s.

"And fifty," from Jim, with a little nervous titter.

And with one consent they returned to the old pace--only now it was
Bellairs who took the hundreds, and Jim who did the fifty business. But
by this time our idea had gone abroad. I could hear the word "opium"
passed from mouth to mouth, and by the looks directed at us I could see
we were supposed to have some private information. And here an incident
occurred highly typical of San Francisco. Close at my back there had
stood for some time a stout middle-aged gentleman, with pleasant eyes,
hair pleasantly grizzled, and a ruddy, pleasing face. All of a sudden he
appeared as a third competitor, skied the _Flying Scud_ with four fat
bids of a thousand dollars each, and then as suddenly fled the field,
remaining thenceforth (as before) a silent, interested spectator.

Ever since Mr. Longhurst's useless intervention Bellairs had seemed
uneasy, and at this new attack he began (in his turn) to scribble a note
between the bids. I imagined, naturally enough, that it would go to
Captain Trent; but when it was done and the writer turned and looked
behind him in the crowd, to my unspeakable amazement, he did not seem to
remark the captain's presence.

"Messenger boy, messenger boy!" I heard him say. "Somebody call me a
messenger boy."

At last somebody did, but it was not the captain.

"_He's sending for instructions_," I wrote to Pinkerton.

"_For money,_" he wrote back. "_Shall I strike out? I think this is the
time_."

I nodded.

"Thirty thousand," said Pinkerton, making a leap of close upon three
thousand dollars.

I could see doubt in Bellairs's eye; then, sudden resolution.
"Thirty-five thousand," said he.

"Forty thousand," said Pinkerton.

There was a long pause, during which Bellairs's countenance was as a
book, and then, not much too soon for the impending hammer, "Forty
thousand and five dollars," said he.

Pinkerton and I exchanged eloquent glances. We were of one mind.
Bellairs had tried a bluff; now he perceived his mistake, and was
bidding against time; he was trying to spin out the sale until the
messenger boy returned.

"Forty-five thousand dollars," said Pinkerton: his voice was like a
ghost's and tottered with emotion.

"Forty-five thousand and five dollars," said Bellairs.

"Fifty thousand," said Pinkerton.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Pinkerton. Did I hear you make an advance, sir?"
asked the auctioneer.

"I--I have a difficulty in spe