The Brass Bottle, Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  A CHEAP LOT

  In spite of the fact that it was the luncheon hour when Ventimorereached Hammond's Auction Rooms, he found the big, skylighted gallerywhere the sale of the furniture and effects of the late GeneralCollingham was proceeding crowded to a degree which showed that thedeceased officer had some reputation as a _connoisseur_.

  The narrow green baize tables below the auctioneer's rostrum wereoccupied by professional dealers, one or two of them women, who sat,paper and pencil in hand, with much the same air of apparent apathy andreal vigilance that may be noticed in the Casino at Monte Carlo. Aroundthem stood a decorous and businesslike crowd, mostly dealers, of varioustypes. On a magisterial-looking bench sat the auctioneer, conducting thesale with a judicial impartiality and dignity which forbade him, even inhis most laudatory comments, the faintest accent of enthusiasm.

  The October sunshine, striking through the glazed roof, re-gilded thetarnished gas-stars, and suffused the dusty atmosphere with palest gold.But somehow the utter absence of excitement in the crowd, the calm,methodical tone of the auctioneer, and the occasional mournful cry of"Lot here, gentlemen!" from the porter when any article was too large tomove, all served to depress Ventimore's usually mercurial spirits.

  For all Horace knew, the collection as a whole might be of little value,but it very soon became clear that others besides Professor Futvoye hadsingled out such gems as there were, also that the Professor hadconsiderably under-rated the prices they were likely to fetch.

  Ventimore made his bids with all possible discretion, but time aftertime he found the competition for some perforated mosque lantern,engraved ewer, or ancient porcelain tile so great that his limit wassoon reached, and his sole consolation was that the article eventuallychanged hands for sums which were very nearly double the Professor'sestimate.

  Several dealers and brokers, despairing of a bargain that day, left,murmuring profanities; most of those who remained ceased to take aserious interest in the proceedings, and consoled themselves with cheapwitticisms at every favourable occasion.

  The sale dragged slowly on, and, what with continual disappointment andwant of food, Horace began to feel so weary that he was glad, as thecrowd thinned, to get a seat at one of the green baize tables, by whichtime the skylights had already changed from livid grey to slate colourin the deepening dusk.

  A couple of meek Burmese Buddhas had just been put up, and bore theindignity of being knocked down for nine-and-sixpence the pair withdreamy, inscrutable simpers; Horace only waited for the final lot markedby the Professor--an old Persian copper bowl, inlaid with silver andengraved round the rim with an inscription from Hafiz.

  The limit to which he was authorised to go was two pounds ten; but, sodesperately anxious was Ventimore not to return empty-handed, that hehad made up his mind to bid an extra sovereign if necessary, and saynothing about it.

  However, the bowl was put up, and the bidding soon rose to three poundsten, four pounds, four pounds ten, five pounds, five guineas, for whichlast sum it was acquired by a bearded man on Horace's right, whoimmediately began to regard his purchase with a more indulgent eye.

  Ventimore had done his best, and failed; there was no reason now why heshould stay a moment longer--and yet he sat on, from sheer fatigue anddisinclination to move.

  "Now we come to Lot 254, gentlemen," he heard the auctioneer saying,mechanically; "a capital Egyptian mummy-case in fine con---- No, I begpardon, I'm wrong. This is an article which by some mistake has beenomitted from the catalogue, though it ought to have been in it.Everything on sale to-day, gentlemen, belonged to the late GeneralCollingham. We'll call this No. 253_a_. Antique brass bottle. Verycurious."

  One of the porters carried the bottle in between the tables, and set itdown before the dealers at the farther end with a tired nonchalance.

  It was an old, squat, pot-bellied vessel, about two feet high, with along thick neck, the mouth of which was closed by a sort of metalstopper or cap; there was no visible decoration on its sides, which wererough and pitted by some incrustation that had formed on them, and beenpartially scraped off. As a piece of _bric-a-brac_ it certainlypossessed few attractions, and there was a marked tendency to "guy" itamong the more frivolous brethren.

  "What do you call this, sir?" inquired one of the auctioneer, with themanner of a cheeky boy trying to get a rise out of his form-master. "Isit as 'unique' as the others?"

  "You're as well able to judge as I am," was the guarded reply. "Any onecan see for himself it's not modern rubbish."

  "Make a pretty little ornament for the mantelpiece!" remarked a wag.

  "Is the top made to unscrew, or what, sir?" asked a third. "Seems fixedon pretty tight."

  "I can't say. Probably it has not been removed for some time."

  "It's a goodish weight," said the chief humorist, after handling it."What's inside of it, sir--sardines?"

  "I don't represent it as having anything inside it," said theauctioneer. "If you want to know my opinion, I think there's money init."

  "'Ow much?"

  "Don't misunderstand me, gentlemen. When I say I consider there's moneyin it, I'm not alluding to its contents. I've no reason to believe thatit contains anything. I'm merely suggesting the thing itself may beworth more than it looks."

  "Ah, it might be _that_ without 'urting itself!"

  "Well, well, don't let us waste time. Look upon it as a purespeculation, and make me an offer for it, some of you. Come."

  "Tuppence-'ap'ny!" cried the comic man, affecting to brace himself for amighty effort.

  "Pray be serious, gentlemen. We want to get on, you know. Anything tomake a start. Five shillings? It's not the value of the metal, but I'lltake the bid. Six. Look at it well. It's not an article you come acrossevery day of your lives."

  The bottle was still being passed round with disrespectful raps andslaps, and it had now come to Ventimore's right-hand neighbour, whoscrutinised it carefully, but made no bid.

  "That's all _right_, you know," he whispered in Horace's ear. "That'sgood stuff, that is. If I was you, I'd _'ave_ that."

  "Seven shillings--eight--nine bid for it over there in the corner," saidthe auctioneer.

  "If you think it's so good, why don't you have it yourself?" Horaceasked his neighbour.

  "Me? Oh, well, it ain't exactly in my line, and getting this last lotpretty near cleaned me out. I've done for to-day, I 'ave. All the same,it is a curiosity; dunno as I've seen a brass vawse just that shapebefore, and it's genuine old, though all these fellers are too ignorantto know the value of it. So I don't mind giving you the tip."

  Horace rose, the better to examine the top. As far as he could make outin the flickering light of one of the gas-stars, which the auctioneerhad just ordered to be lit, there were half-erased scratches andtriangular marks on the cap that might possibly be an inscription. Ifso, might there not be the means here of regaining the Professor'sfavour, which he felt that, as it was, he should probably forfeit,justly or not, by his ill-success?

  He could hardly spend the Professor's money on it, since it was not inthe catalogue, and he had no authority to bid for it, but he had a fewshillings of his own to spare. Why not bid for it on his own account aslong as he could afford to do so? If he were outbid, as usual, it wouldnot particularly matter.

  "Thirteen shillings," the auctioneer was saying, in his dispassionatetones. Horace caught his eye, and slightly raised his catalogue, whileanother man nodded at the same time. "Fourteen in two places." Horaceraised his catalogue again. "I won't go beyond fifteen," he thought.

  "Fifteen. It's _against_ you, sir. Any advance on fifteen? Sixteen--thisvery quaint old Oriental bottle going for only sixteen shillings.

  "After all," thought Horace, "I don't mind anything under a pound forit." And he bid seventeen shillings. "Eighteen," cried his rival, ashort, cheery, cherub-faced little dealer, whose neighbours adjured himto "sit quiet like a good little boy and not waste his pocket-money."

  "Nineteen!" said Ho
race. "Pound!" answered the cherubic man.

  "A pound only bid for this grand brass vessel," said the auctioneer,indifferently. "All done at a pound?"

  Horace thought another shilling or two would not ruin him, and nodded.

  "A guinea. For the last time. You'll _lose_ it, sir," said theauctioneer to the little man.

  "Go on, Tommy. Don't you be beat. Spring another bob on it, Tommy," hisfriends advised him ironically; but Tommy shook his head, with the airof a man who knows when to draw the line. "One guinea--and that's nothalf its value! Gentleman on my left," said the auctioneer, more insorrow than in anger--and the brass bottle became Ventimore's property.

  He paid for it, and, since he could hardly walk home nursing a largemetal bottle without attracting an inconvenient amount of attention,directed that it should be sent to his lodgings at Vincent Square.

  But when he was out in the fresh air, walking westward to his club, hefound himself wondering more and more what could have possessed him tothrow away a guinea--when he had few enough for legitimate expenses--onan article of such exceedingly problematical value.