"Have you looked over the machine?" I asked Koster.
"Yesterday," said he. "It's a bit worn, but well looked after."
I nodded.
"Seems so," said I.
"It has been washed down only this morning, Otto.
The auctioneer guys didn't do it, that's certain."
Koster shook his head and looked at the stocky figure.
"That'll be the owner.
He was here yesterday. I saw him polishing the car."
"Damn it all," said I, "the man looks like a dog that has been run over."
A young man came across the yard towards the car. He was wearing a coat with a belt, and had a disagreeably smart appearance.
"This'll be the bus, I suppose," said he, half to us and half to the other man, tapping the bonnet with his cane.
I saw the other man wince.
"That's nothing, that's nothing," said the belted one loftily. "The paint's not worth a brass tack.
Venerable old crock—ought to be in a museum, what?" He laughed loudly at his joke and looked to us for approval.
We were not laughing. He turned to the owner. "What do you want for grandfather?"
The man swallowed hard but said nothing. "Its price as scrap iron?" bleated the young man in high fettle. He turned to us again: "Are you gentlemen interested?" He lowered his voice: "Let's fix it between us.
Buy it for nothing, turn it in again, and split the profits.
No point in giving them money.
My name, by the way, is Thiess—Guido Thiess of The Augeka."
He twirled his bamboo cane and winked at us knowingly. There are no secrets to this worm, thought I angrily; the silent figure by the car was troubling me.
"You know," said I aloud, "you oughtn't to be called Thiess."
"No?" said he, flattered.
He was evidently used to being complimented on his sharpness.
"Yes," I went on. "Twerp, you ought to be called, Guido Twerp."
He started back.
"Of course," he remarked at last, "two to one, of course—"
"If that's your trouble," said I, "I'll take you on alone whenever you like."
"Thanks," replied Guido frostily, "thanks very much"— and retired.
The stocky man with the troubled face just stood there staring at the car as if nothing signified any more.
"Let's not buy it, Otto," said I.
"If we don't, then your poodle, Guido, will," replied Koster. "We can't do anything to help the fellow."
"True enough," said I. "But a lot hangs on it—"
"Yes, but what doesn't a lot hang on these days, Bob?
You can be sure of this—it's a damned good thing for the owner we are here.
He'll get a bit more for it.
But I promise if the poodle doesn't bid, I won't either."
The auctioneer arrived.
He was in a hurry; he had a lot to do, apparently. For him there were auctions by the dozen every day.
With comprehensive gestures he started selling the pitiful junk. He had the cast-iron humour and matter-of-factness of one who deals daily in misery without ever himself being touched by it.
The things went for a few pence.
Dealers bought most of it.
They would lift a finger indolently whenever the auctioneer looked in their direction, or just shake their heads.
But from time to time another pair of eyes followed the auctioneer's glance, careworn eyes of a woman, eyes that watched the dealer's finger as if it had been the finger of God, full of hope and fear.
Three people bid for the taxi—first Guido, three hundred marks, a shameful underbid.
The stocky man took a step forward.
His lips moved, but without sound.
For one. moment he looked as if he intended to join in the bidding.
But the hand sank.
He stepped back.