Indeed, Bob's was the only one in the centre of that throng that showed no
sign of what was going on behind it. The same cynical smile that had been
there since the opening still played around the corners of his mouth as he
squared himself in front of his opponent. All knew now that he was not
through. Barry Conant had evidently decided to force the fighting,
although more cautiously than before. "67 for a thousand." One of his
lieutenants bid 67 for 500, another 67 for 300, and as Bob had not yet
shown his intention of meeting their bids, 67 for different amounts was
heard all over the crowd. Bob might have been tossing a mental coin to
decide the advisability of buying back what he had sold; he might have
been adding up the bids as they were made. He said nothing for a fraction
of a minute, which to those tortured men must have seemed like an age.
Then with a wave of his hand, as though delivering a benediction, he swept
the circle with a cold-blooded, "Sold the lots. 5,600 in all."
"Sixty-seven for a thousand"--again Barry Conant's bid. "Sold." "67 for
5,000." "Sold." "66 for a thousand." "Sold." The drop from five thousand
to one thousand and a dollar a share in Barry Conant's bids was the
mortally wounded but still game general's "Sound the retreat.
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