women, was closing the shop. The clock had struck two. All the shutters were up except the last one, in the midst of the doorway. Miss Insull and her mistress were walking about the darkened interior, putting dust-sheets well over the edges of exposed goods; the other assistants had just left. The bull-terrier had wandered into the shop as he almost invariably did at closing time—for he slept there, an efficient guard—and had lain down by the dying stove; though not venerable, he was stiffening into age.
"You can shut," said Miss Insull to the youth.
But as the final shutter was ascending to its position, Mr. Critchlow appeared on the pavement.
"Hold on, young fellow!" Mr. Critchlow commanded, and stepped slowly, lifting up his long apron, over the horizontal shutter on which the perpendicular shutters rested in the doorway.
"Shall you be long, Mr. Critchlow?" the youth asked, posing the shutter. "Or am I to shut?"
"Shut, lad," said Mr. Critchlow, briefly. "I'll go out by th' side door."
"Here's Mr. Critchlow!" Miss Insull called out to Constance, in a peculiar tone. And a