firmly, “I _knows_ ’em! See? Anyway, I make out I do. And ’e’s got the
money to spare to get a collection together, and ’e comes to me to ’elp
’im, and I ain’t the man to refuse ’elp to anyone with money. Pounds and
pounds ’e’s spent with me, just on my recommendation. I let ’im think
that I think ’e knows nearly as much as I do about hart, and ’e thinks,
therefore, as I wouldn’t think of cheating ’im.”
“There seems a lot of thinking about it,” said Mr. Lock.
“It’s a hobby of mine,” returned Mr. Dobb, “thinking is.”
“And you wouldn’t dream of deceiving ’im, I’ll lay!” said Mr. Tridge,
ironically. “No more would I sell a chap off the ‘Raven’ a solid,
rolled-gold himitation ring for a quid if I ’ad ’alf a chance!”
“China and brickybacks ’e’s bought off of me, and a few rare old prints,
and some genuine hoil-paintings,” catalogued Mr. Dobb. “And some odds
and ends what ’e calls bigjewrious and virtue. ’E’s got the money to
spend, and ’e wants to spend it, and ’oo am I to stand in the way of a
man’s wishes?”
“It’s better than a lottery,” said Mr. Clark, wistfully. “And ’ave you
got ’im all to yourself, ’Orace?”
“Up to a few days ago,” replied Mr. Dobb. “And that brings me to the
matter in ’and. Old George Pincott got to ’ear about this ’ere Mr.
Lister, and ’e’s trying ’ard to get ’is ’ooks in ’im and drag ’im clean
away from me. After all, I found ’im first, and so I told Pincott, but
’is only answer was that all was fair in love and war.”
Mr. Dobb paused and sighed at such commercial laxity. Mr. Tridge
feelingly remarked that he did not know how the principle acted in war,
but that sometimes it made things very awkward so far as love was
concerned. He was about to cite an instance when Mr. Dobb again claimed
attention.
“Ever been in that poky little sweetstuff shop ’alf way down Market
Lane?” he asked, as a general question. “Oh, well, I ain’t surprised!”
he continued, as heads were shaken negatively. “It’s a tumble-down,
ramshackle little place. But there’s a big hoil-painting ’anging up
against the end wall, because that’s the only place where they can find
room for it.”
“What sort of a picture?” asked Mr. Lock, with interest. “Saucy?”
“No, it’s supposed to be a bit of scenery—scenery in a fog at twilight,
by the look of it. It’s signed by a chap called Carrotti, and the old
gal what keeps the shop will tell you that it’s been in ’er family for
’undreds of years. She won’t sell it, she says, because it’s a heirloom
in the family.”
“Sentimental old geezer,” commented Mr. Clark. “I’d sell—well, I don’t
know what I wouldn’t sell if I ’ad the chance!”
“’Ave you tried to buy it off of ’er?” asked Mr. Tridge.
“I haven’t, and I ain’t going to, neither,” said Mr. Dobb. “I’m going to
give old George Pincott a chance to buy it and make a big profit out of
it.”
“But—” expostulated Mr. Lock, at such altruism.
“It looks,” continued Mr. Dobb, imperturbably, “as if it might be one of
them there Old Masters. But it ain’t! Not by no means! I’ve took the
opportunity to examine it pretty thorough, and, though I may not know
much about hart really, I do know enough to know that this pickcher ain’t
worth as much as the frame round it.”
“I see!” declared Mr. Lock, slapping his knee exultantly. “You want
George Pincott to buy it and then get stuck with it?”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t wish ’im anything so unkind as that!” denied Mr.
Dobb, primly. “I want ’im to buy it and go along to sell it to Mr.
Lister at a good profit.”
“You’ll be growing wings and learning the ’arp next!” foretold Mr.
Tridge, in wide-eyed astonishment.
“Yes, and while ’e’s trying to sell it to ’im,” purred Mr. Dobb, “_I’m_
going to step in and hexpose it as a fraud! And that ought to get old
Lister away from Pincott and back safe to me and my shop for ever and
ever, oughtn’t it?”
“Yes; but how are you going to get Pincott to buy it?” asked Mr. Lock.
“Well, in the first place,” said Mr. Dobb, “don’t forget that Pincott
keeps a pretty close eye on me, and that ’e generally goes by what I do,
seeing I’m quicker at the business than ’e is. And, for another thing
don’t forget that ’e’s a new-comer to these parts, and don’t know that us
four was all shipmates together once.”
“Yes, but how—” began Mr. Lock again.
“Ah, that’s where you chaps comes in,” stated Mr. Dobb, and began to
converse in lowered, more earnest tones with each of his old companions
in turn.
It was on the following evening that the squat and not completely
fashionable figure of Mr. George Pincott entered the billiard-room of the
“Royal William.” The hour was still early, and Mr. Peter Lock, the
marker, was rather forlornly reading a newspaper in a corner.
Considerably did he brighten at the advent of even so unremunerative a
patron as Mr. Pincott, and willingly did he accept that gentleman’s
challenge to play a short game in the interval of waiting for brisker
business.
“I see a friend of yours this afternoon, sir,” observed Mr. Lock,
casually, after a while. “At least, hardly a friend, but more of an
acquaintance.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Pincott, without much interest.
Mr. Lock squinted along his cue, made a shot, and retrieved the red ball
from a pocket.
“Mr. Dobb, of Fore Street,” he said.
“Oh, _’im_?” said Mr. Pincott.
“Yessir, Mr. Dobb,” went on Mr. Lock; and was silent till he had brought
another stroke to fruition. “Looking very pleased with himself, he was,
too.”
“Why, was Mr. Lister along with him?” quickly asked Mr. Pincott.
“No, sir, he was alone. He must be finding business very good just at
present. He couldn’t help smiling as he walked along, and he stopped and
chatted to me as affable as affable. He told me I ought to give up
billiard-marking for picture-dealing. He said there was big money to be
made at it by a chap who keeps his eyes open. It struck me at the time
that it was rather a pity in some ways that he couldn’t keep his mouth
shut. Mind you, sir, I think he’d been—”
Mr. Lock made a pantomimic gesture indicating the assuagement of thirst.
“Ah!” cried Mr. Pincott, with a rising inflexion. “And what else did ’e
say?”
“Well, sir, I don’t know as I ought to repeat it, you being a trade rival
of his, so to speak,” said Mr. Lock, chalking his cue afresh. “But,
after all, he didn’t tell me nothing very definite. It seems—”
He ceased to speak, transferring his entire attention to the
preliminaries of a stroke.
“Well, what did ’e tell you?” demanded Mr. Pincott, when Mr. Lock stood
erect again with a sigh of relief, and then began to stride purposefully
towards the top of the table.
“Who, sir?” asked Mr. Lock, bending for further effort.
“Why, Dobb!”
“Dobb? Oh, yes!” said Mr. Lock. “Ah, I thought there was just the right
exact amount of ‘side’ on that one!”
“About this ’ere Dobb!” Mr. Pincott impatiently reminded him.
“Oh, yes! Well, he didn’t tell me so very much, after all, sir. Only
something about being on the track of a vallyble picture, what was
hanging up practically unbeknown in this very town here, and about him
hoping to buy it cheap before anyone else slipped in and snapped it up.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Pincott, thoughtfully. “Oh!” he repeated, still more
thoughtfully. “Oh, ’e said that, did ’e? Did ’e tell you where the
picture was?”
“No, sir, he didn’t say no more after that. He just lit a cigar and
walked on.”
For a few seconds Mr. Pincott silently contemplated this goading mental
picture of Mr. Dobb prodigally lighting cigars, plainly an earnest and
foretaste of opulence to come. Then Mr. Pincott turned again to the
marker and urged him to strive to remember every word that had passed in
this interview with Mr. Dobb.
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.