And here an incident occurred highly typical of San Francisco.

Close at my back there had stood for some time a stout, middle-aged gentleman, with pleasant eyes, hair pleasantly grizzled, and a ruddy, pleasing face.

All of a sudden he appeared as a third competitor, skied the Flying Scud with four fat bids of a thousand dollars each, and then as suddenly fled the field, remaining thenceforth (as before) a silent, interested spectator.
Ever since Mr.Longhurst's useless intervention, Bellairs had seemed uneasy; and at this new attack, he began (in his turn) to scribble a note between the bids.

I imagined naturally enough that it would go to Captain Trent; but when it was done, and the writer turned and looked behind him in the crowd, to my unspeakable amazement, he did not seem to remark the captain's presence.
"Messenger boy, messenger boy!" I heard him say.

"Somebody call me a messenger boy." At last somebody did, but it was not the captain.
"He's sending for instructions," I wrote to Pinkerton.
"For money," he wrote back.