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.
“’Ere you are!” scornfully said Mr. Tridge, passing him the puff. “’Elp
yourself! Go on! Put some on your nose, too. I would, if I was you!
Take some ’ome with you in a paper bag. ’Ere, steady!” he ended,
snatching the puff out of Mr. Dobb’s hand. “It’s for powdering, not
whitewashing, remember!”
“You ain’t got a little complexion cream to spare, I suppose?” asked Mr.
Dobb, unabashed. “No, I thought not. Well, then, what about a little
drop o’ brilliantine, eh? This it? Thanks.”
“Don’t you be a fool, ’Orace,” earnestly counselled Mr. Tridge. “I’m
surprised at you, I am, reely! Runnin’ after gals at your time of life!
What would your missis say?”
“I ain’t running after no gals,” denied Mr. Dobb. “I ain’t even
slow-marching after ’em. But I wants to look just-so, because I’m making
a sort of deboo in ’igh society this evening.”
“Fish supper with the dook and duchess, I suppose?” ironically hazarded
Mr. Tridge.
“No; but it’s the opening night at the theayter to-night,” explained Mr.
Dobb, “and I’m going to sit somewhere near the front seats. ’Ow’s that
for getting on in life, eh?”
“Free complimentaries,” diagnosed Mr. Tridge, “for promising to show
window-bills. Why, I’ve got orders for two myself.”
“’Ave you though?” said Mr. Dobb, a little dashed by this discounting of
his social value. “Why, I was going to hinvite you to come along with
me. We could ’ave tossed up to see ’oo paid for the programme. If you
don’t come, I shall only ’ave to take the missis, and I don’t want to
waste a seat deliberate like that, if I can ’elp it.”
“I’ve asked Peter Lock to come along with me,” returned Mr. Tridge.
“It’s ’is night off from the billiard-room. ’Ere, what about asking old
Sam Clark, eh? The four of us going together to the theayter like we
used to do in the good old, bad old days of the ‘Jane Gladys.’”
“Right-o!” agreed Mr. Dobb, very readily. “Anything to hencourage my
missis in ’ome life. We’ll all four go together. But no getting chucked
out in a bunch, though, mind,” he stipulated. “I’ve got business reasons
for not wanting to upset the chap what’s running the theayter now.”
“It’s a noo management,” mentioned Mr. Tridge.
“I know. It’s the fifth noo management in fourteen months, so they tells
me. Shore’aven don’t seem what you might call a hartistic place, do it?
Specially when they done Shakespeare six weeks ago. Only done ’im once,
they did, but that was enough. That was what reely led to the sale.”
“What sale?” inquired Mr. Tridge.
“Why, the last time it shut. They ’ad a sale of fixtures up there, when
the creditors wouldn’t take out their money in tickets. That was where
the glass shandyleary came from.”
“Shandy-’ow-much?” demanded Mr. Tridge.
“Shandyleary. I’ve got it in my shop now. I bought it off a chap what
bought it at the sale. Great big thing it is, what used to ’ang in the
centre of the roof. ’Andsome thing it is, too, in its way, all made of
sparkly bits of glass as big as—”
“As big as a second-’and dealer’s Sunday scarfpin,” pointedly suggested
Mr. Tridge.
“Aye, pretty nigh,” accepted Mr. Dobb, with complacency. “I’m going to
sell it back soon to the chap what’s running the theayter now.”
“Does ’e know you’re going to?”
“Not yet, ’e don’t,” admitted Mr. Dobb. “Why, ’e don’t even know I’ve
got it yet. But I’ve got some one to sound ’im to see whether ’e’s at
all inclined to buy it, and ’e said ’e won’t ’ave it at no price. But it
takes two to make a quarrel, don’t it? Anyway, whether ’e reely wants it
or not, ’e’s going to buy it.”
“And ’ow are you going to make ’im do that?” inquired Mr. Tridge, with
every faith in his old shipmate’s commercial omnipotence.
“Ah, I ain’t thought quite so far as that yet,” confessed Mr. Dobb. “All
I’ve fixed in my mind is that ’e’s going to give me thirty-five quid for
that shandyleary. It’s old Joe Bindley, that retired builder chap,
what’s the noo proprietor, you know. ’E bought up the theayter cheap, as
a speckylation, and ’e reckons to make a big success out of it. You
ought to ’ear ’im talk about what ’e’s going to do at ’is theayter!
Anyone might think that the next war was going to be perdooced there as a
front piece to the big play of the evening.”
“I see ’e’s starting with a month’s hengagement, straight off, of the
world-famous hactress, Miss Margureety Delafayne,” observed Mr. Tridge,
studying a printed announcement on his wall. “’Oo’s she, anyway? It’s
the first time I’ve ’eard of ’er.”
“Ah, she’s one of the good-old-might-’ave-been-p’r’apsers,” Mr. Dobb
somewhat ungallantly informed him. “Not that she ain’t still a fine
figure of a woman, far as golden ’air and a sealskin coat and light blue
satin goes. But hact? Oh, dear me, no! It’s more like a fit of the
dismals that hacting. Bindley reckons she’s going to get all the
neighbourhood into the reg’lar ’abit of coming to ’is theayter. She’s
more likely to cure ’em of the ’abit, to my way of thinking.”
“You’ve seen ’er, then?”
“I paid to see ’er hact once, at Yarmouth. I’ve always reckoned I’ve
been three pints out from that day to this. Well, I’m off now to fix up
with old Sam Clark.”
“Meet you outside the show at seven-thirty,” said Mr. Tridge. “Mind you
ain’t late.”
“I never am late,” replied Mr. Dobb simply, “when there’s something for
nothing.”
Thus it was ordained, and thus it came about that a few hours later, four
contiguous seats at the Shorehaven Theatre were occupied by that
old-established fellowship of graduates from the baneful academy of the
“Jane Gladys.” From the time of their processional entry to the rising
of the curtain on the play, each of the quartet expressed his
individuality in his customary manner.
Mr. Horace Dobb, reflecting very patently the prosperity of the little
shop he had married, leaned back in his seat with an air of bored
patronage and made great play with a ring which, when happily it caught
the light at a certain elusive angle, gleamed quite visibly. Mr. Joseph
Tridge, wearing something new and very arrestive in the way of check
suitings, could not but be correspondingly sportive and genial in the
truculent, domineering manner. Mr. Peter Lock, trim and brisk and
debonair as ever, maintained a joyous flow of scandal about such of the
attendance present as had their secret histories discussed in the
billiard-room of the “Royal William.” And the plump and venerable Mr.
Samuel Clark, his rubicund face aglow with happiness in the reunion,
beamed impartially on all around him, and with a conspicuous, festooning
forefinger, beat time to the orchestra’s overture.
But soon after the commencement of the play there developed changes of
temperament, subtle and slight at first, but broadening progressively as
the performance continued. And thus, before the curtain had descended on
the first act, Mr. Peter Lock’s brightness was quite gone, and he was
sitting in a round-shouldered way, with his arms drooping limply down
beside him, while the eyes with which he regarded the stage had in them
nothing but dull resignation.
And Mr. Joseph Tridge was fast asleep, and even snoring a little, though
this was a venial transgression which appeared to arouse only the emotion
of envy among his neighbours. And Mr. Horace Dobb had ceased to look
patronizing, but had retained an added intensity to his expression of
boredom, and had now come to vehement sighings at frequent intervals.
But Mr. Clark showed no such unfavouring listlessness towards the
performance as his companions were exhibiting. Manifestly to the
contrary, Mr. Clark was craning forward in his seat with so eager an
interest in the drama that he was quite unconscious of the repressive
glances continually directed at him over her shoulder by the lady whose
chair-back he was gripping in his excitement. His face betokened the
raptest concentration of attention, and several times he had offered
audible and emphatic comment on the goodness of the play, and once he had
even stared round him challengingly to see why no one endorsed his high
opinions.
And when at length the curtain swept down to terminate the first act,
there would have been a complete silence in the auditorium had not Mr.
Clark at once begun to beat his vast palms together in emphatic approval.
A few hirelings of the management, posted remotely about the building,
rather timidly followed Mr. Clark’s lead, and the curtain, after
billowing uncertainly for a while, rose again to reveal Miss Marguerite
Delafayne standing solitary on the stage. In a way that was not entirely
devoid of defiance, Miss Delafayne began to bow her acknowledgments of
the tributes to her art.
“Brayvo!” cried Mr. Clark, leaping to his feet and achieving an almost
cyclonic quality in his applause. “Brayvo!” Miss Delafayne, moved by
such warm partisanship in an otherwise unresponsive world, looked
straight at Mr. Clark and curtseyed in the most queenly manner in his
direction. Mr. Clark, placing his fingers to his lips, was about to pay
the lady still greater homage, when she went on to bow to a
pseudo-enthusiastic programme-seller at the back of the gallery, and Mr.
Clark sat down with a dazed but happy expression on his face.
The curtain descended again, and immediately a heavy, discouraged hush
enwrapped the theatre.
“Well, thank goodness we ain’t bought a programme, anyway!” said Mr.
Dobb, at last breaking silence.
“I’m going to buy one now,” announced Mr. Clark.
“Don’t you be an old fool, Sam,” urged Mr. Tridge. “I shouldn’t ’ave
thought anyone would want to know more about this blessed show than they
could ’elp.”
“I want to know the—the scenes and—and the names,” explained Mr. Clark,
hesitantly.
“Then borrer a programme, if you must know the worst,” counselled Mr.
Tridge.
“I—I want one to keep,” stated Mr. Clark, shyly.
“To _keep_?” exclaimed Mr. Tridge.
“Sam,” observed the perspicacious Mr. Dobb, “you’re a gay old dorg!”
“Did you see ’er look at me?” demanded Mr. Clark, in a burst of senile
vanity. “Straight at me!”
“I’d just as soon be looked at by a sack of flour!” declared Mr. Tridge;
and instantly there arose a quarrel so bitter that, in the interests of
peace, Mr. Dobb had to take the extreme step of curtailing it by offering
to pay for refreshment at some convenient hostelry outside.
Mr. Tridge, closing at once with this invitation, rose to follow Mr. Dobb
from the building, and so did Mr. Lock. Mr. Clark, however, created a
blank amazement by returning an unprecedented answer to such an offer.
“We might be late and miss a bit of the next hact,” he explained; and his
companions, after solemnly shaking their heads at each other for some
moments, went silently away.
They did not return in time for the next act, nor for the next act after
that, though such were Mr. Clark’s blissful preoccupations of mind that
he did not notice the defection of his comrades until he was passing
through the lobby at the conclusion of the performance. And even then he
went back into the auditorium to look for his friends, and was much
mystified by their disappearance.
It was three days later ere Mr. Clark and Mr. Dobb again met. Mr. Dobb,
finding himself near the ferry, had strolled thither to have a few words
with his old shipmate. To his surprise, he found a substitute on duty in
the ferry-boat, and discovered from that gentleman that for the last
three days Mr. Clark, utilizing his favourite explanation of colic, had
been making holiday and seemingly intended to make holiday for several
days longer.
Mr. Dobb, learning that the present whereabouts of Mr. Clark were unknown
to his informant, strolled back into the town, and, at the corner of the
High Street, he encountered Mr. Clark.
“’Ullo!” said Mr. Clark, awkwardly.
“Why ain’t you at the ferry?” asked Mr. Dobb.
“That’s _my_ business, ’Orace,” stated Mr. Clark, restively.
“I know it is!” retorted Mr. Dobb. “That’s why I’m asking you why you
ain’t there!” He apprehended the gala nature of Mr. Clark’s attire, and
started in surprise. “You—you ain’t been love-making, ’ave you, Sam—not
on your wages?” he asked.
“No such luck!” replied Mr. Clark, ruefully. “But,” he added, “I know
where she lodges, anyway.”
“’Oo?”
“Why, Miss Margureety Delafayne,” replied Mr. Clark, voicing the name in
cadences of mournful satisfaction.
“Oh, ’er!” said Mr. Dobb, with scant interest. “I’d forgot all about
that, and I thought you ’ad, too. You generally does.”
“I’ve been watching ’er go in and out of ’er front door these last two
days,” stated the love-lore Mr. Clark. “Watched, unbeknown, from the
corner of the road, I ’ave. I’ve just come from there now. Are you
going to the theayter to-night?”
Mr. Dobb’s reply was pietistic in form.
“Well, I’m going,” said. Mr. Clark. “I ain’t missed a performance yet.”
And with that proud boast he went on his way, and Mr. Dobb resumed his
homeward path. Passing the Magnolia Toilet Saloon, a salvo of taps upon
the window claimed his attention, and glancing inside, he found himself
being beckoned imperatively by the proprietor.
“Peter Lock’s looking all over the place for you,” Mr. Tridge informed
him. “’E wants you to ’urry round to the ‘Royal William’ soon as ever
you can.”
“Why, what’s up?”
“The chap ’oose wife tried to poison ’im with the big eyes—” replied Mr.
Tridge, a trifle obscurely.
“Poison ’im with big eyes?” murmured Mr. Dobb, grappling with the enigma.
“In the first hact,” supplied Mr. Tridge, helpfully. “So Peter says. I
was asleep.”
“Oh, now I know! Well, what about ’im?”
“’E’s practising ’is billiards at the ‘Royal William.’ Peter thought ’e
might come in useful somewhere, sometime, some’ow. You know—that glass
shandyleary of yours.”
Mr. Dobb, without wasting time on mere social amenities, straightway
turned and set out for the “Royal William.” Entering the billiard-room,
he found it to be occupied by but two persons. Of these, one was the
marker, Mr. Peter Lock, and the other was an individual of attenuated
physique, theoretically clean-shaven, but actually rather blue-chinned.
A top hat, worn occipitally, graced the stranger’s head, and an overcoat,
featuring some kind of strange fur on its collar, hung on a peg behind
the door. These clues, in conjunction with Mr. Tridge’s foreword,
enabled Mr. Dobb to exploit the occasion without further assistance from
Mr. Lock.
Waiting till his old shipmate held temporary possession of the table, Mr.
Dobb approached the other gentleman in a manner which can only be
described as reverential.
“I ’ope you’ll pardon me for the liberty I’m taking, sir,” he observed,
“but, of course, I recognize you by sight, and I want to thank you for
the treat you give me the other night.”
“I—I don’t remember,” returned the stranger. “Was it here, or at—”
“At the theayter, sir. The way you done your part!” breathed Mr. Dobb.
“It was wonderful!”
“Oh, _that_!” exclaimed the other, with marked gratification.
“Most henjoyable, sir! Most hinteresting! Most—most hartistic!”
“Very good of you, sir, to say so. Of course it’s a strong part, to
begin with, and—”
“Ah, but it takes a strong hactor to make the most of a strong part,”
contended Mr. Dobb.