Going ...gone Peter Quince
In our market town the other day I found myself passing the door of the auctioneer's establishment just as a nasty squall of rain blew up. The hubbub within was intriguing enough to stir one's curiosity in any weather: in the circumstances, I stepped inside instantly, in search of entertainment as well as shelter.
Time was when I often attended these sales, at which old furniture and suchlike articles from old houses are disposed of, but it occurred to me as I joined the crowd that it was years since I had been there. However, as I looked around the large and gloomy hall it seemed that little had changed. The crowd was certainly much the same: dealers from the city thirsting for rural bargains, proprietors of local antique shops no less eager for stock, and the customary swarm of extras in the form of amateur buyers either in need of pieces to fill gaps in their domestic equipment or simply yielding to the pleasure of the hunt.
I always found these country auctions to be agreeably uneven
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