Chapter V: Part 5

Mr. Lock, obliging, repeated some severe strictures of Mr. Dobb’s with regard to the district council, the state of the weather, and the badness of the local railway service. He was unable, however, to add one iota to that which he had already repeated concerning Mr. Dobb’s boasted pictorial discovery.

In the circumstances it was not surprising that Mr. Lock won the game with unusual ease, for Mr. Pincott had become heavily meditative, and in this mood he continued long after he had left the billiard-table, and it was still on him in a slightly increased degree when he came down to breakfast next morning.

It was soon after that meal that the bell affixed to the door of his shop summoned Mr. Pincott to the counter. Standing near the door, in an attitude somewhat furtive and hesitant, was a stout and aged mariner whom Mr. Pincott identified as the propulsive power of the ferry plying across the harbour mouth.

“Can I—can I speak to you, private and confident, for a minute, sir?” asked Mr. Clark, hoarsely.

“It depends,” hedged Mr. Pincott.

“It ain’t nothing to do with carumgorums this time, sir,” promised Mr. Clark.

“If it’s anything the police might want to know about,” said Mr. Pincott, “you’ve come to the wrong shop. Come at the wrong time o’ day, anyway.”

“Nor it ain’t anything to do with lead piping nor door-knockers, nor anything like that, sir,” disclaimed Mr. Clark.

“Then what is it?”

Mr. Clark gazed cautiously about him, and then, articulating into the back of his hand in a conspiratorial way, whispered across the counter.

“Eh?” asked Mr. Pincott. “I didn’t ’ear? Carrots? This ain’t a greengrocery!”

“I asked,” said Mr. Clark, more audibly, “’ow much is Carrottis worth?”

“Carrottis?” echoed Mr. Pincott, puzzled. “What are they, anyway?”

“Pickchers,” explained Mr. Clark. “Sort of these clarrsical pickchers painted by a chap called Carrotti, ages and ages ago.”

“’Ow the dooce should I know?” irritably began Mr. Pincott; and then his professional instincts asserted themselves. “They—they might be worth anything, up or down. It all depends. What makes you ask?”

“There’s a certain party wants to buy one,” said Mr. Clark. “And ’e’s made a offer for it, and it’s been refused. And ’e’s asked me to go along and make a little ’igher offer for it on ’is behalf and yet not on his behalf, if you takes my meaning. ’E’s frightened that they know ’e’s keen on getting it. And I says to myself that if there’s money to be made, why shouldn’t I make a bit extra, too? That’s only fair, ain’t it, sir?”

“Yes, yes,” assented Mr. Pincott. “And who might your friend be?”

“Ah, that ’ud be telling,” said Mr. Clark. “And I promised to keep ’is name right out of it. But,” he added, leering artfully, “there’s only you and ’im in the same business in this ’ere town.”

“’Orace Dobb!” cried Mr. Pincott.

“Well, I can take my haffydavit that I never told you ’is name, now, can’t I?” pointed out Mr. Clark, primly. “Well, be ’e ’oo ’e may, why should I take the trouble to buy it for ’im for a small tip when some one else might be willing to give me a bigger one? ’E ain’t got no particular call on me, and business is business when all’s said and done, ain’t it, sir?”

“Of course,” assented Mr. Pincott. “Why shouldn’t you be artful as well as anybody else? Where did you say the pickcher was?”

“I didn’t say,” replied Mr. Clark, gently.

“Well, ’ow can I say whether I want to buy it if I ’aven’t seen it?” contended Mr. Pincott, frowning.

“Ah, I wasn’t born yestiddy!” declared Mr. Clark, acutely. “If I tells you where the picture is to be found I might as well be right out of the affair altogether. You’d go along and buy it on your own, behind my back.”

“No such thing,” denied Mr. Pincott, with overdone indignation.

“Oh, well, I can proteck my own hinterests, thanks be!” stated Mr. Clark, easily. “I’ll wait till things is a bit further hadvanced before I commits myself. I’ll find out what price she’s willing to take, and see you again before I sees Mr. Dobb. ’Ow will that do?”

“That’s a good idea,” commended Mr. Pincott. “But—but I shouldn’t waste no time if I was you. I’d go right down there now, wherever it is, and carry things a step farther without delay.”

“And so I will, this minute,” agreed Mr. Clark. He favoured Mr. Pincott with a vast wink, and nodded very knowingly at him in token of mutual understanding. He then took his departure, and Mr. Pincott, giving him a grudged start of one minute, followed cautiously after him. The fact that Mr. Clark, without stopping anywhere, made his way directly back to his employment at the ferry caused Mr. Pincott to speak of that aged man’s duplicity in the harshest terms.

“Oh, well, anyway, I’m further than I was last night!” was the consolation Mr. Pincott eventually found for himself. “It’s a Carrotti, and Dobb’s found it and means to buy it at a bargain, and intends to sell it to old Lister, no doubt. However, there’s nothing to prevent me selling it to Lister either, if I can get ’old of it. Carrotti?” he mused. “First I’ve ever ’eard of ’im, but ’e _sounds_ all right. Anyway, if it’s good enough for Dobb, it’s good enough for me.”

And with a grin of satisfaction at the prospect of defeating his sole competitor in the district, Mr. Pincott put on his hat again, and sauntered along for his customary shave.

He found the Magnolia Toilet Saloon to be void of customers, and at once sat down in the operating chair. Mr. Tridge, deftly tucking a towel about his patron’s throat, began to indulge in conversation with professional fluency.

“And ’ow’s business, sir?” he asked. “Pretty bright, I ’ope? There seems to be plenty of money knocking about the town for them as knows where to look for it. I know one gent, a customer of mine, what reckons to clear easy fifty quid over a little deal ’e’s got in ’and, and the funny part of it is that ’e ain’t bought what ’e’s after yet. ’E’s made a offer, but—”

He stopped abruptly and, obtaining Mr. Pincott’s attention in the mirror, frowned warningly at him as Mr. Dobb entered.

“I understand,” said Mr. Pincott.

Mr. Dobb nodded patronizingly to Mr. Tridge, and accorded a rather more patronizing nod to Mr. Pincott. He then sat down quietly with a newspaper to await his turn for Mr. Tridge’s services. This coming at last, he took his place in the chair with marked alacrity.

“Don’t keep me longer than you can ’elp,” he directed. “I’m a bit later than I meant to be already. Give me a nice, clean shave, will you? I’m just on my way to see a lady on business.”

Mr. Pincott, in the act of passing through the doorway, involuntarily turned round and stared at Mr. Dobb.

When, ten minutes later, Mr. Dobb emerged from Mr. Tridge’s establishment, lovingly caressing and pinching a velvet chin, he betrayed not the slightest indication that he was aware that Mr. Pincott was lurking inconspicuously at an adjacent corner. Mr. Dobb, as one with a definite purpose, walked sharply up the street, turned into the neighbouring High Street, and thence crossed the wide market place diagonally. His itinerary was closely watched and imitated by Mr. Pincott.

And next Mr. Dobb made his way down the narrow, tumble-down alley known as Market Lane, still vigilantly attended by his trade rival. Finally, Mr. Dobb halted at a little sweetstuff shop, and without looking round, entered at its door. Mr. Pincott, finding convenient ambush near by, patiently waited for some minutes, and at last saw Mr. Dobb come again to the threshold of the tiny shop. Here Mr. Dobb turned round, and seemed to be in earnest discussion with some one within, eventually going off back along Market Lane with his hands deep thrust in his pockets and a dissatisfied expression on his face.

Mr. Pincott elatedly watched Mr. Dobb vanish from sight. Then, with long, eager strides, he went across the street and entered the little shop to the symptoms of tempestuous jangling of its door-bell. A female gazed at him inquiringly from behind the counter, but Mr. Pincott made no immediate remark to her, for he was engrossed in staring at a huge and pitchy landscape. Closer examination revealed the signature of “Andrew Carrotti” flung across a corner in a crimson scrawl.

“Very old picture, that,” observed the lady behind the counter, speaking with a kind of heavy and mechanical civility. “Been in our family for years and years. Not for sale, of course. We only hangs it up there because there ain’t any other room for it. And what can I get for you, please, sir?”

“Not for sale, eh?” said Mr. Pincott.

“No, sir,” she replied, definitely. “There’s another gent just been in and tried ’ard to buy it, but I ’ad to refuse him. Was you thinking of choc’lates, sir? We’ve got some just fresh in.”

Of certain negotiations which, despite the lady’s unwillingness, followed so swiftly and with such continuity of impact, it is superfluous to write. Suffice it to record that Mr. Pincott, fortified and stimulated by the thought that here was something he was snatching from the very grasp of Mr. Dobb, was content to believe that the intrinsic unloveliness of the picture did not matter, and that its value was not its value as a work of art, but as a piece of property for which Mr. Lister would pay handsomely.

So at last the lady, conceded her sex’s privilege, changed her mind, and was at last prevailed upon to part with the picture at a price which was only satisfactory to Mr. Pincott for the justification it afforded him to demand profits on the higher scale from Mr. Simon Lister.

In some excitement and a decrepit cab, Mr. Pincott carted his purchase direct to that gentleman’s abode in the suburbs of Shorehaven. Mr. Dobb, who had been doing a little reconnoitring duty in his turn, saw the vehicle turn into the London road with its burden, and he followed after it on foot.

Staggering spectacularly beneath his load, Mr. Pincott was ushered into the presence of Mr. Lister.

“Lawks!” was Mr. Lister’s simple tribute to the dramatic quality of the occasion. “Whatever ’ave you got there?” he asked, somewhat unnecessarily. “A picture?”

“Pickcher?” said Mr. Pincott, setting down the landscape flat on the table, and mopping his forehead. “It’ll be about the finest thing in your collection. I bought it for you, a rare bargain. ’Alf the dealers in the kingdom was after it, but I managed to diddle ’em!”

“It—it ain’t very ’andsome,” mildly criticized the worthy amateur.

“’Andsome?” queried Mr. Pincott. “What’s it want to be ’andsome for? It’s a genuine Old Master! ’Undreds of years old! It’s been in one family for generations.”

“Ah, that’s the kind of thing I want,” said Mr. Lister. “And ’ow did you come to ’ear of it?”

“I’ve ’ad my eye on it for months past,” Mr. Pincott told him. “I’ve been waiting my opportunity. You know ’ow it is in our line. You ’ave to go slow, otherwise you’re likely to get the price raised.”

“That’s so,” said Lister, with a nod of appreciation for such nice consideration of his pocket. “And ’oo’s it by?” he queried, examining the canvas with enhanced interest.

“Andrew Carrotti, the famous Old Master,” returned Mr. Pincott glibly. “Surely you don’t need me to tell you anything more about _’im_?”

“I don’t seem to ’ave ’eard the name before, though,” admitted Mr. Lister, very honestly.

“Oh, you’ve ’eard of ’im and forgot,” returned Mr. Pincott, easily. “It’ll look well on that wall there, opposite the window, won’t it? If you’ve got any pickcher-cord ’andy—”

“’Tain’t every one that’s got a genuine Old Master hanging on their dining-room wall,” remarked Mr. Lister, with naïve pleasure. “Little did I ever dream, when I used to be serving out ’alf-pounds of sugar—”

“Mind you, you’re lucky to get it,” said Mr. Pincott. “If I wasn’t so himpulsive, I’d ’ave took it up to London and sold it at Christie’s, but I’m content with a small profit, so long as I can keep your patronage and—”

“What are you going to ask me for it?” inquired Mr. Lister, with a belated effort to appear businesslike; and evinced no more objection than a twinge of surprise when Mr. Pincott nominated a price.

“I’ll write you out a cheque,” promised Mr. Lister, and this agreeable feat he was in the act of beginning when the advent of Mr. Horace Dobb was announced.

Mr. Dobb, proclaiming that he had come specially to bring Mr. Lister a saucer which matched a cup already in his collection, betrayed considerable surprise at view of the picture.

“Well, now, I do ’ope you ain’t going to start collecting trash like that, sir?” he observed, reproachfully.

“Trash, Mr. Dobb?” echoed Mr. Lister. “I’m surprised at a man of your knowledge saying that! Can’t you see that it’s a genuine Old Master? Trash, hindeed!” he said again, indignantly.

Mr. Dobb bent and scrutinized the landscape closely. Then he shook his head, and smiled tolerantly.

“Pincott’s got to learn the business, just as I ’ad to,” he said. “That ain’t a Old Master, sir, and never was!”

“Don’t you take no notice of ’im, sir!” begged Mr. Pincott. “Why, ’e was after this very pickcher ’imself!”

“Oh, no, not me!” disclaimed Horace. “I only buys and sells genuine stuff.”

“This is genuine!” insisted Mr. Pincott.

“So’s that ’ere diamond in your necktie,” scoffed Mr. Dobb. “I don’t think!”

“Why, it’s a Carrotti!” cried Mr. Pincott. “And you know ’ow long ago ’e lived, don’t you?”

“Can’t say I do. I’ve never ’eard of ’im in all my life before this very minute. When did ’e live?”

“’Undreds of years ago!”

“’Undreds of years ago, eh?” mused Horace, looking again at the canvas. “Fancy that, now. But the pickcher’s so dirty you can ’ardly see what it’s meant to be. I’ve got a little bottle of stuff ’ere,” he went on, producing a small phial full of a liquid, “and if I might clean up just one corner—”

“Yes, do,” invited Mr. Lister.

Mr. Dobb, moistening his handkerchief with a little of the liquid, worked industriously at a small region on the canvas.

“Well, well!” he marvelled. “Blest if there ain’t another pickcher underneath this ’ere one! If the top one is ’undreds of years old, the bottom one must be thousands! Why, look! ’Ere is a old girl in a crinoline just come to light, and a little bit of what looks like the Crystal Palace. Must be a view of the Great Hexibition, or something!”

“Clean it up a bit more,” said Mr. Lister, in a new, and strange voice.

Nothing loth, Mr. Dobb renewed his energies over a wider extent, with such success that presently his theory stood substantiated.

“Well, there it is, sir,” said Mr. Dobb, standing back from his handiwork. “I shouldn’t like to say Pincott deliberately tried to cheat you, but when a man starts in this line of business and knows nothing whatever about it—”

Mr. Dobb gave a half-pitying shrug of the shoulders.

Five minutes later a husky, indignant and profane Mr. Pincott had taken his departure, and the discredited picture had gone with him. Mr. Lister expressed his gratitude to Mr. Dobb in the warmest terms.

“That’s quite all right, sir,” said Mr. Dobb. “I don’t like to see no one cheated by chaps like ’im, if I can ’elp it.”

“In future,” promised Mr. Lister, “I shall stick by you and abide by your decisions alone.”

“I’ll look after you all right, sir,” returned Mr. Dobb.

That same evening, at a convivial little gathering at the “Royal William,” Mr. Dobb loyally and uncomplainingly paid out two pounds to each of his former shipmates.

“A little present from Mr. Pincott,” he observed, flippantly.

“All the same, ’Orace,” said Mr. Tridge, thoughtfully, “’ow was you so cocksure about the pickcher being a wrong ’un? You’d ’ave looked funny if it ’ad turned out genuine. After all, seeing it’s been ’anging up all those years in that there little shop, and never left the family—”

“I knew it wasn’t genuine,” stated Mr. Dobb. “I knew jolly well. Matter of fact, I give that old gal ten bob to ’ang the pickcher up in ’er shop. Matter of fact, it was my property to start with. See?”

_EPISODE VII_ HIDDEN TREASURE

Mr. Horace Dobb, concluding his exposition with an emphatic prophecy of success, settled himself back in his chair, and smiled round on his old shipmates with a certain high, patronizing confidence, as a card-player might triumphantly sit back after spreading an invincible hand on the table for open inspection.

There followed a short, analytical silence, punctuated towards its close by crescendo grunts which indicated a widening and warming comprehension. And next arose an incoherent little duet, made up of the beginnings of exclamations of admiration from the lips of Mr. Joseph Tridge and Mr. Peter Lock, while the tribute of the ancient and corpulent Mr. Samuel Clark took the flattering form of speechlessness, allied to a slow, marvelling oscillation of the head and a gaze almost of veneration at Mr. Dobb.

And then Mr. Joseph Tridge, never a man to restrain honest sentiments, rose from his chair and forcefully pounded Mr. Dobb’s shoulder in token of esteem for his astuteness, and at the same time loudly challenged the world to produce Mr. Dobb’s equal either in artfulness or fertility of invention. And Mr. Peter Lock affectionately declared that Mr. Dobb, far from being spoiled by life ashore, was now even a bigger rascal than when he had served as cook to the “Jane Gladys,” of mixed memories.

These compliments Mr. Dobb equably accepted as his just due, merely observing that he counted himself fortunate to have the co-operation of men who had graduated in craft on that ill-reputed vessel to assist him now in furthering the more ambitious plans for which his present occupations as second-hand dealer offered such scope. As sufficient answer to an interpolated suggestion of Mr. Tridge’s, he reminded them that “Strictly Business” was his motto, and explained that, therefore, he would produce no bottles nor tumblers till it was manifest that all present thoroughly understood their parts in the plan of campaign he had outlined to them.

“Let’s see,” said Mr. Clark. “Peter Lock’s the ’ero, ain’t he?”

“Not the ’ero,” corrected Mr. Dobb. “The rightful heir.”

“I’ve seen ’em at the theatre,” stated Mr. Clark, vaguely. “With their ’air all smarmed down with ile, and being shot at by villains, and what-not. There’s generally a gal or two in the offing and—”

“Well, anyway,” interrupted Mr. Lock, with some satisfaction, “I’ve got to be pretty conspicuous. What’s that worth, Horace?”

“Same to you as to the others,” replied Mr. Dobb. “When I’ve taken one quid, cost price, off the sum received, and another one quid for profit, and one quid more because it’s my idea, the rest is divided into five equal shares and we takes each one, and one over for me!”

“Good enough!” accepted Mr. Lock. “All right. I’ll be the unfortunate young chap what’s lost his great-uncle. What was his name, Horace?”

“’Ennery Pash,” supplied Mr. Dobb. “You was the happle of his heye, Peter!”

“Loved me like a father he did,” stated Mr. Lock. “Always together we was, didn’t you say, Horace?”

“Right up to the day before ’e died so sudden,” instructed Mr. Dobb. “And then you went away on business, and you never come back till weeks after the melancholy event,” he ended, with pride of artistry.

“That’s right,” said Mr. Lock. “And what was he like to look at, Horace?”

“A snuffy, grubby little chap with sandy whiskers and a bald ’ead,” returned Mr. Dobb.

“He don’t seem exactly the kind of relation to be proud of,” complained Mr. Lock. “Can’t you do me better than that, Horace?”

“You don’t get misers with top-’ats and white weskits, Peter,” pointed out Mr. Dobb. “If ’e’d spent all ’is money on clothes, ’e wouldn’t ’ave ’ad any to ’ide in the seat of ’is favourite old arm-chair, would ’e?”

“By the way, ’Orace,” put in Mr. Clark, “where did you get the chair to start with?”

“Bought it with a odd lot of stuff at a farm sale a few miles away. It ain’t worth stuffing and re-up’olstering, so I thought I’d try to sell it as it was, and that’s ’ow I come to ’atch out this idea I’ve been a-telling you of.”

“Well, you’ve ’it it on just the right chap in Tommy Lane,” approved Mr. Tridge. “’E drops into my place pretty well every day for a shave, and I never see such a old idjit for believing what ’e’s told! You ought to ’ear some of the adventures of seafaring life I’ve told ’im! Why, they almost make _me_ choke, telling ’em! And yet he’d swallow ’em down without so much as a cough!”

“’Ere!” exclaimed Mr. Dobb, in some alarm. “’E don’t know you and me and Peter and Sam Clark was all shipmates together once, does ’e?”

“No, ’e don’t,” said Mr. Tridge, flushing a little.

“’Ow do you know ’e don’t?” demanded Mr. Dobb.

“Because,” said Mr. Tridge, rather reluctantly, “I’ve always give ’im to understand that afore family misfortunes made me take a ’air-dresser’s shop I was second in command on a torpeder-boat!”

“And ’e believed _that_?” cried Mr. Clark.

“’E said that ’e’d guessed it! Said that there was always something about us naval chaps what couldn’t be disguised, no matter ’ow ’ard we tried!” related Mr. Tridge, with pride.

“Well, then, we shan’t ’ave no trouble with _’im_!” foretold Mr. Lock, happily. “I don’t know the chap myself; he don’t come to the ‘Royal William’ billiard-saloon, as I knows of. Have _you_ ever met him, Sam?”

“’Undreds of times!” asserted Mr. Clark. “I often ferries ’im across the river.” Mr. Clark paused, and his eyes twinkled joyously. “’E thinks I used to be a smack-owner!” he crowed.

“Whatever made ’im think that?” asked Mr. Tridge, in surprise.

“I told ’im so!” shamelessly answered Mr. Clark. “A smack-owner! _Me_! Only I was unlucky!”

“A bit of make-believe I can understand,” reproved Mr. Tridge, loftily. “But a pack of downright _lies_!”

“Well, ’e shouldn’t try to be so clever, then!” said Mr. Clark, with spirit. “If ’e can slip out the other side without paying my fare, ’e think’s ’e’s done well, and ’e takes a deal of convincing, too, to get the money out of ’im in the end.”

“Yes, ’e certainly watches money pretty close,” agreed Mr. Tridge. “Never yet ’as ’e over-paid me by as much as a ’apenny, and ’e tried to beat down the price of a shave till ’e see it was no good. Oh, ’e’s got a eye for the main chance all right!”

“That was the character I got of ’im,” mentioned Mr. Dobb, dryly. “’Ence this gathering of old friends.”

“Anyway,” summarized Mr. Lock, “this here Mr. Lane sounds just our mark!”

And with that the confederation went into close committee.

It was during the course of the next afternoon that a rotund little gentleman, with a countenance remarkable for a guileless expression and neatly trimmed side-whiskers, sauntered down to the ferry-boat at the mouth of the harbour.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lane, sir!” said Mr. Samuel Clark, with deference. “Going across?”

The little gentleman, affably admitting this to be his intention, disposed himself neatly in the boat, and Mr. Clark pulled off at his customary leisurely stroke.

“Beautiful weather!” observed Mr. Lane.

“Just right for heverybody except the doctors, as my old pal, ’Ennery Pash, used to say,” agreed Mr. Clark, with some emphasis on the latter portion of his remark.

“Lovely lot of ozone in the air to-day,” mentioned Mr. Lane, sniffing appreciatively at the odours from the dredger.

“All, if ’e could ’ave got more into ’is system, ’e wouldn’t be where ’e is to-day,” stated Mr. Clark, regretfully.

“Who wouldn’t?” inquired Mr. Lane.

“My old pal, ’Ennery Pash.”

“And where is ’e now, then?” asked the passenger.

Mr. Clark sorrowfully shook his head and pointed aloft.

“Far as I know,” he explained. And added: “’E was a good churchman, according to ’is views, anyway.”

Mr. Lane, in response to this sombre intrusion on the brightness of the day, kept a chastened silence. Mr. Clark, sighing deeply, shook his head again, and offered a well-known quotation bearing on the instability of human life.

“P’r’aps you knew old ’Ennery Pash, sir?” he suggested.

“Can’t say I did,” returned Mr. Lane, apologetically.

“Ah, ’e was a quiet old chap. ’E didn’t get about much. There wasn’t many as met ’im. ’E stopped indoors most of ’is time, only I thought p’r’aps you might ’ave knowed ’im.”

“No. Where did he live?”

“Oh, ’e was always moving!” replied Mr. Clark. “’E never stopped anywhere long, but now ’e’s settled for good and all. Five weeks ago, that was.”

“Is he buried in the town?” asked Mr. Lane, politely, affecting interest in the sad event.

“No, sir; in Scotland, where ’e was born.”

“And what was ’e like?”

“Ah, a little, short, shabby old chap, ’e was. But, then, there was a reason for ’is going shabby.”

“Oh, indeed? He was poor, I suppose?”

“Not _’im_! ’E was a miser.”

“A miser?” said Mr. Lane. “Really?”

“Really! ’E told me so ’isself dozens of times! ‘Sam,’ ’e says to me, ‘you’d never believe ’ow much I’ve got saved up!’ Couldn’t bear to spend a penny, ’e couldn’t; and ’e kept it all in the ’ouse. Didn’t believe in banks, ’e said.”

“And I suppose they found it when—”

“Not a brass farthing!” cheerfully affirmed Mr. Clark.

“Strange! What did his relations do about it?”

“’E’d only got one, a great-nephew, and ’e was away at the time and couldn’t be found.”

“But who paid for the funeral? It must have cost a lot, taking place in Scotland.”

“Some of us paid for it, sir, ’is old pals. Leastwise, we sold all ’is furniture and stuff, and raised the money that way.”

“But what do you think became of his savings?”

“Well, if you ask _me_, sir I reckon the old fool—begging ’is pardon, I forgot!—the poor old fellow ’ad kept on changing ’em into paper money and ’ad burned ’em by accident, or else because ’e couldn’t bear the idea of anyone else getting ’em after ’e was gone.”

“I should have thought he’d have been glad for his nephew to get them.”

“His great-nephew, sir. Well, that’s as may be. All I know is that we found a great ’eap of charred papers in ’is fire-place when we broke in, when we suspected the worst. Lots of it was only old letters and noos-papers, and so on, but there might easily ’eve been paper money amongst it. It was all so powdered up. Anyway, that’s what we decided on in the end, there being no other way to account for the habsence of the money; and we ’adn’t ’alf ransacked ’is chest of drawers and boxes, neither!”

“Strange!” commented Mr. Lane again. “Very strange!”

“So we thought, sir,” acquiesced Mr. Clark. “’Owever, ’ere we are,” he went on, with an abrupt change of key, as the ferry gently nosed into the opposite bank. “And I never noticed ’ow quick we was travelling; all along of chatting about poor old ’Ennery Pash.”

He assisted his passenger to alight, pocketed his fare, and slowly sculled away again across the river.

“Another minute and I’d ’ave bust!” he told himself, in rapt enjoyment. “Sam, my boy, you’re like wine—you improves with age!”

The Magnolia Toilet Saloon, Shorehaven, was empty next morning at noon, save for two individuals. One of these was the proprietor, Mr. Joseph Tridge; the other was the trim, debonair Mr. Peter Lock, and to-day he wore a black tie in place of his usual brilliant neckwear.

“’E’s sure to be in soon, Peter,” Mr. Tridge was saying. “This is just about ’is time. It’s no good your complaining about ’aving to ’ang about ’ere. You agreed with ’Orace and us others— ’Ere quick, sit down! ’Ere ’e comes!”

Mr. Lock, casting aside a newspaper, seated himself at a bound in the operating chair. Mr. Tridge, wrapping a towel about his companion’s shoulders, began delicately to powder Mr. Lock’s smooth chin. A minute later the door opened, and Mr. Thomas Lane entered with the inquiring, calculating gaze habitual to men entering barbers’ shops.

“Shan’t keep you waiting a minute, sir!” called out Mr. Tridge. “I’m just finishing this gent.”

Mr. Lane sat down readily enough, and Mr. Tridge proceeded to remove the powder from Mr. Lock’s chin.

“So you ain’t ’eard nothing more about your great-uncle’s money, sir?” inquired Mr. Tridge, in confidential tones that just reached Mr. Lane’s ears.

“I’ve pretty well given up hope now,” said Mr. Lock. “I begin to think with them others, that he must have burned it. If ever he had it, mind you! Perhaps he only talked about it to keep me up to the mark as his great-nephew. Not that there was any need to do that, though,” declared Mr. Lock, rising, as Mr. Tridge removed the towel from his shoulder with a professional flourish. “I was always very fond of him for his own sake.”

“I’m sure you was, sir,” agreed Mr. Tridge, with sympathy. “But I can’t ’elp thinking you’ve been the victim of bad luck.”

“No use crying over spilt milk,” said Mr. Lock, philosophically. “Still, I’d like to have had a souveneer in memory of him, even if it wasn’t money. But by the time I’d got back here, everything had been sold and the funeral was all over, as you know.”

Mr. Tridge nodded, and irrelevantly mentioned the sum of threepence, extending his hand at the same time. A little light which was shining at the back of his eyes abruptly expired when Mr. Lock airily told him to put it down on the account, as usual.

At the departure of Mr. Lock, Mr. Lane took up his position in the chair, and for some while Mr. Tridge wielded the lather brush in silence. Frequently did Mr. Tridge glance in the mirror at his patron, and each time he was pleased to note the continuance of a meditative look on Mr. Lane’s face.

“Who was that young chap you were shaving when I came in?” asked Mr. Lane at last. “I don’t seem to recognize him.”

“Oh, he’s been about some time,” answered Mr. Tridge. “He’s the billiard-marker down at the ‘Royal William.’”

“Is his name, by any chance—er—what is it?—oh, yes! Pash?”

“No, his name’s Lock, sir—Peter Lock. Funny you should have mentioned Pash, though. ’E was related to old ’Ennery Pash. You know, sir, the old chap they said was a miser.”

“I’ve heard of him,” admitted Mr. Lane.

“Mind you, I’ve never really swallowed the yarn that ’e was a miser,” declared Mr. Tridge. “Only one ’as to agree with one’s customers, and show an interest in ’em, you know. But as for old Pash being a miser—I wouldn’t like to bet on it. I know ’e used to ’ave a lot of registered letters come for ’im, but that don’t prove anything, do it? And as for that tale about ’im being seen with stacks of notes as thick as a pack of cards—well, I never met anyone as could swear to it, anyway. Besides, they never found none in ’is cottage afterwards, though they searched every ’ole and corner. Ah, a queer old chap, ’e wos! I can see ’im now, sitting beside ’is fire in that old arm-chair of ’is. ’E never stirred from it if ’e could ’elp it. ’E regular loved that old chair of ’is. Once ’is chimney caught light, and bless me if that chair wasn’t the first thing ’e thought of to save!”

“Really?” said Mr. Lane, with interest.

“_And_ truly,” affirmed Mr. Tridge. “Soon as ever that chimney began to blaze, ’e lugged that chair outdoors. Ah, and ’e wouldn’t leave it, neither, to go in and rescue anything else. ’E just sat tight on it there, out in the middle of the road, and let some one else put out the fire. ’E said ’e wouldn’t leave ’is old chair in case some one stole it. A shabby, broken old chair like that, fancy!” scornfully concluded Mr. Tridge. “No wonder folk thought ’im a bit dotty!”

“Why, perhaps he’d—” exclaimed. Mr. Lane starting.

“Steady, sir, or I’ll be cutting you,” warned Mr. Tridge. “P’r’aps what, you was a-going to say?”

“Perhaps—perhaps he was very fond of it,” said Mr. Lane, a trifle weakly.

“I been a-telling you he was,” remarked Mr. Tridge. “But there! Old people like ’im often ’ave queer fancies like that!”

As one dismissing a thoroughly exhausted subject, Mr. Tridge turned the talk to the doings of Parliament, expounding his views with no more interruption than an occasional monosyllable interjected in a preoccupied way by his client.

“Let me see, where did you say that young man was employed?” inquired Mr. Lane, when at length Mr. Tridge simultaneously ceased his political remarks and his tonsorial services.

“What young man, sir?”

“Mr.—er—Mr. Pash’s great-nephew.”

“Oh, along at the ‘Royal William Hotel,’ sir,” said Mr. Tridge, turning aside to conceal a satisfied smile.

It was in the slack hour after tea that same day that the billiard-room of the “Royal William” was honoured by a first visit from Mr. Thomas Lane. He entered coyly, seating himself just inside the door in the most unobtrusive manner. Mr. Lock, idly testing his skill at the table, accorded the visitor a courteous greeting.

“No, I don’t want to play, thanks,” replied Mr. Lane. “I—I only just looked in, that’s all.”

“Quite so, sir,” agreed Mr. Lock.

Mr. Lane offered no further explanation of his presence, and Mr. Lock walked round the table a few times in leisurely pursuit of that perfection which comes to practice. The visitor, watching Mr. Lock’s activity through narrowed eyelids, patiently awaited opportunity, and this Mr. Lock presently offered him.

“Very good table, this, sir,” he observed, casually. “Good as any you’ll find in the town.”

“Dare say,” returned Mr. Lane, absently.

“I ain’t come across a public table to beat it,” stated Mr. Lock. “Of course, I don’t know anything about the private tables in the big houses round here. I expect there are a few good ones in some of them big houses on the cliff. If I was a rich man, I’d have a good billiard-table, I know.”

“I see,” said Mr. Lane, not very brilliantly.

“Once I did think that maybe I’d have a billiard-table of my own,” remarked Mr. Lock, with a smile at his own folly. “But it never come off.”

“How was that?” asked Mr. Lane, alertly.

“I was expecting a bit of a legacy,” explained Mr. Lock. “Not a big ’un, mind, but I thought if there was enough to buy me a billiard-table that ’ud satisfy me. It would have kept me in recreation for the rest of my life. I’d got my eye on a place to keep it, too, and I’d have made a bit of money out of it, one way and another.”

“But—” prompted Mr. Lane.

“But it wasn’t to be,” said Mr. Lock, with a wistful shake of the head.

“And how was that?” inquired Mr. Lane. “The money was left to some one else, eh?”

“There wasn’t no money left at all!” Mr. Lock informed him. “Just a sort of mystery, it was. Anyway, they had to sell the furniture to pay for the funeral, and that tells its own tale, don’t it?”

“Well, well!” murmured Mr. Lane.

“Not a stick left when I come back on the scene!” related Mr. Lock. “I’d like to have had something to remember him by, too. Relation of mine, you know, he was. ‘Peter,’ he used to say to me, ‘Peter, I particular wants you to have my old arm-chair when I’m gone.’ Always saying that, he was. Why he couldn’t have given it to me while he was alive, and have done with it, I don’t know.”

“Perhaps he didn’t want to part with it?” suggested Mr. Lane.

“That was about it, I expect,” agreed Mr. Lock. “He’d certainly got a great fancy for that chair. Why, he used to carry it into the bedroom with him at night, and bring it down again in the morning. But, there, it had clean gone when I got back here.”

“Couldn’t you find out who’d bought it?”

“I did try, sir, but it was no good. You see, it was just a sort of Dutch auction, and people paid their money down for anything they bought, and took it straight away. There was a lot of strangers present, too, far as I could make out, and it must have been one of them that bought that old chair. A chap from the country, some of ’em told me. Dare say that old chair’s not more than five miles away at this minute, if the truth was known.”

“Why don’t you—haven’t you advertised for it?”

“Oh, I ain’t so keen on it as all that, sir,” replied Mr. Lock, carelessly. “I can remember the old chap well enough, without needing his old arm-chair to remind me of him. I don’t believe in being sentimental, sir, when it costs money, and a advertisement would cost more than that old chair’s worth. Besides, he won’t know now whether I’ve got it or not, and, if he does, it can’t make much difference to him, can it, sir?”

With these practical remarks, Mr. Lock turned again to the billiard-table for interest. Mr. Lane, after sitting meditatively for a long three minutes, rose and unostentatiously quitted the room.

The saloon was well patronized when, a couple of hours later, Mr. Horace Dobb strolled in. His eyes sought Mr. Lock’s, and, meeting them, a slight upward flicker of the brows was perceptible. Mr. Lock nodded slowly, once, and Mr. Dobb drifted out again.

About ten minutes later Mr. Lane, his arms folded and his head bent in reverie, was occupying his accustomed seat in the bar-parlour of the “King’s Arms,” when a patron entered with a certain reckless joviality which compelled attention. Mr. Lane, glancing up petulantly at this intrusion on his meditations, recognized the new-comer to be a gentleman who dealt in second-hand goods at an establishment in Fore Street.

“’Evening all!” cried Mr. Dobb, exhibiting an unusual boisterousness of manner. He clung, swaying gently, to the handle of the door, and beamed owlishly round on the company. “’Evening all—and be blowed to the lot of you!”

The lady behind the counter, with whom it seemed that Mr. Dobb was something of a favourite, shook her finger at him in surprised reproach, and asked him what he meant by it.

“I been keeping off a cold!” explained Mr. Dobb, simply.

“So _I_ should think!” declared the lady.

A glassy look came into Mr. Dobb’s orbs, indicating purposeful concentration. Releasing his grasp on the door, he, as it were, swooped forward and came neatly to rest with his elbows on the counter. This feat achieved, he gazed about him as one seeking plaudits.

“Been keeping off a cold!” he announced again, and performed a little shuffling movement which brought him backwards to the centre of the room. “Look at me boots!” he invited, proudly.

“Why, wherever have you been?” asked the lady. “All that mud!”

“I been keeping—I mean, I been out in the country!” stated Mr. Dobb, returning to the support offered by the bar.

“Been watercressing by the look of it?” suggested the lady, in playful sarcasm.

“Business!” said Mr. Dobb portentously, and looked round as though to balk the intentions of eavesdroppers.

“Business!” he repeated, in a whisper, and solemnly put his finger to his lips. “Norraword!” he urged warningly, and immediately added in the loudest, boastfullest accents: “I’ve had a good day to-day. Bought a rare lot of stuff!”

He waited indecisively a little time, and then, selecting the chair adjacent to Mr. Lane’s, sat down on it with some abruptness of impact.

“Wanter buy a nice set of fire-irons?” he inquired, winningly. “Beautiful set! Bargain!”

Mr. Lane replied to the effect that he was adequately furnished with fire-irons.

“Don’t blame you, either!” hazily commented Mr. Dobb, and was silent for a brief space.

“Funny thing about it is,” he remarked next, opening one eye to stare at Mr. Lane challengingly, “’alf the stuff come from this town to start with. Now, ain’t that a rum ’un, eh?”

“I dare say,” politely ceded Mr. Lane.

“Of course it is!” insisted Mr. Dobb, with truculence. “Me going all the way out there to buy stuff what ’ad come—what ’ad come from Shore’aven to start with! It’s a—a cohincydence, that’s what it is! Going miles and miles to buy stuff what I could ’ave bought at old Pash’s sale, if only I’d been there!”

“Whose sale did you say?” quickly asked the other.

“Never you mind ’oose sale!” returned. Mr. Dobb, with reserve. “But, ’oosever it was, the stuff I bought to-day come from it! See? So don’t go a-contradicting of me!”

“I’m not!” protested Mr. Lane.

“Oh, yes, you was!” asserted Mr. Dobb. “Why don’t you let a man finish what ’e’s got to say afore you starts to argue? I’m telling you most of this stuff was bought by a chap in several lots to furnish ’is cottage.”

“Indeed?” said Mr. Lane.

“There you goes again!” complained Mr. Dobb. “Anyway, ’e’s got a job at the other end of the country now, and—”

Mr. Dobb ceased momentarily, and regarded his boots with a fond smile.

“I ’aven’t ’alf been keeping out a cold!” he observed, confidentially. “Talk about mud and rain and cold winds—’oo’d live in the country, I’d like to know.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Lane, ingratiatingly. “Who would, indeed?”

To this Mr. Dobb made no response, being now engaged in inward thought.

“Who would, indeed?” said Mr. Lane again.

“Eh?” demanded Mr. Dobb, returning to wakefulness.

“Who would live in the country?” said Mr. Lane.

“Why, _I_ would!” declared Mr. Dobb. “I love the country! All the little dicky-birds and—so on!”

He suddenly rose, proclaiming his intention of going home to bed as a preventive measure against chill. He nodded a protracted, dreary-eyed, good-night to each individual of the company present, and then, festooning across the apartment, noisily negotiated the door and passed from view.

No sooner was Mr. Dobb outside in the street, however, than his waywardness dropped from him, and, congratulating himself on his histrionic powers, he walked briskly to his abode.

Soon after breakfast next morning, Mr. Lane was visible in Fore Street. Into half a dozen shop-windows did he peer with an air of boredom, nor did his expression become quickened when at length he ranged himself before the jumbled collection of oddments which Mr. Dobb exhibited to the passer-by.

For some moments Mr. Lane affected a lukewarm interest in a faded photograph of the Niagara Falls, and next he lingered to gaze on a teapot which had suffered casualty in its more obtrusive parts. And, after that, he stepped into the doorway and pretended close scrutiny of a pair of cast-iron dumb-bells, and, under cover of this manœuvre, he glanced into the interior of the shop, and there saw a heterogeneous pile of furniture which was evidently awaiting disposal, and the most conspicuous item in it was a tattered and battered old arm-chair.

“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Lane, involuntarily.

At this juncture Mr. Horace Dobb himself made an appearance at the threshold of his shop with evident purpose of ascertaining the state of the weather.

“Good morning, sir!” he said.

“Good morning—good morning!” returned Mr. Lane, with eager amiability. “Did you keep the cold off all right?”

“Oh, yes, I kept it; but ’ow did you know I was trying to keep a cold off?”

“Why, you told me so last night.”

“Last night?” queried Mr. Dobb, shaking his head. “Why, I never see you last night, sir.”

“In the ‘King’s Arms,’” prompted Mr. Lane.

“I never went in the ‘King’s Arms’ last night!” denied Mr. Dobb. “I came straight ’ome and went to bed. I’m sure of it.”

Mr. Lane was about to contradict, when it was evident that he changed his intention.

“Oh, well, I must have been thinking of some one else,” he said, lightly.

“I don’t know whether you’re interested in furniture, sir,” ventured Mr. Dobb. “But I’ve got some stuff in new to stock this morning, and—”

“I don’t mind having a look at it,” admitted Mr. Lane, almost skipping into the emporium.

“There’s a bedstead for you!” cried the vendor, with enthusiasm. “Real solid, good stuff. Been in a farm’ouse these ’undred years and more.”

“I got a bedstead,” said Mr. Lane.

“What about a sofa?” asked Mr. Dobb.

Mr. Lane shook his head. He was giving his attention to the worn old arm-chair.

“You don’t expect ever to sell a shabby old thing like that, do you?” he asked, artfully.

“It is a bit knocked about,” confessed Mr. Dobb. “But it’s a real fine old chair of its kind. I reckon to get a pretty good price for it when it’s been restored. I’ll ’ave it restuffed and reup’olstered, and it’ll fetch a big price, I lay.”

“It looks very lumpy,” observed Mr. Lane, and seized the opportunity to prod the sagging seat with his finger. He thrilled electrically when his touch encountered something vaguely massy and hard in the horsehair stuffing. Mr. Dobb, who had planned that thrill with the aid of a bulky old volume from the rubbish corner, winked pleasantly at the ceiling.

“I ain’t ’ardly ’ad a good look at it yet,” said Mr. Dobb. “It was in with a lot of other things I was after, though I meant to ’ave it, of course, soon as ever I spotted it. Genuine antike, that is.”

“Oh, I don’t think so!” said Mr. Lane.

“Well, it belonged to a old chap ’oo died in Shore’aven ’ere, and ’e’d ’ad it pretty nigh all ’is life, and chance it!” contended Mr. Dobb.

“I wonder the man who bought it then didn’t overhaul it,” mentioned Mr. Lane, thoughtfully. “Perhaps he did?” he suggested, a little dashed.

“Ah, ’e meant to, but ’e never ’ad the time,” said Mr. Dobb. “’E bought it with that idea, ’e told me, and ’e took it to ’is cottage in the country, meaning to see to it. But ’e ’append to lose ’is job, and, what with finding a fresh one, and then making arrangements to shift ’is family, ’e was so busy that the old chair just stayed up in ’is attic, untouched, from the time ’e took it ’ome to the time I bought it yesterday.”

“And what would you be asking for it as it stands?”

“Well, I dunno,” mused Mr. Dobb. “It ’ud pay me better to touch it up a bit first, I suppose. A genuine antike, you know. Still, if anybody was to offer me, say—oh, fifteen for it—”

“Fifteen shillings!” cried Mr. Lane, in excitement. “Right you—”

“Shillings? No!” scornfully interrupted Mr. Dobb. “Pounds, of course!”

“Why, it’s nowhere near worth that!”

“It’s worth what it’ll fetch,” said Mr. Dobb. “Anyway, by the time I’ve pulled it into shape a bit, and—”

“I’ll give you a couple of pounds for it as it stands,” offered Mr. Lane.

“Why, that ain’t a quarter of what I give for it myself!” returned Mr. Dobb. “But I’ve got a set of fire-irons what you can ’ave for two quid, if you like,” he offered, brightly.

“I don’t want fire-irons,” said Mr. Lane, pettishly.

“Well, I don’t take a penny less than fifteen quid for that chair. Look at the woodwork! A bit scratched, maybe, but sound—sound and ’eavy. They don’t make ’em like that nowadays.”

“But fifteen pounds!” murmured Mr. Lane.

“Oh, I shall get more than that for it when I’ve squared it up and restored it,” foretold Mr. Dobb, confidently. “Why, I know more than one collector in these parts that’ll only be too anxious to secure it soon as ever ’e sees it. In a way, I’m doing you a favour by giving you first chance.”

“But fifteen pounds!” protested Mr. Lane.

“Well, I’ll say twelve as it stands, seeing as I shan’t ’ave to bother with restoring it. There, twelve! Just to make a reg’lar customer of you, only don’t go talking too much. Why, you can’t get much new in the furniture line to-day for twelve; and as for antikes—. Solid, that’s what it is! ’Ere, ’alf a mo’! I’ll just strip the cover off and leave the stuffing aside, and you’ll see what a fine strong frame it’s got.”

“No, don’t do that—don’t do that!” babbled Mr. Lane, desperately. “It’s all right! I mean, I believe you. But—but twelve pounds! I wouldn’t mind going to—to four, or even five, but—but twelve! It isn’t a particularly handsome chair—”

“But you seem pretty keen to ’ave it, sir, for all that,” Mr. Dobb pointed out. “However, please yourself. If you don’t take it I shall put it in my window there, and somebody’s bound to come along and—”

“You—you couldn’t let me have it on approval for a day or two?” suggested Mr. Lane, but not hopefully.

“No, sir. This is a cash business. But I’ll tell you what—if you like to let me take out the stuffing and leave it ’ere, I’d knock off a quid. Good ’orse’air’s always worth—”

“No, no. I want it as it is!”

“Then twelve quid buys it!”

Mr. Lane again probed the ragged upholstery of the seat with an investigatory forefinger.

“I’ll give you ten,” he offered.

“You seem to think I ain’t a man of my word,” complained Mr. Dobb, indignantly.

“Ten!” offered Mr. Lane, again. “That’s my limit!”

Twenty minutes later they had arrived at a compromise, and the sum of eleven pounds ten shillings changed ownership. With his own hands Mr. Lane lifted the chair and staggered out with it to the handtruck Mr. Dobb had obligingly placed at his disposal.

“There he goes with ’is ’idden treasure,” said Mr. Dobb, smiling, as Mr. Lane’s small back bent in energetic propulsion of his purchase.

That same evening Mr. Dobb paid thirty shillings into the willing grasp of each of his three old shipmates, and fully endorsed their flattering statements as to his mental ingenuity.

A fortnight elapsed, and then, one afternoon, Mr. Lane walked into the emporium. Mr. Dobb, mastering a primitive impulse to point derisively at his visitor, addressed him in honeyed tones of courtesy.

“Ain’t seen you lately, sir,” he remarked.

“I’ve been away,” said Mr. Lane. “Been taking a bit of a holiday.”

“Lucky to be you, sir, to ’ave the money to spare,” said Mr. Dobb. “Why, I ain’t seen you, come to think of it, not since the morning you bought that antike chair off of me. I ’ope you never repented that antike bargain, sir?” he asked, with tremulous lips.

“Well, I must say it didn’t turn out quite as I expected,” admitted Mr. Lane; “but I’m not grumbling.”

“Spoke like a sportsman!” declared Mr. Dobb.

“Funny thing, when I took that stuffing to bits,” observed Mr. Lane. “You’ll never guess what I found hidden in the seat?”

“Bag o’ gold!” suggested Mr. Dobb.

“No. An old book!”

“Never!” breathed Mr. Dobb, incredulously.

“It’s a fact!” asseverated Mr. Lane. “Believe me or believe me not, there was a big, old-fashioned musty old book!”

“Fancy that!” said Mr. Dobb.

“Surprising, ain’t it? Anyway, I showed it to a friend of mine, and he said it had evidently been hidden there because it was very rare.”

“Sounds possible,” said Mr. Dobb, his eyes watering under the strain of enforced gravity.

“As it happened, my friend was right,” said Mr. Lane. “Of course, he knew something about old books, and that was why I showed it to him. Anyway, it was a rare old first edition, ever so old, and I sent it up to London, and sold it for thirty guineas!”

“What!” cried Mr. Dobb.

“Sold it for thirty guineas!” repeated Mr. Lane. “Thirty guineas for an old book that anyone who didn’t know its value might have thrown away.”

“Don’t believe it!” declared Mr. Dobb, huskily.

“Well, here’s the cheque,” said Mr. Lane; “and here’s the correspondence.”

Mr. Dobb gazed at the documentary evidence. Then, without a word, he tottered into the shop parlour and took the unprecedented step of drinking a glass of undiluted water. The fortunate Mr. Lane, looking round for other chairs to prod and finding none, went out of the dusty little emporium into the sunshine.

_EPISODE VIII_ A SPECIAL PERFORMANCE

Mr. Horace Dobb, released from the ministrations of the proprietor of the Magnolia Toilet Saloon, critically inspected the reflection of his shaven chin, and then charged Mr. Joseph Tridge with being a niggard as to face-powder.