Jacket stretched across his square, rugby flanker's shoulders, he stands ramrod at the rostrum and extends those long hands, one clasping the head of the gavel as though a mere pipe, in a gesture that somehow combines scorn and supplication. "In fairness," Alastair Pim says. "We're not selling chickens." A bid duly coaxed, he spins round to the rival protagonist. "Last of the big spenders," he mutters. Then up goes the singsong exclamation: "Goodness gracious me lads, a ridiculous price..." In the moments of the highest theatre--when seven-figure bids strain...