"A hundred and twenty roubles at the back.
A hundred and twenty-five in the next seat.
A hundred and forty."
Ostap calmly turned his back on the stand and surveyed his competitors.
The auction was at its height.
Every seat was taken.
The lady sitting directly behind Ostap was tempted by the chairs and, after a few words with her husband ("Beautiful chairs! heavenly workmanship, Sanya.
And from a palace!"), put up her hand.
"A hundred and forty-five, fifth row on the right. Going!"
The stir died down.
Too expensive.
"A hundred and forty-five, going for the second time."
Ostap was nonchalantly examining the stucco cornice.
Ippolit Matveyevich was sitting with his head down, trembling.
"One hundred and forty-five. Gone!"
But before the shiny black hammer could strike the plyboard stand, Ostap had turned around, thrown up his hand, and called out, quite quietly:
"Two hundred."
All the heads turned towards the concessionaires.
Peaked caps, cloth caps, yachting caps and hats were set in action.
The auctioneer raised his bored face and looked at Ostap.
"Two hundred," he said. "Two hundred in the fourth row on the right.
Any more bids?
Two hundred roubles for a palace suite of walnut furniture consisting of ten pieces.
Going at two hundred roubles to the fourth row on the right. Going!"
The hand with the hammer was poised above the stand.
"Mama!" said Ippolit Matveyevich loudly.
Ostap, pink and calm, smiled.
The hammer came down making a heavenly sound.
"Gone," said the auctioneer. "Young lady, fourth row on the right."
"Well, chairman, was that effective?" asked Ostap. "What would you do without a technical adviser, I'd like to know? "
Ippolit Matveyevich grunted happily.
The young lady trotted over to them.
"Was it you who bought the chairs?"
"Yes, us!" Ippolit Matveyevich burst out. "Us! Us!
When can we have them?"
"Whenever you please.
Now if you like."
The tune
"Roaming, you're always roaming" went madly round and round in Ippolit Matveyevich's head.
"The chairs are ours! Ours! Ours!"
His whole body was shouting it.
"Ours!" cried his liver.
"Ours!" endorsed his appendix.
He was so overjoyed that he suddenly felt twitches in the most unexpected places.
Everything vibrated, rocked, and crackled under the pressure of unheard-of bliss.
He saw the train approaching the St. Gotthard.
On the open platform of the last car stood Ippolit Matveyevich in white trousers, smoking a cigar.
Edelweiss fell gently on to his head, which was again covered with shining, aluminium-grey hair.
He was on his way to the Garden of Eden.
"Why two hundred and thirty and not two hundred?" said a voice next to him.