"What's the meaning of those clothes, eh?" he demanded. "You've lost your appearance, Burton--that's what you've done. Not even a silk hat on a sale day!" "I'm sorry," Burton answered. "To tell you the truth, I had forgotten that it was a sale day." Mr. Waddington looked curiously at his assistant, and the longer he looked, the more convinced he became that Burton was not himself. "Well," he said, "I suppose you can't always be gassing if you're not feeling on the spot. Let's start the sale before any more people leave. Come on." Mr. Waddington led the way to the rostrum. Burton, with a sinking heart, and a premonition of evil, took the place by his side. The first few lots were put up and sold without event, but trouble came with lot number 13. "Lot number 13--a magnificent oak bedroom--" the auctioneer began. "Eh? What? What is it, Burton?" "Stained deal," Burton interrupted, in a pained but audible whisper. "Stained deal bedroom suite, sir--not oak." Mr. Waddington seemed about to choke. He ignored the interruption, however, and went on with his description of the lot. "A magnificent oak bedroom suite, complete and as good as new, been in use for three weeks only. The deceased gentleman whose effects we are disposing of, and who is known to have been a famous collector of valuable furniture, told me himself that he found it at a farmhouse in Northumberland. Look at it, ladies and gentlemen. Look at it. It'll bear inspection. Shall we say forty-five guineas for a start?" Mr. Waddington paused expectantly. Burton leaned over from his place. "The suite is of stained deal," he said distinctly. "It has been very cleverly treated by a new process to make it resemble old oak, but if you examine it closely you will see that what I say is correct. I regret that there has been an unfortunate error in the description." For a moment there was a tumult of voices and some laughter. Mr. Waddington was red in the face. The veins about his temples were swollen and the hammer in his hand showed a desire to descend on his clerk's head. A small dealer had pulled out one of the drawers and was examining it closely. "Stained deal it is, Mr. Auctioneer," he announced, standing up. "Call a spade a spade and have done with it!" There was a little mingled laughter and cheers. Mr. Waddington swallowed his anger and went on with the sale. "Call it what you like," he declared, indulgently. "Our clients send us in these things with their own description and we haven't time to verify them all--not likely. One bedroom suite, then--there you are. Now then, Burton, you blithering idiot," he muttered savagely under his breath, "if you can't hold your tongue I'll kick you out of your seat Thirty pounds shall we say?" he continued, leaning forward persuasively. "Twenty pounds, then? The price makes no difference to me, only do let's get on."