SCENE AT THE LONDON WOOL SALES.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1190, 21 December 1894, Page 4

SCENE AT THE LONDON WOOL SALES.

Sauntering down Coleman-street, that usually quiet and sedate Gity of London thoroughfare, towards four o’clock on the evening of Tuesday, 18th September, signs of abnormal hurlyburly attracted my attention. A few moments’ observation showed that the eager, anxious, hurrying crowd was steadily gravitating towards a certain entrance to a block of Offices. The throng included all sorts and conditions of men, some in the orthodox black coat and tall hat affected by the regular habituG of the city, others in tweed suit and straw hat that bespoke the provinces and even, in the case of occasional individuals, suggested the breezy, unconventional, free-and-easy life of the colonies. From che point of view of nationality the crowd was a heterogeneous one, for as the stream of passers-by hastened onwards, mingled with the broad, unmistakable dialect of Yorkshire casual scraps of animated conversation in French or German might be heard, and now and again the characteristic drawl of the “ down East ” Yankee reached the ear. By five minutes to four o’clock the street was once more almost deserted; the office entrance above alluded to had swallowed up the last of the hurrying throng. I had pulled out my watch to compare times with a clock in the street surmounting the very alley by which the crowd had disappeared, and had made the mental note that it was just four o’clock to the very second, when a terrible yell, born from the inmost recesses of the building, almost made me jump out of my shoes. “ Great Scott! what has happened ?” was my involuntary and almost breathless exclamation. Almost before the words were spoken the roar of voices was huslied suddenly, as if by the spell of the magician’s wand. Then, in another instant, a still louder and more prolonged yell than the first one resounded through the corridor. The babel of voices, despite the fact that it was obviously muffled by distance and sundry walls, was simply appalling ; it seemed that men were crying out in direst agony, others in frantic fear, others again in furious passion. Thoughts of some terrible catastrophe, perhaps some atrocious dynamite out- . rage, were flashing through my brain, when a telegraph boy, emerging at a run from the doorway, stumbled against me. Instinctively I clutched the youthful messenger by the coat collar, and gasped, “What is it? How many are killed ?” <£ What d’yer mean ?” cried the lad, somewhat angrily disengaging himself from my detaining hand. Then a glimmering idea as to

the reason of my strange queries seemed to penetrate the youngster's mind, for in a mollified tone of voice, a broad grin the while spi’eading itself over his features, he called out as he flitted on his way, “ Don’t you know, guv’nor ? It’s the opening of the wool sales.’*

The opening of the wool sales 1 In a sort of confused way I had begun to recall some of Virgil’s didactics extolling the peaceful thoughts associated with flocks and fleeces and pastoral pursuits, when again that hoarse, angry, surging roar of voices assailed my ears. Wool sales or no wool sales, made sure that there was fighting this time. The Chinese and Japanese were not in it. It was the battle of Ping Yang over again within a stonethrow of the Bank of England. But once more the sudden hush, and all again was still. The momentary silence invited to further investigation , the quickly-recur-ring shouts directed the way ; the scene of strife was speedily reached. It proved to be a large hall with tiers of seats rising steeply upwards, as in the operating-room of a hospital, where benches are provided for onlooking surgeons in embryo. Every square foot of space was occupied—seats, gangways, and a sort of promenade gallery at the top, while all along the walls the figures of men in various attitudes were propped. The eyes of everyone present seemed to be directed towards a little table perched high aloft at the further end of the room. At this table were seated three individuals. In the centre was a man who, by his calm, judicial manner and demeanour, reminded me of some mythological Bhadamanthus sitting in judgment in “ the realms of unrelenting fate.” At either side of him were scriveners who, with pens watchfully poised over sheets of paper, appeared to be recording the sentences pronounced upon the damned. The picture of the infernal regions was still, more forcibly recalled when, the judge having uttered the apparently cabalistic words, “ Lot 17,” a hundred frantic, gesticulating figures sprang to their feet, and a hundred frantic, ear-splitting yells smote the momentary silence with all the suddenness of a cannonade. The tumult continued for a brief few minutes and then was as suddenly stilled. I had heard no recognisable word spoken, but I noticed some figures jotted down upon a bulky-looking book held by a man whom I happened, in fay eagerness, to be elbowing. The book, I saw at a glance, bore the title, « Colonial Wool Sales,” and the figures last inscribed in one of the marginal blank spaces read “ So I quickly inferred in actuality the extraordinary scene I was witnessing was the sale of wool by auction, and I made the further mental note that Lot 17 had realised per lb. But my mind had scarcely recorded these thoughts when another deafening roar assailed my ears. After a little time I grew accustomed to these sudden volleys of vocal thunder, and although I longed to have cotton-wool in my ears I watched the spectacle with thoroughly awakened interest. On some occasions the outburst of sound was fierce, furious, and prolonged, like unto that made by men engaged in deadly conflict. Then would come a less frenzied interval, during which the cries resembled nothing so much as those made by a pack of hounds in eager pursuit of their quarry. There were distinguishable the deep bass voices of the old dogs, the shrill yelp of puppies out for the first time, a score of distinctive barks and snarls, with a plaintive little yapping from odd corneis intermingled. Then, again, all was silent till the Bhadamanthan like auctioneer once more raised his right hand just one inch from the desk to show that a new lot was on offer. So the sale proceeded with almost incredible rapidity. I counted fortytwo lots sold in five minutes, comprising some hundreds of bales of wool. By my watch, in thirteen minutes 100 lots had changed hands. There was no time for the old shibboleth of the auctioneers—“ Going, going, gone even the traditional hammer of office . seemed to be too cumbrous for these swift transactions, and so was dispensed with. When each lot reached its turn there was just a yell, and in a few seconds all was over. How the auctioneer contrived to evolve order out of chaos, and allotted the wool to the highest or to the first bidder, was to me as it must have been to every other outsider present, a profound mystery. It was made abundantly clear by the rapid rate of progress that the motto of the successful wool-buyer must be—■ “ He who hesitates for the fractional

part of a second is lost.” Some of the bidder? seem to act on the rule that. “he who shouts loudest wins;” the* cry of these was one single stentorian roar, calculated, like John Peel’s “ view holloa,” celebrated in song, to awaken the dead. Others again seem to pin their faith to shouting continuously, f they kept yelling out their bid-=— “seven, seven, seven,” or whatever other figure it might be again and againwith rapid excited ejaculation, reminding one cf a quick firing piece of ordnance warranted to discharge fifty shotsper minute. Some men frantically waved their catalogues in the air, others shook their hats angrily at theauctioneer, others again threw forward both arms in an imploring attitudeone and all vociferating at the whole time at their loudest.

After half-an-liour I fled the scene,, brain-distraught and nearly deafenedLingering for a few minutes in the vestibule of the auction room, I was reflecting that surely here is a field for the inventor, who might by the exercise of a little ingenuity give us some electrical appliance for automatically and silently registering the bids of rival buyers, when I ran up against a friend,, a merchant intimately connected with colonial trade. “ How are prices 1” I asked. “ Firm all round,” he answered,. “ but no sensational rise as some folksseem to have expected.” Nothing: more was to be learned that night, but the scene I had just witnessed had sothoroughly stimulated my curiosity that next morning I again sought my colonial friend at his office in quest of" further and more detailed information.

“The market is undoubtedly very firm,** quoth my informant, “ althoughit is rash and difficult to base any calculations on the first day’s salesBuyers both from our English manufacturing centres and from the Continent were largely represented yesterday. There was undoubted animation in Australasian wools, and prices in comparison with the closing July salesshowed a 5 per cent, advance, the Hse being most noticeable in crossbreds and lower class scoured. Cape and Natalwools had a very firm market, but generally prices for these were unchanged. - There was, however, fid advance for superior Cape snow white. This wool was evidently bought for theUnited States, and the fact is significant of the changes which free wool for* America may bring about, for, in my experience, American buyers here never touched such wool before.” I had inferred from the excited scene at the sales the night before that the-wool market shows good prospects. This information confirmed me in the belief*, so, knowing well of what momentous importance to Australasia is even a fractional advance in the price of thfr great staple, I went my way rejoicing. -By Edmund Mitchell in tht* Pastoralists ’ Review.