“And fifty,” said Jakes in a trembling voice. Nutley suppressed a cackle of laughter. “And seventy-five,” said the fat man, after glaring at Jakes. “Two hundred,” said Jakes. Chase sat on the edge of his chair, twisting his fingers together and keeping his eyes fixed on Jakes. So the man was trying to save his garden!—and the flowers, through whose roots he said he would put a bagginhook sooner than let them pass to a stranger. Where did he imagine he could get the money? poor fool. The fat man was after the cottage for some commercial enterprise. What had the auctioneer suggested?—a tea-room? That was it, without a doubt—a tea-room! A painted sign-board hanging out to attract motorists; little tin tables in the garden, perhaps, on summer evenings. The fat man ran Jakes up to two hundred and fifty before Jakes began to falter. Something in the near region of two hundred and fifty was the limit, Chase guessed, to which his secret and inscrutable financial preparations would run. What plans had he made before coming, poor chap; what plans, full of a lamentable pathos, to meet the rivalry of those who might possibly have designs upon his tenement? Surely not very crafty plans, or very adequate? They had reached two hundred and seventy-five. Jakes was distressed; and to Nutley, scornfully watching, as to Chase, compassionately watching, and as to the auctioneer, impartially watching, it was clear that neither conscience nor prudence counselled him to go any further. “Two hundred and seventy-five guineas are bid,” said the voice of the auctioneer; “two hundred and seventy-five guineas,”—pause—“going, going....” “Three hundred,” brought out Jakes, upon whose forehead sweat was standing. “And ten,” said the fat man remorselessly. Jakes shook his head as the auctioneer looked at him in inquiry. “Three hundred and ten guineas _are_ bid,” said the auctioneer, “three hundred and ten guineas,” his voice rising and trailing, “no more?—a little more, sir, come!” in persuasion to Jakes, who shook his head again. “Lot 4, gentlemen, going for the sum of three hundred and ten guineas, going, going, gone.” The hammer came down with a sharp tap, and Mr. Webb leant across his desk to take the name and address of the purchaser. Jakes began making his way out of the room. He had the shameful air of one who has failed before all men in the single audacity of his lifetime. For him, Lot 4 had been the lot that must rivet everyone’s attention; it had been not an episode but the apex. Chase saw him slink out, burdened by disgrace. It would be several hours before he regained the spirit to put the bagginhook through the flowers.