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Towards the end of the sale the real auctioneer made his appearance!

The train by which he travelled had broken down. He was for ousting me from my rostrum without ceremony, but backed by the "No! no!" of my audience, I refused to move. He looked daggers at me, and took a note of my newly-printed name and address. This did not bode any good, and I was not sorry to get to the end of the catalogue.

Joining my friends with the hard-earned "fiver," I suggested that the sooner we left Doncaster the better. The bill was called for and a time-table examined. But before our preparations were finished a row broke out in the room where the farmers were having their dinner, and Somers went down to see what it meant. He returned immediately, looking pale as a ghost.

"Old fellow," he said, addressing me, "that wretch of an auctioneer has had a telegram from London to say you are not licensed, and he has just gone to acquaint the authorities."

"In that case, you will excuse me leaving by the back door. I will see you at the station."