But there was no lack of earnest in one at least of the men that he had before him, and the voice with which Elzevir said £30 was still sturdy. Maskew called £31 and £41, and Elzevir £40 and £50, and then I looked at the candle, and saw that the head of the pin was no longer level, it had sunk a little--a very little. The clerk awoke from his indifference, and was making notes of the bids with a squeaking quill, the bailiff frowned as being puzzled, and thinking that none had a right to puzzle him. As for me, I could not sit still, but got on my feet, if so I might better bear the suspense; for I understood now that Maskew had made up his mind to turn Elzevir out, and that Elzevir was fighting for his home. _His_ home, and had he not made it my home too, and were we both to be made outcasts to please the spite of this mean little man? There were some more bids, and then I knew that Maskew was saying £91, and saw the head of the pin was lower; the hard lump of tallow in Aunt Jane's candle was thawing. The bailiff struck in: 'Are ye mad, sirs, and you, Master Block, save your breath, and spare your money; and if this worshipful gentleman must become innkeeper at any price, let him have the place in the Devil's name, and I will give thee the Mermaid, at Bridport, with a snug parlour, and ten times the trade of this.' Elzevir seemed not to hear what he said, but only called out £100, with his face still looking out to sea, and the same sturdiness in his voice. Then Maskew tried a spring, and went to £120, and Elzevir capped him with £130, and £140, £150, £160, £170 followed quick. My breath came so fast that I was almost giddy, and I had to clench my hands to remind myself of where I was, and what was going on. The bidders too were breathing hard, Elzevir had taken his head from his hands, and the eyes of all were on the pin. The lump of tallow was worn down now; it was hard to say why the pin did not fall. Maskew gulped out £180, and Elzevir said £190, and then the pin gave a lurch, and I thought the Why Not? was saved, though at the price of ruin. No; the pin had not fallen, there was a film that held it by the point, one second, only one second. Elzevir's breath, which was ready to outbid whatever Maskew said, caught in his throat with the catching pin, and Maskew sighed out £200, before the pin pattered on the bottom of the brass candlestick. The clerk forgot his master's presence and shut his notebook with a bang, 'Congratulate you, sir,' says he, quite pert to Maskew; 'you are the landlord of the poorest pothouse in the Duchy at £200 a year.' The bailiff paid no heed to what his man did, but took his periwig off and wiped his head. 'Well, I'm hanged,' he said; and so the Why Not? was lost.