he
auctioneer, who repeated the bid, and whose oscillating hammer
threatened to fall in spite of himself by the involuntary movement of
his muscles. It seemed as though Dean Felporg, surfeited with the
surprises of public auction sales, would be unable to contain himself
any longer.

All glances were turned on J. R. Taskinar. That voluminous personage was
sensible of this, but still more was he sensible of the weight of these
three millions of dollars, which seemed to crush him. He would have
spoken, doubtless to bid higher--but he could not. He would have liked
to nod his head--he could do so no more.

After a long pause, however, his voice was heard; feeble it is true, but
sufficiently audible.

"Three millions, five hundred thousand!"

"Four millions," was the answer of William W. Kolderup.

It was the last blow of the bludgeon. J. R. Taskinar succumbed. The
hammer gave a hard rap on the marble table and--

Spencer Island fell for four millions of dollars to William W. Kolderup,
of San Francisco.

"I will be avenged!" muttered J. R. Taskinar, and throwing a glance of
hatred at his conqueror, he returned to the Occidental Hotel.

But "hip, hip, hurrah," three times thrice, smote the ears of William W.
Kolderup, then cheers followed him to Montgomery Street, and such was
the delirious enthusiasm of the Americans that they even forgot to
favour him with the customary bars of "Yankee Doodle."

CHAPTER III.

THE CONVERSATION OF PHINA HOLLANEY AND GODFREY MORGAN, WITH A PIANO
ACCOMPANIMENT.

William W. Kolderup had returned to his mansion in Montgomery Street.
This thoroughfare is the Regent Street, the Broadway, the Boulevard des
Italiens of San Francisco. Throughout its length, the great artery which
crosses the city parallel with its quays is astir with life and
movement; trams there are innumerable; carriages with horses, carriages
with mules; men bent on business, hurrying to and fro over its stone
pavements, past shops thronged with customers; men bent on pleasure,
crowding the doors of the "bars," where at all hours are dispensed the
Californian's drinks.

There is no need for us to describe the mansion of a Frisco nabob. With
so many millions, there was proportionate luxury. More comfort than
taste. Less of the artistic than the practical. One cannot have
everything.

So the reader must be contented to know that there was a magnificent
reception-room, and in this reception-room a piano, wh