The Purchase of the North Pole. Jules Verne

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—

      “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 scrawl a few notes on the margin 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 icebergs, 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 the 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 placidly.

      “A hundred and ninety!” said Forster.

      “And five!” said the Major, as if it were a mere casual observation.

      You might have heard an ant walk, a bleak swim, a moth fly, a worm wriggle, 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 jotting 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 absurdity?

      “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.

      That extraordinary man drew a large handkerchief from his pocket, and, hiding his face in it, blew a long, sonorous 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 subdue. 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 shudder 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 proprietors of the North Pole and its promising neighbourhood. And when William S. Forster had to name the real purchasers, he placidly drawled—“Barbicane & Co!”