And I thought he had flowing locks and a patriarchal beard, and a scythe
for a sign of the uncertainty of life, and a glass to mark the swiftness
of its passage. He was that Great Auctioneer who brings all things at
last under his inexorable hammer.

After that, though Mr. Harpworth did his best, he claimed my attention
only intermittently from that Greater Sale which was going on at his
side, from that Greater Auctioneer who was conducting it with such
consummate skill--for _he_ knew that nothing is for sale but life. The
mahogany highboy, so much packed and garnered life cut into inanimate
wood; the andirons, so much life; the bookshelves upon which John
Templeton kept his "Life of Napoleon Bonaparte," so much life. Life for
sale, gentlemen! What am I offered to-day for this bit of life--and
this--and this--

Mr. Harpworth had paused, for even an auctioneer, in the high moment of
his art, remains human; and in the silence following the cessation of
the metallic click of his voice, "Thirty, thirty, thirt, thirt--make it
thirty-five--thank you--forty," one could hear the hens gossiping in the
distant yard.

"There were craftsmen in those days, gentlemen," he was resuming; "look
at this example of their art--there is quality here and durability----"

At this point the Great Auctioneer broke in upon my attention and caught
up Mr. Harpworth's words:

"Yes, quality and durability--quality and durability. I also have here
to-day, and will offer you, gentlemen, a surpassing antique, not built
of wood nor fashioned in brass or iron, but a thing long attached to