That the sale of the 3rd of December should take place in the Auction¹ Mart might appear strange. As a rule, only furniture, instruments, pictures, and objects of art were sold there. But for this curious departure from the ordinary practice in the sale of land a precedent² was discoverable, as already a portion of our planet had changed hands under the hammer.  
A few years before, at San Francisco, in California, an island in the Pacific Ocean, Spencer Island, had been sold to the rich W. W. Kolderup, when he outbid J. R. Taskinar, of Stockton.[1] Spencer Island was habitable; it was only a few degrees from the Californian coast; it had forests, watercourses, a fertile soil, and fields and prairies fit for cultivation³; it was not an indefinite region, covered perhaps 28with sea and perpetual ice, which probably no one would ever occupy. For Spencer Island four hundred thousand dollars had been paid; for the polar territories it was not to be expected that anything like that amount would be forthcoming.
 
1. See “Godfrey Morgan,” by the same author.
 
Nevertheless, the strangeness of the affair had brought together a considerable crowd, chiefly of lookers-on, to witness the result. The sale was to take place at noon, and all the morning the traffic in Bolton Street was seriously interfered⁴ with. Long before the hour fixed⁵ for the sale the room was full, with the exception of a few seats railed off and reserved for the delegates; and when Baldenak, Karkof, Jansen, Harald, Donellan, and Todrin had taken these places, they formed a compact group, shoulder to shoulder, and looked as if they were a veritable storming column ready for the assault of the Pole.
 
Close to them was the consignee⁶ of codfish, whose vulgar visage expressed the sublimest⁷ indifference⁸. He looked the least excited of all the crowd, and seemed to be thinking only of how he could most profitably dispose of the cargoes⁹ now on their way to him from Newfoundland. Who were the capitalists represented by this man, with probably millions of dollars at his command?
 
There was nothing to show that J. T. Maston and Mrs. Scorbitt had anything to do with the affair. How could it be supposed that they had? They were there, though, but lost in the crowd, and were surrounded by a few of the principal members of the Gun Club, apparently¹⁰ simply as spectators and quite disinterested¹¹. William S. Forster seemed to have not the least knowledge of their existence.
 
As it was impossible to hand round the North Pole for the purposes of examination, a large map of the Arctic 29regions had been hung behind the auctioneer’s desk. Seventeen degrees above the Arctic Circle a broad red line around the eighty-fourth parallel marked off the portion of the globe which the North Polar Practical Association had brought to the hammer. According to the map, the region was occupied by a sea covered with an ice-cap of considerable thickness. But that was the affair of the purchasers. At least, no one could complain that they had been deceived as to the nature of the goods.
 
As twelve o’clock struck, the auctioneer, Andrew R. Gilmour, entered by a little door behind his desk. He surveyed the assembly for an instant through his glasses, and then, calling for silence by a tap from his hammer, he addressed the crowd as follows:—
 
“Gentlemen, I have been instructed by the Federal Government to offer for sale a property situated¹² at the North Pole, bounded by the eighty-fourth parallel of latitude¹³, and consisting of certain continents and seas, either solid or liquid—but which I am not quite sure. Kindly¹⁴ cast your eyes on this map. It has been compiled according to the latest information. You will see that the area is approximately four hundred and seven thousand square miles. To facilitate the sale it has been decided¹⁵ that the biddings for this extensive region shall be made per square mile. You will therefore understand that every cent bid will represent in round numbers 407,000 cents, and every dollar 407,000 dollars. I must ask you to be silent, gentlemen, if you please.”
 
The appeal was not superfluous¹⁶, for the impatience¹⁷ of the public was producing a gradually-increasing tumult¹⁸ that would drown the voices of the bidders¹⁹.
 
When tolerable quietness had been established thanks 30to the intervention²⁰ of Flint, the auctioneer’s porter, who roared like a siren on a foggy day, Gilmour continued,—
 
“Before we begin the biddings, I think it right to remind you of three things. The property has only one boundary, that of the eighty-fourth degree of north latitude. It has a guaranteed title. And it will remain the property of the purchasers, no matter what geographical²¹ or meteorological modifications²² the future may produce.”
 
Always this curious observation!
 
“Now, gentlemen,” said Gilmour; “what offers?” and, giving his hammer a preliminary shake, he continued in a vibrating nasal tone, “We will start at ten cents the square mile.”
 
Ten cents, the tenth of a dollar, meant 40,700 dollars for the lot.
 
Whether Gilmour had a purchaser at this price or not, the amount was quickly increased by Baldenak.
 
“Twenty cents!” he said.
 
“Thirty cents!” said Jansen for the Dutchmen.
 
“Thirty-five!” said Professor Harald.
 
“Forty!” said the Russian.
 
That meant 162,800 dollars, and yet the bidding had only begun. The Canadians had not even opened their mouths. And William S. Forster seemed absorbed in the Newfoundland Mercury.
 
“Now, gentlemen,” said Gilmour, “any advance on forty cents? Forty cents! Come, the polar cap is worth more than that; it is—”
 
What he would have added is unknown; perhaps it was, “guaranteed pure ice;” but the Dane interrupted him with—
 
31“Fifty cents!”
 
Which the Dutchman at once capped with—
 
“Sixty!”
 
“Sixty cents the square mile! Any advance on sixty cents?”
 
These sixty cents made the respectable sum of 244,200 dollars.
 
At Jansen’s bid, Donellan raised his head and looked at Todrin; but at an almost imperceptible negative sign from him he remained silent.
 
All that Forster did was to scrawl²³ a few notes on the margin²⁴ of his newspaper.
 
“Come, gentlemen,” said the auctioneer; “wake up! Surely you are going to give more than that?”
 
And the hammer began to move up and down, as if in disgust at the weakness of the bidding.
 
“Seventy cents!” said Harald, in a voice that trembled a little.
 
“Eighty cents!” said Karkof, almost in the same breath.
 
A nod from Todrin woke up the Major, as if he were on springs.
 
“Hundred cents!” said the Canadian.
 
That meant 407,000 dollars!
 
Four hundred and seven thousand dollars! A high price to pay for a collection of icebergs²⁵, ice-fields, and ice-floes!
 
And the representative of the North Polar Practical Association did not even raise his eyes from his newspaper. Had he been instructed not to bid? If he had waited for his competitors to bid their highest, surely the moment had come? In fact, their look of dismay when 32the Major fired his “hundred cents” showed that they had abandoned the battle.
 
“A hundred cents the square mile!” said the auctioneer. “Any advance? Is that so? Is that so? No advance?”
 
And he took a firm grasp on his hammer, and looked round him.
 
“Once!” he continued. “Twice! Any advance?”
 
“A hundred and twenty cents!” said Forster, quietly, as he turned over a page of his newspaper.
 
“And forty!” said the Major.
 
“And sixty!” drawled Forster.
 
“And eighty!” drawled the Major, quite as placidly²⁶.
 
“A hundred and ninety!” said Forster.
 
“And five!” said the Major, as if it were a mere²⁷ casual observation.
 
You might have heard an ant walk, a bleak²⁸ swim, a moth²⁹ fly, a worm wriggle³⁰, or a microbe wag its tail—if it has a tail.
 
Gilmour allowed a few moments to pass, which seemed like centuries. The consignee of codfish continued reading his newspaper and jotting³¹ down figures on the margin which had evidently nothing to do with the matter on hand. Had he reached the length of his tether? Had he made his last bid? Did this price of 195 cents the square mile, or 793,050 dollars for the whole, appear to him to have reached the last limit of absurdity³²?
 
“One hundred and ninety-five cents!” said the auctioneer. “Going at one hundred and ninety-five cents!”
 
And he raised his hammer.
 
“One hundred and ninety-five cents! Going! Going!”
 
And every eye was turned on the representative of the North Polar Practical Association.
 
33That extraordinary man drew a large handkerchief from his pocket, and, hiding his face in it, blew a long, sonorous³³ blast with his nose.
 
Then J. T. Maston looked at him, and Mrs. Scorbitt’s eyes took the same direction. And by the paleness of their features it could be seen how keen was the excitement they were striving to subdue³⁴. Why did Forster hesitate to outbid the Major?
 
Forster blew his nose a second time; then, with an even louder blast, he blew it a third time. And between the blasts he quietly observed,—
 
“Two hundred cents!”
 
A shudder³⁵ ran through the hall.
 
The Major seemed overwhelmed, and fell back against Todrin. At this price per square mile, the Arctic regions would cost 814,000 dollars. The Canadian limit had evidently been passed.
 
“Two hundred cents!” said Gilmour. “Once! Twice! Any advance?” he continued.
 
The Major looked at the Professor, and the Colonel, and the Dutchman, and the Dane; and the Professor, and the Colonel, and the Dutchman, and the Dane looked at the Major.
 
“Going! Going!” said the auctioneer.
 
Every one looked at the codfish man.
 
“Gone!”
 
And down came Gilmour’s hammer.
 
The North Polar Practical Association, represented by William S. Forster, had become the proprietors³⁶ of the North Pole and its promising³⁷ neighbourhood. And when William S. Forster had to name the real purchasers, he placidly drawled,—“Barbicane & Co!”