to bid for. McNab thrust his hands deep into his breeches pockets and grinned. When the noise subsided the auctioneer made himself heard:
"Any advance upon twenty pounds? Come, gentlemen, the farm's worth £300 if it's worth a penny."
"Twenty-five pounds," said a voice.
Sheer amazement at the audacity of this second bidder held the crowd silent. That McNab, a Scotchman, an outsider, a well-known contemner of all the decencies of public life, should make a bid was bad enough. That there should be another such reprobate in the neighbourhood was beyond all expectation. A whisper passed, like a summer breeze, from ear to ear. The name of the new bidder was known.
"Sweeny for ever! Cheers for Sweeny!" yelled a voice in the outskirts of the crowd, the voice of the rate-collector, Mr. Sweeny's son-in-law. The people, dimly conscious that matters of high politics were in acting, cheered obediently.
"Thirty pounds," said McNab.
"Thirty-five pounds," said Sweeny.
Another burst of cheering followed the bid. McNab turned and left the crowd. He had reached the bottom of his purse. Mr. Patrick Sweeny was duly declared the purchaser of the Widow Flanagan's farm. The crowd, with some curiosity, waited for an explanation.
Mr. Sweeny, feeling that a speech was due,
