He had seen him enter the ring with manifest expectation; he saw him depart, and the bids continue, with manifest surprise and disappointment. “Hullo,” he plainly thought, “this is not the ring I'm fighting, then?” And he determined to put on a spurt.
“Eighteen thousand,” said he.
“And fifty,” said Jim, taking a leaf out of his adversary's book.
“Twenty thousand,” from Bellairs.
“And fifty,” from Jim, with a little nervous titter.
And with one consent they returned to the old pace—only now it was Bellairs who took the hundreds, and Jim who did the fifty business. But by this time our idea had gone abroad. I could hear the word “opium” pass from mouth to mouth; and by the looks directed at us, I could see we were supposed to have some private information. And here an incident occurred highly typical of San Francisco. Close at my back there had stood for some time a stout, middle-aged gentleman, with pleasant eyes, hair pleasantly grizzled, and a ruddy, pleasing face. All of a sudden he appeared as a third competitor, skied the Flying Scud with four fat bids of a thousand dollars each, and then as suddenly fled the field, remaining thenceforth (as before) a silent, interested spectator.
Ever since Mr. Longhurst's useless intervention, Bellairs had seemed uneasy; and at this new attack, he began (in his turn) to scribble a note between the bids. I imagined naturally enough that it would go to Captain Trent; but when it was done, and the writer turned and looked behind him in the crowd, to my unspeakable amazement, he did not seem to remark the captain's presence.
“Messenger boy, messenger boy!” I heard him say. “Somebody call me a messenger boy.”
At last somebody did, but it was not the captain.
“He's sending for instructions,” I wrote to Pinkerton.
