"That's into your mutton, governor."
"Sharp's the word this time."
"I say, governor, don't you want a broker to bid for ye?"
"Wink at me next time, sir; I'll do the office for you."
"No greenhorns left now."
"That lady won't give a ten-pund note for her grandfather's armchair."
"Oh, yes, she will, if it's stuffed with banknotes."
"Put the next lot up with the owner's name and the reserve price. Open
business."
"And sing a psalm at starting."
"A little less noise in Judaea, if you please," said the auctioneer, who
had now recovered from the blow. "Lot 97."
This was a very pretty marqueterie cabinet; it stood against the wall,
and Rosa had set her heart upon it. Nobody would bid. She had muzzled
the auctioneer effectually.
"Your own price."
"Two pounds," said Rosa.
A dealer offered guineas; and it advanced slowly to four pounds and half
a crown, at which it was about to be knocked down to Rosa, when suddenly
a new bidder arose in the broker Rosa had rejected. They bid slowly and
sturdily against each other, until a line was given to Rosa from Uncle
Philip.
"This time it is your own friend, the snipe-nosed woman. She telegraphed
a broker."
Rosa read, and crushed the note.
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