He instantly proposed to sell the numbers by auction.

He was the auctioneer.

With his eye-glass at his eye, and Bohemian pleasantry falling from his lips, he ran the prices up.

He was selling Clovelly's number, and had advanced it beyond the novelist's own bidding, when suddenly the screw stopped, the engines ceased working, and the 'Fulvia' slowed down.
The numbers remained unsold.

Word came to us that an accident had happened to the machinery, and that we should be hove-to for a day, or longer, to accomplish necessary repairs.