o money left to get it with," whispered Lesbia to Kitty.
"Isn't this the limit? Why did he knock the books down to _me_ of all
people?"

"I don't know. I suppose you looked at him and he thought you were
bidding for it. Watch the people now. They all catch his eye when they
want to bid."

"That man over there winks. I certainly never winked."

"Well, it's done now and there's no getting out of it. How much must I
lend you. Eighteen pence? Here you are. We can put the books in our
bicycle baskets. Do you care to stay any longer or shall we go?"

"We'd better scoot before I buy any more things by mistake. I don't want
to be saddled with a five-guinea mirror or a hanging-lamp. I never felt
so cross in all my life before. It's too disgusting for words. I grudge
this five and six." And Lesbia pulled out her cherished pocket-money,
paid the auctioneer's clerk, clutched her pile of books, and went to
reclaim her bicycle. The specimens of literature which they stowed away
in their baskets did not look of a very exhilarating character. They
were faded, old-fashioned volumes with illustrations of people in
antiquated costumes. Lesbia, in her disgust at missing the paint-box,
was ready to leave them behind in the garden, but Kitty's common sense
prevailed.

"They're better than nothing. You don't want to throw your money
absolutely away, you silly girl!" she counselled. "If _you_ won't take
them _I_ shall. We'll each carry half. They're not very heavy after all.
Cheerio! You look as if you'd lost a fortune."

"I've lost a paint-box, and that's worse," snapped Lesbia, refusing all
comfort.

She rode back in very mournful spirits, mentally cataloguing the various
useful or pleasurable articles she might have bought with the wasted
five and sixpence, ignoring the obvious fact that she could not possibly
have purchased them all. When the girls arrived home, Kitty told the
story of the bargain as a supreme joke to the family circle. The
Pattersons, though not artistic, were fond of books. They demanded to
see lot 205. Nine shabby volumes were produced from the bicycle baskets
and handed round for inspection. Mr. Patterson, rather a bibliographer
in his way, rejected eight of them, but looked at the last with
interest. He took a lens from his pocket and inspected the little wood
cuts with which it was illustrated.

"If I'm not mistaken these are by Bewick," he chuckled. "Lesbia, I
believe you've got a bargain after all. I'm go