Chapter 47 - Page 2

boots. They were old Bob's the quarter-gunner's; there was
two on 'em, too. I want to see t'other boot."

"My sweet and pleasant fellow," said the auctioneer, with his
blandest accents, "the other boot is not just at hand, but I give
you my word of honour that it in all respects cor-responds to the
one you here see--it does, I assure you. And I solemnly guarantee,
my noble sea-faring fencibles," he added, turning round upon all,
"that the other boot is the exact counterpart of this. Now, then, say
the word, my fine fellows. What shall I have? Ten dollars, did you
say?" politely bowing toward some indefinite person in the background.

"No; ten cents," responded a voice.

"Ten cents! ten cents! gallant sailors, for this noble pair of
boots," exclaimed the auctioneer, with affected horror; "I must
close the auction, my tars of Columbia; this will never do. But
let's have another bid; now, come," he added, coaxingly and
soothingly. "What is it? One dollar, one dollar then--one
dollar; going at one dollar; going, going--going. Just see how it
vibrates"--swinging the boot to and fro--"this superior pair of
sea-boots vibrating at one dollar; wouldn't pay for the nails in
their heels; going, going--gone!" And down went the boots.

"Ah, what a sacrifice! what a sacrifice!" he sighed, tearfully
eyeing the solitary fire-bucket, and then glancing round the
company for sympathy.

"A sacrifice, indeed!" exclaimed Jack Chase, who stood by; "Purser's
Steward, you are Mark Antony over the body of Julius Cesar."

"So I am, so I am," said the auctioneer, without moving a muscle.
"And look!" he exclaimed, suddenly seizing the boot, and
exhibiting it on high, "look, my noble tars, if you have tears,
prepare to shed them now. You all do know this boot. I remember
the first time ever old Bob put it on. 'Twas on a winter evening,
off Cape Horn, between the starboard carronades--that day his
precious grog was stopped. Look! in this place a mouse has
nibbled through; see what a rent some envious rat has made,
through this another filed, and, as he plucked his cursed rasp
away, mark how the bootleg gaped. This was the unkindest cut of
all. But whose are the boots?" suddenly assuming a business-like
air; "yours? yours? yours?"

But not a friend of the lamented Bob stood by.

"Tars of Columbia," said the auctioneer, imperatively, "these
boots must be sold; and if I can't sell them one way, I must sell
them another. How much _a pound_, now, for this superior pair of
old boots? going by _the pound_ now, remember, my gallant sailors!