bid for several little things. Two or three times over I saw that the brokering clique were running them up, but by a judicious bit of management I let them run on, and then left my friends with the last bid, so that they were quite satisfied and let me bid and buy as I liked.

I had secured, as the day wore on, several undoubted bargains, amongst which was some of the damask linen which had taken Mrs Scribe’s fancy; but the room was insufferably hot and stuffy, and evidently too much for poor Retort, who disappeared.

At length the dining-room Turkey carpet came on, and in spite of various shabby parts, I made up my mind to have it for divers reasons, among which I might enumerate its probably going for a song; secondly, durability; thirdly, its eminent respectability, for no one could find fault with a dining-room covered by a Turkey carpet.

“Five pun’,” said one of the brokers, after the auctioneer’s introductory remarks.

I nodded.

“Five ten—five ten—six—six ten—seven—seven ten—eight ten—nine ten. Nine ten,” said the auctioneer, drawing bid after bid from different parts of the room, while, forgetting my nodding system in the excitement of the moment, I stood confessed. Now I had set ten pounds down in my own mind as the price I would go to, and was rather surprised to find how quickly it had reached to “nine ten,” as the auctioneer termed it. However, seeing that the carpet was pretty good, and my room large, I thought I would go a little farther, for I must confess to feeling a little spite against the party of Jews who now seemed to be running me up again. So on went the bidding again, till it had reached to fourteen pounds.

“Let the gentleman have it,” said Mr Isaacs, with a grin. But, no, “fifteen pounds” was bid from somewhere else—evidently by a confederate.

“Sixteen,” I formed with my mouth.

“Seventeen bid,” cried the hammer-man.

“I will have it,” I muttered, “in spite of the scoundrels, for it would cost twenty for a good Brussels, and there’s no wear in them.”

“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 

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