The "follower" has his choice of leaders, and he very naturally attaches himself to that one who gives him the greatest amount of satisfaction; which simply means the one who is most obligingly disposed to put "good things" in his way, and to keep a sharp look-out for those small but significant gestures, those nods and winks in which he, the "follower," finds it so much more convenient to indulge during the sale than in outspoken bidding. In short, the auctioneer who is most in favour with followers is he who puts most money in their pockets.

The mischief wrought, however, by those sharks of the auction trade, who confine their operations to the wreckage of private houses, is as nothing compared with the monstrous iniquity that is daily and hourly perpetrated by a different class of auctioneer-the colleague of the unscrupulous petty loan monger, and, it is to be feared, but too frequently his confederate. Let us pay a visit to Mr Slaughter's private auction rooms. Those whose good fortune it is to reside in the same street in which Slaughter's auction rooms are situated have nothing to complain of on the score of lack of amusement. As a rule, they are treated to about three stirring spectacles a day, and in each one a vehicle of some kind—a van or cart-laden with household goods, figures conspicuously. Each cart or van has a man at the horse's head with a determined hold on the bridle, and a man behind, not unfrequently in company with a member of the police force; while bringing up the rear there is sometimes a woman with a scared white face, plentifully shedding tears, and uttering protestations and entreaties; sometimes a man—a shirtsleeved mechanic, or a person of better class in decent black, furious with rage and indignation, and vowing

vengeance on some thief, or band of thieves, that have robbed and ruined him. The inhabitants of the street have grown so used to this species of entertainment, that they scarcely take the trouble to look out at door or window to see it, but it is prime fun for the youth of the surrounding courts and alleys, who follow the procession, and just as the humour takes them, deride the policemen and the men in custody of the goods, or make disparaging remarks respecting the goods themselves.

As a rule the latter are remarkable not so much for their quality as for the extraordinary stowage in the vehicle that contains them. Tables and chairs have evidently been pitched in helter-skelter; drawers are sliding out of the chests that properly should contain them, with their contents all revealed and spilling about; beds and bedding, loose, and huddled together with carpets full of dust, and evidently just as they were snatched up from the floor: fenders, crockeryware, fire-irons, books, washing utensils, and bed-hangings, all huddled in pell-mell confusion, like nothing so much as if the whole load had been rescued by clumsy hands, and only just in the nick of time, from some raging conflagration.

Every consignment of household goods that so makes its appearance is bound for the Auction Rooms, which are ever open to receive it. Not unfrequently it happens that, seeing, as it were, the jaws of the place open to swallow his tables and chairs, his bed and his bedstead, the desperate person behind, whose complaint is that he has been heartlessly ruined and despoiled, will make a frantic effort to storm the cart, and repossess himself of his own. But at this point, the policeman interferes. There is no use in kicking up a row. The parties that have seized had the power to do so, and he

is bound to protect them. If there is any thing wrong, why, there is law for one party as well as for the other, and they can settle it afterwards. So the invariable ending is that the furniture is lugged out of the vehicle as hastily and unceremoniously as it had been pitched in, and lodged within Slaughter's-gate, leaving the men at liberty to drive away with the van, the policeman to go about his business, and the bereaved ones to make their way back in wretched plight to what, three hours ago, may have been a comfortable home.

It is only on a Thursday that the casual observer may obtain a clue to all this mystery. Let him then pay a visit to the back street in which Slaughter's Auction Rooms are situated, and he will find the aspect of that establishment entirely altered. The shutters are down, and the offices and the extensive store-rooms at the side are now open, and numerous placards announce the business afoot. Ten or fifteen big posters are exhibited on a capacious board: all relate to the Thursday's sale of furniture at Slaughter's, and every one bears on its face the ominous words, "Under a bill of sale." Look close into the placards, and you shall discover, if you are curious in such matters, that in every case it originates with the owner of a loan office, who, empowered by a bill of sale, has done his worst. towards some unlucky defaulter.

Mr Slaughter's business depends almost entirely on loan-office patronage, as many as ten or twelve of the leading "monetary establishments" on the Surrey side of the river, which make advances of ten or even fifteen pounds, bring their "seizures" to him, knowing him to be a man highly respectable, and eminently snug in his dealings. It is a branch of the loan-office business that requires a discreet agency. As the trade is now

conducted, the selling up of clients is the main staple of profit, but it would never do for that to be a fact generally known. If loan-office proprietors distributed their seizures amongst auctioneers indiscriminately, there are, under the new system, so many of them, that borrowers would at length open their stupid eyes, and the game would be in a great measure spoilt. The bill-ofsale game, I mean. It is quite a modern idea as applying to financial advances on a small scale, but it works splendidly. Time was when, if a borrower and his surety could not pay, there was nothing left but to carry the better of the two before a county court judge, and abide by his decision, which was always, be it related to the judge's credit, one that was tempered with mercy for the defendant; but the intervention of a bill of sale wonderfully simplifies the recovery of the debt, and its 60 or 80 per cent interest. And the best of the joke is that, nine times in ten, the said bill is obtained

without the knowledge of those who render it.

It is a delicate operation, but people-especially people who are driven to the verge of despair for a few pounds are such simpletons. All that occupies their thoughts is to touch the money already counted out before them, and it is not until that trying moment that the winning card is played. It is done "in a rush," as the vulgar saying is, and it is not once in a dozen times that it miscarries. The way has been paved before. A day or two since, when the borrower's friend presented himself to tender his security, the clerk in command remarked in an off-hand way.

"I needn't ask, sir, are your circumstances sufficiently good to enable you to pay this money, should you be called on to do so?"

"Oh, of course."

"You have a decent house of furniture ?”

"Oh, yes."

"Just for form's sake, you know-give me an ideano matter how rough a one-of what it is comprised. Feather beds or flock?"

Feather, sir," replies the surety, loftily. It is'nt he who wants money.

Precisely. Feather beds and bedding.

I'll just make a memorandum, for the look of the thing; though, of course, in a case like yours it is all nonsense. Tables-how many; four ?-five! thank you. And chairs—say a dozen and a half. Chests of drawers, two? -we don't need to be particular. Carpets, of course, and I daresay a chimney-glass and a few pictures. All right, sir; that will be near enough. If you will call with your friend any time to-morrow, he can have the money."

Perhaps the surety—especially if he be a green hand at such matters, is rather amused than otherwise at the fanciful inventory taking of his goods and chattels, but he sets it down as the ordinary routine of loan-office business, and thinks no more of it. Next day he calls at the office with his friend, whom he is good-naturedly obliging, and while the money is being counted out, he is asked to sign the promissory-note. Then-with the money in his hand, and as though it were a matter that had almost slipped his memory, and might just as well be done as not-the clerk says, "Oh, ah! there's this memorandum of your goods. Just pop your name at the end here, as an acknowledgement that they are yours!" And the fatal pen, already dipped in ink, is handed to the unsuspecting one, and, seeing neither good nor harm in the act, in a moment it is done.

It is incredible, altogether past belief, that the success