"Look here," I said, "this is indeed serious. The what-not's
moulting."
"It's been like that for a long time," said Anna. "But I suppose it's
getting worse."
"I'm afraid so. And we _must_ have something reliable," I said, "to
stand dishes and things on at meals. We can't pile them all on the
table at once like a cairn. To tell you the truth," I added, "I've had
my eye on an old oak dresser at Smalley's for a long time. It would be
a good investment--at a price."
"Yes," said Anna; "but I suppose the price would be the earth and the
fulness thereof."
"That is precisely what I propose to find out, and if they'll take
anything less than thirty pounds it's ours. In the meantime," I added,
"we'll dope the poor old what-not with furniture cream and see about
driving it to market."
There are two accepted methods of dealing at old furniture shops.
The first is to approach them, well-groomed, be-ringed and perfumed,
smoking a jewelled gasper and entering the shop with a circular
movement of the arm to expose the gold wrist-watch that _will_ crawl
up the sleeve at wrong moments, and to ask in a commanding voice, "How
much is the--ah--oak-dresser--what?"
The presiding genius (and being a dealer he is usually a genius), who
had really ticketed the article thirty pounds, approaches it, removes
the ticket by a little sleight-of-hand and says, "Thirty-eight
guineas, Sir," without a blush (the dealer who blushes is hounded
from the ring). This method of dealing is direct action of the most
dangerous kind.
The other method, and the one I most usually adopt, I can best
illustrate by detailing my interview with the proprietor of Smalley's
on the occasion when I went dressering.
I sidled into the shop in garments carefully selected from my
pre-wardrobe and wearing a vacant expression. Picking up a piece of
china I examined it carefully, turning it upside down, as though
to search for a pottery mark, which I probably should never have
recognised.
"H'm, not bad," I said.
"One of the best bits of Dresden I've ever had," said the dealer. "I
want----"
"Ah, German," I said, putting the thing down hurriedly as though it
might be mined. "It may be a good piece, but--what is the price of
that brass fender?"
"Seven-ten, old Dutch and a bargain," said the dealer laconically.
"But probably wouldn't fit the fireplace in my mind. Though," I added
to myself, "it might fit the one in our dining-room."
I thought it about time to notice the dresser, not to attempt to buy
it yet--oh dear no, but merely to fire the first shot in the campaign
as it were.
"What kind of a dresser do you call this?" I said. "Slightly
moth-eaten, isn't it?"
"That's nothing; merely age. It's Welsh," he added, "and a beauty.
I wish I could get hold of more like it. Look at those legs; I'll
guarantee you won't----Excuse me, Sir."
An immaculately dressed individual had entered the shop, and the
gentleman trading as Smalley called an assistant to serve him. By the
time he returned to me I had wandered far into the recesses of the
emporium and was busily examining a walnut stool with a woolwork seat.
"You haven't one like this in oak, I suppose? This one," I said,
"would hardly suite my suit. That sounds wrong, but you apprehend my
meaning."
"I haven't," he said simply. I could see that he was tiring rapidly,
but wasn't absolutely ripe for plucking.
So I priced about a dozen pieces of china, admired several pictures
and pieces of Stuart needlework, descanted on the beauties of a set
of wheatear chairs, pulled a small rosewood table about until its claw
and ball feet nearly dropped off from exhaustion, and finally led him
back to the Welsh dresser.
"What's the price of the Scotsman?" I said easily, having seen thirty
guineas on the ticket during the preliminary examination.
"Twenty-nine pounds to you," he said wearily. He evidently knew the
strict rules of the game.
"But look at those legs," I said. "They're frightfully bent, aren't
they?"
"That's one of the best features about it," he said. "Real Queen Anne,
those legs are."
"Oh, were hers like that? I didn't know," I said. "Look here, I'll
give you twenty-eight pounds, spot cash."
"Very well," he said. "I like to do business."
"I beg pardon," said a voice behind me, which, in turning, I
discovered to belong to the assistant, "but that dresser's sold. The
gentleman who's just left bought it."
As I was looking for the ticket (which had disappeared), I couldn't
help overhearing the assistant's aside to his employer.
"Thirty-five guineas cash," he said.
There is something, after all, to be said for direct action.
* * * * *
"OLD FOLKS' TEA.
On the day of the party the Chief Constable has arranged for
a staff of Special Constables to escort home any person
requiring assistance."--_Provincial Paper._
This bears out what has recently appeared about the terrible results
of the tea-drinking habit.
* * * * *
"WANTED.--Skates and Boots for Leghorn Pullets."--_Advt. in
Canadian Paper._
They need a lot of exercise in the cold weather.
* * * * *