Free And Berry Came Too by Dornford Yates Page A

“You’ve got to be clear of this house before the deputy Aaron comes out of that room.”
    “I don’t believe Julia would have—”
    “If you don’t go,” said Perdita, “I shall call Mr Stench.”

    It was nearly a quarter to four before the table came up: but though the seats in the saleroom were painfully hard, our discomfort of body was salved by our peace of mind. The chairs I had bought had passed – and I had a note of hand for one thousand pounds.
    As was only to be expected, Mr Stench’s man had approached me the moment he saw my face and had offered to purchase my ‘bargain’ for ‘a five-pound note.’ Such impudence steeled my heart and I had but little compunction in making him climb the steps which I knew as well as he he was ready to tread.
    Imperceptibly the room had grown full. From where I was sitting with Berry, I could no longer set eyes upon Daphne and Jill. They were, I knew, close to the door, because of the Knave – who had found the fall of the hammer matter for wrath. Jonah, who had been beside us, had left his seat for a moment to lose it for good. When I saw him next, he was standing some ten feet away on the edge of the press.
    Not to be defeated by distance, he sent me a little note.

    We’re in for a fight all right. At least five London dealers are now in the room.

    I passed it to Berry and took another look round.
    On the farther side of the table a thick-set Jew was making his neighbour free of spurts of confidential information which the other steadfastly ignored. A comfortable lady in black alternately toyed with her pencil and set her chin on her shoulder to speak with a hatchet-faced man who was stooping behind. A nice-looking fellow in grey, directly facing the rostrum, bid from time to time with a whimsical smile. The picture of despair, a Jew of some seventy summers, continually looked about him, as though he were caged and were seeking some way of escape. Occasionally he bid – agonizedly. Seated almost below the rostrum, a jolly-faced man in blue maintained a cheerful conversation with some crony behind his chair, only interrupting this communion to nod to the auctioneer – a curious contrast to his neighbour, who tiny, bespectacled, bird-like, stared with an air of indignation on all he saw.
    “ Lot four hundred and six ,” said the auctioneer.
    A ripple of preparation ran through the room.
    Throats were cleared, lips moistened, feet moved: glasses were adjusted: men settled themselves on their chairs, and those that were standing strove to improve their view.
    Silence followed. Even the man in blue suspended his flow of soul.
    “ A fine oak table. May I say – Three hundred, thank you. I’m bid three hundred pounds .”
    “Whose bid?” whispered Berry.
    “I don’t know. I couldn’t see.”
    “ And ten … Twenty … Thirty … Forty …”
    The auctioneer’s head was flicking from side to side. In vain I endeavoured to see from whom the bids came.
    “ Three hundred and ninety pounds .”
    “Four hundred,” said a man in pince-nez, with his hat on the back of his head.
    “That fellow there,” I whispered, “with his catalogue up to his nose.”
    “ Four hundred, thank you. And ten… Twenty… Thirty…”
    “Who’s bidding against him?” breathed Berry.
    In vain I tried to follow the eye of the auctioneer.
    “Can’t you see who’s against him?” – irritably.
    “I tell you I can’t,” I breathed. “I’m doing my best.”
    “ Five hundred pounds. And ten …”
    My sister’s face appeared – between two bowler hats on the edge of the press. Her eyes flung some frantic question of which, of course, I took no notice at all. At the moment the slightest gesture would have been read as a bid. When I ventured to look again, she had disappeared.
    The bidding continued to rise.
    At seven hundred and fifty the man with the pince-nez dropped out.
    “ Eight hundred pounds… Eight hundred… Eight hundred pounds .”
    My brother-in-law