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- 2026-01-30T20:48:36.274Z
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- text
- 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! what shall I
have? one cent, do I hear? going now at one cent a
pound—going—going—going—_gone!_”
“Whose are they? Yours, Captain of the Waist? Well, my sweet and
pleasant friend, I will have them weighed out to you when the auction
is over.”
In like manner all the contents of the bags were disposed of, embracing
old frocks, trowsers, and jackets, the various sums for which they went
being charged to the bidders on the books of the Purser.
Having been present at this auction, though not a purchaser, and seeing
with what facility the most dismantled old garments went off, through
the magical cleverness of the accomplished auctioneer, the thought
occurred to me, that if ever I calmly and positively decided to dispose
of my famous white jacket, this would be the very way to do it. I
turned the matter over in my mind a long time.
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