Christmas Penny Readings: Original Sketches for the Season

“Going at seventeen – seventeen —sev-en-teen – sev-en-teen. Going at seven-teen. ‘Eighteen.’ I thank you, sir. Eighteen – eighteen – eighteen. Nineteen is bid,” said the auctioneer, while the Jews grinned and chuckled.

“Not half its vally yet, sir,” cried Mr Isaacs. “Don’t give it away, sir. Orter make fifty pun’, at the least.”

“Thou villainous Shylock,” I muttered to myself, “but I can afford a few pounds sooner than be beaten.”

“This splendid Turkey carpet, fit for any nobleman’s mansion, now stands at nineteen pounds,” cried the man in the rostrum. “Say another pound for you, sir!”

I nodded.

“Twenty pounds – twenty – twenty – guineas – twenty-one pound is offered. It’s against you, sir, at twenty-one pounds.”

I nodded again.

“Twenty-two pounds,” cried the auctioneer. “Twenty-two pounds. Any advance upon twenty-two pounds,” he continued, amid much chuckling, when, as there was no further reply to the challenges, I became the fortunate owner of the carpet at double its worth.

“Name,” cried the auctioneer, and then catching my eye, he nodded, and went on with the next lot.

“I’ll keep out of sight again, I think,” I muttered, and returned to my corner, feeling very hot and bristly, as I determined to reopen the knocking-out discussion in the morning papers, for it was evident that I was the victim of a conspiracy.

But I was warm in temper as well as body, and therefore determined not to be driven away, so I purchased an elegant set of card and occasional tables at about double their value; gave six pounds ten for the damaged dinner-service; seven pounds for the china; five guineas for a wool mattress, and found myself at last bidding twelve shillings an ounce for some of the plate.

The Jews seemed frantic with delight, but I knew all the while it was only to conceal their anger and annoyance; and, though I kept carefully out of sight, I knew the bolts and shafts of their coarse allusions were being directed at me, while their hidden confederate on the opposite side of the room bid furiously. Once or twice I felt disposed to leave off, and let the high-priced lots be knocked down to the Israelitish villain. “But no,” I said, “I’ll have what I want in spite of them, and cunning as they are;” for the rascals kept sending their chaff flying at their confederate as well.

“What a good job Retort has gone!” I muttered; “I shall never have the face to tell anyone what I have given.” And now, as it was fast getting dusk, and our Jewish friends were beginning to be sportive and indulge in such little freaks of fancy as bonneting the porters, and accidentally causing articles of furniture to fall against their fellows, all of which tended to make the confusion worse than before, I left the auctioneer hurrying through the last of that day’s lots, and made the best of my way out; when, to my surprise, I found Retort in the hall.

“Ah, well met!” I exclaimed, hurriedly following his example; and thrusting my pencilled catalogue into my pocket, feeling very desirous not to talk of the day’s purchases until a little softened down by dinner and a glass or two of sherry. However, Retort did not seem at all disposed to speak upon the subject; and, after a little pressing, the touchy bachelor consented to dine with me and take pot luck.

But pot luck that day was nothing to be grumbled at, for Mrs Scribe had exerted herself to have everything snug, as she afterwards told me, in consequence of my having been “a good boy,” and undertaken to get the few things she wanted before mamma came down. So pot luck that day consisted of some well-made ox-tail soup – not at all burnt – caught, as our queen of the kitchen terms it – a nice flakey bit of crimped cod with oysters; boiled fowls and tongue; two species of kickshaws; Stilton and celery. The bottled ale was good, the sherry pleasant, and Mrs S amiability itself; so that by degrees the creature comforts acted like anodyne or unguent to my raw temper; and when my smiling partner left us over our wine, I leaped out of my chair, opened the door, and earned the smile tendered for my acceptance.

“Hem!” said Retort, as soon as we were alone.

“Come, fill your glass, Tom,” I said; “that’s a capital glass of wine, even if it isn’t one of your wonderful vintages. I call that Pantheon Port – fit drink for all the gods – ruby Ambrosia.”

“Hum,” said Retort very superciliously – “Gilbey’s, eh?”

“Now, I do call that shabby,” I said, “to sneer at a fellow because he frankly offers you a cheap glass, and isn’t above owning to it. Now, if you had dined with old Blunkarn, he’d have given you a worse glass, and vowed it was ’20 port.”

“But how did you get on at the sale?” said Retort hastily, so as to change the subject.

“Rascally!” I exclaimed, firing up. “Those confounded Jews!”

“Wasn’t it scandalous,” said Retort.

“The most iniquitous affair I ever saw!” I exclaimed.

“The scoundrels ought to be indicted for conspiracy,” said my friend.

“I’ll show them up, my boy,” I said. “I’ll send columns to the papers if they’ll only put them in.”

“Ah, do,” said my companion. “Now, you see, I bid for a thing or two.”

“You,” I said; “why, what for? Bachelor in lodgings?”

“Well – er – er – yes,” said Retort, stammering, “er – er at present, you know – at present.”

“Why, you don’t mean to say – ” I burst out.

“Hush, my dear fellow! don’t speak so loud.”

“That you’ve proposed to Miss Visite?”

“Well – er – yes, my dear sir, I have,” simpered the great booby.

“Then I congratulate you,” I exclaimed. “Here, Nelly,” I said, running towards the door.

“No, no, no – don’t, don’t, there’s a good fellow,” cried Retort, dragging me back towards the table; “don’t call Mrs Scribe. Let me break it to her gently some other time. I’d rather do it myself.”

“Just as you like,” I said, good-humouredly; and then I toasted the future Mrs Retort’s most honoured name.

“Well,” continued Retort, drawing forth his catalogue, “I was telling you that I bid for a few lots, but those fellows run them up so, that I couldn’t get a thing.”

“Yes, it was too bad,” I muttered, fumbling in my pocket for my catalogue, to find that I had left it in the coat I had taken off.

“Here, Emily,” I said, when the maiden answered the bell, “fetch that catalogue out of my coat-pocket in the dressing-room. Don’t show it to any one else. Bring it straight here;” for I was rather alarmed lest Mrs Scribe should see the figures made beside the lots I had secured.

Emily soon returned, and then, with a somewhat darkened brow, I began to refer to the different items.

“What did you bid for, Tom?” I said to my friend, who was poring over the list, evidently deep in for furnishing. “But I never thought of your getting married, old chap; though I did half fancy that you were sweet after Miss V.”

“Why, you don’t suppose I should have wasted a day at a sale if I had not wanted things, do you?”

“Never gave it a thought,” said I. “And so you didn’t buy anything after all?”

“No,” said Retort. “Did you?”

“Well – er – er – um, ye-e-es; a few things – a few.”

“Things went dear, though, didn’t they?”

“Well, yes, on the whole, they did. But what did you bid for?”

“Oh, I thought that Turkey carpet would just suit us; and as you were going in for the drawing-room Brussels, why, I bid for it; but those Israelitish villains run it up to twenty-two pounds.”

I was so out of breath for a moment that I couldn’t speak.

“Then,” continued my dear friend, “I wanted those card and occasional tables, but couldn’t get them; they bought the dinner-service, too, at six ten, and the china for seven pounds. Then I took a strong fancy to that wool mattress, but of course I wasn’t going to give five guineas for it. It certainly was a beautifully soft and thick one, but one could buy it new for the money, or less.”

“Did you bid for any of the plate?” I gasped in husky tones.