X. BLUDGEONINGS
XI. MORE BLUDGEONINGS
XII. POSY
XIII. RUCTIONS
XIV. JAMES MIGGOTT
XV. AT WEYMOUTH
XVI. A BUSINESS PROPOSITION
XVII. INTRODUCES CYRUS P. HUNSAKER
XVIII. EXPLOSIONS
XIX. THINGS AND PERSONS
XX. BLACKMAIL
XXI. MABEL DREDGE
XXII. A TEST
XXIII. THE RESULT
*QUINNEYS'*
*BOOK I*
*CHAPTER I*
*THE SIGN*
*I*
"Good-evening, Mr. Quinney!"
"Good-evening!" Quinney replied, as he passed a stout red-faced
fellow-townsman.
With his back to the man, Quinney smiled. He could remember the day,
not so long ago, when Pinker, the grocer, called him "My lad." Then his
whimsical face grew solemn, as he remembered that a smile might be
misinterpreted by others whose eyes were fixed upon him with sympathy
and interest. He walked more slowly, as befitted a chief mourner
returning from his father's funeral, but he was queerly sensible of a
desire to run and shout and laugh. He wanted to run from a drab past
into a rosy future; he wanted to shout aloud that he was free--free! He
wanted to laugh, because it seemed so utterly absurd to pull a long face
because a tyrant was dead and buried. The fact that the old man was
buried made a vast difference.
Suddenly he was confronted by a burly foot-passenger, who held out a
huge hand and spoke in a deep, muffled voice.
"So, Old Joe is dead, and Young Joe reigns in his stead?"
"Right you are," replied Quinney.
Despite his efforts, a note of triumph escaped him.
"Left you everything?" continued the burly man. Quinney nodded, and
after a pause the other continued huskily: "Old Joe had something snug
to leave--hey?"
"Right again," replied Young Joe.
"More'n you thought for, I'll be bound?"
"Maybe."
"Well, my boy, hold on to it--as he did. It's a damned sight easier to
make money than to keep it."
"I made some of it," said Quinney.
"Not much."
Quinney shrugged his shoulders and passed on, slightly exasperated
because a butcher had stopped him in Mel Street, Melchester, with the
obvious intention of pumping details out of him. The butcher walked on,
chuckling to himself.
"Young Joe," he reflected, "is a-goin' to be like Old Joe. Rare old
skinflint he was, to be sure!"
Quinney, meantime, had reached the dingy shop known to all Melchester as
"Quinney's." The shutters were up--stout oak boards sadly in need of a
coat of paint. Quinney opened a side door, and entered his own
house--his--his! He could think of nothing else. Quinney's, and all it
contained, belonged to him. Immediately after the funeral, when the
house was full of people, the young man was dazed. And when the will
was opened, and he learned that Old Joe had saved nearly ten thousand
pounds, he felt positively giddy, replying vaguely to discreet whispers
of congratulation with jerky sentences such as "By Gum, this is a
surprise!" or, with nervous twitchings of the mouth and eyes, "Rum go,
isn't it, that I should be rich?"
Later, Young Joe had gone for a walk alone, seeking the high downs above
the ancient town. The keen air blew the fog out of his brain, and
presently he exclaimed aloud:
"Yes; I am Quinney's."
After a pause he burst out again, speaking with such vehemence that a
fat sheep who was staring at him ran away.
"Gosh! I'm jolly glad that I gave him a tip-top funeral. He'd have
pinched something awful over mine."
After this explosion--silence, broken intermittently by whistling.
*II*
Upon entering the house, Quinney went into the shop, and disdainfully
surveyed the stock-in-trade. Everything lay higgledy-piggledy. The big
window was full of faked brass-work which seemed to gleam derisively at
a dirty card upon which was inscribed the legend, "Genuine Antiques."
Among the brass-work were bits of pottery and some framed mezzo-tints.
Inside the shop, upon an unswept floor, old furniture was piled ceiling
high. Some of it was really good, for mahogany was just then coming
into fashion again, but in such matters Old Joe had always been behind
his times. He preferred oak, the more solid the better, buying
everything at country sales that happened to go cheap; assorted lots
allured him irresistibly. He was incapable of arranging his wares,
laughing scornfully at his son's suggestions. In the same spirit he
refused to remove dust and dirt, being of the opinion that they lent a
tone to antiques which were not quite genuine. He had never bought
really good stuff to sell to customers outside the trade.
When, as frequently happened, he came across a valuable piece of
furniture or a bit of fine china, he would communicate at once with a
dealer, and in particular with a certain Thomas Tomlin, who invariably
paid ten per cent advance on the bargain, which might be regarded as a
handsome profit. To the visitors, especially Americans, who dropped in
to Quinney's on their way to and from the Cathedral, Old Joe would sell
at a huge profit what he contemptuously stigmatized as rubbish. A few
of his regular customers were well aware that Old Joe knew nothing of
the real value of some of his wares. He bought engravings and prints in
colour, and these he sold at a price about double of what he had paid,
chuckling as he did so.
Porcelain he understood, but not pottery; and even in porcelain he
refused obstinately to pay a high price, unless he was quite sure of his
turnover. Young Joe had always despised these primitive methods, and
nothing pleased him so much as when he was able to rub well into his
sire the mortifying fact that ignorance and funk had prevented him from
securing a prize.
As the young man gazed derisively at his possessions, the roustabout boy
told him that Mr. Tomlin had called, promising to return after the
funeral; and half an hour later the dealer arrived, to find Young Joe
staring devoutly at two figures of Bow and a plate of Early Worcester.
Tomlin greeted the young man with a certain deference never exhibited
before.
"Sorry to disturb you, Joe, on such a sad occasion."
"'Tain't sad!" snapped joe. "You know as well as I do that the old man
gave me a hell of a time. Now he's gone, and that's all there is about
it."
"I came about them," Tomlin indicated the china. "Last thing your pore
father wrote to me about."
"Nice bits, eh?"
Tomlin examined them. As he did so, a keen observer might have noticed
that Young Joe's eyes were sparkling with what might have been
excitement or resentment, but not gratification.
"How much?" said Tomlin.
"They're not for sale."
"What?"
"I should say that I'm keepin' 'em for a party I know."
"Anything else to show me?" grunted Tomlin, caressing the Bow glaze with
a dirty but loving finger. "Your father mentioned a mirror-black jar,
K'ang He period."
"Keepin' that too," replied Quinney quietly.
"Sold it?"
"Not yet."
Quinney smiled mysteriously.
"Then what's up? Ain't my money as good as the next man's?"
"If you want a plain answer, Mr. Tomlin, it ain't--to me."
"Ho! What d'ye mean?"
"Just that. It don't pay to deal with the trade. If I pick up a good
thing, you get the credit; you claim all the credit. Our name is never
mentioned, not a line. In this town we have the reputation of selling
rubbish. I'm going to change all that."
"Are you?" Tomlin was visibly impressed and distressed. "Well, look ye
here, take my advice, and walk in the old man's footsteps. He done
well."
"I shall do better."
Tomlin stared at the speaker, who spoke with an odd air of conviction.
Quinney continued in the same quiet drawl, "If you want to buy any of
this," he waved a contemptuous hand, "it's yours--cheap!"
"Rubbish!"
"Just so."
Tomlin sat down and wiped his forehead. He was feeling warm, and the
sight of young Quinney so exasperatingly cool and smug in his black
clothes made him warmer.
"Ho! That's the game, is it?" As Quinney nodded, he continued: "Me and
you can do business together."
"Together?"
"I say--together. How would a trip abroad suit you?"
Quinney lifted his eyebrows; the first indication of interest in his
visitor.
"A trip--abroad?"
"To France. I've heard of a man in Brittany--a wonder. His line is old
oak; mostly copies of famous pieces. He's the greatest faker in the
world, and an artist. No blunders! Would you like to go into a deal
with me? You know old oak when you see it?"
"I think so."
"You go over there and buy five hundred pounds' worth and put it into
this shop, after you've cleared out the rubbish. I'll go halves. It's
a dead cert, and this is the right place for the stuff. My pitch
wouldn't do, and I haven't the room. I'll send you customers."
"It's a go," said Quinney.
"You mean to make things hum? And I can help you. Never gave you
credit for being so sharp."
Details were then discussed, not worth recording; but during this
memorable interview, which led to so much, Quinney was sensible of an
ever-increasing exaltation and powers of speech which amazed him as much
as the older man. He announced curtly his intention of getting rid of
the rubbish, repainting and redecorating the premises, and dealing for
the future in the best, whether fakes or genuine antiques.
"Never could persuade the old man that the 'Genuine Antiques' card was a
dead give-away."
Fired with enthusiasm, he seized the card and tore it up there and then,
while Tomlin applauded generously.
"You're yer father without any moss on you," he remarked, as he took his
leave, promising to return on the morrow. Upon the threshold he asked,
"Doin' anything particular this evening?"
"Yes," said Quinney.
Tomlin went out, but returned immediately.
"You ought to have a sign."
"I mean to."
"Thought of that already?"
"Thousands and thousands o' times. It'll be a hangin' sign of
wrought-iron; the best; painted black, with 'Quinney's' in gold. It'll
cost twenty pounds."
"That's going it."
"I mean to go it."
*III*
Quinney supped simply at seven, and then he walked across the Cathedral
Close, down a small street, known as Laburnum Row, and knocked at the
door of a genteel, semi-detached cottage. The very respectable woman
who opened the door drew down the corners of a pleasant mouth when she
beheld the visitor. A note of melancholy informed her voice as she
greeted him, but her sharp, brown eyes sparkled joyously as she said:
"Never expected to see you this evening, Mr. Quinney."
"I'm tired of doing the things that are expected," was the surprising
reply. Then, with a flush, he blurted out, "Susan in?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Biddlecombe, leading the way into the parlour. "The
child's upstairs."
Mother and daughter had seen Quinney approaching, whereupon Mrs.
Biddlecombe had remarked, "It's all right. You smooth your hair, dear,
and slip on your blue gown."
Meanwhile, Quinney took the most comfortable chair, and stared with
appraising eye at the furniture. Above the mantelpiece hung the portrait
in water-colour of a handsome woman, obviously a lady, as the word was
interpreted by the grandmothers of the present generation. This was
Mrs. Biddlecombe's mother, the wife of a doctor, who had been
bear-leader to a sprig of nobility, accomplishing with him the Grand
Tour. In her turn, Mrs. Biddlecombe had married a medical gentleman
(her word), who, unhappily, was called from the exercise of his
profession in a promising suburb to a place invariably designated by
Mrs. Biddlecombe as his last home. Later, the widow, left in very
humble circumstances, had married beneath her rightful station in life a
certain George Biddlecombe, a small builder and contractor, of
Melchester, who, failing in business when Susan was some five years old,
had died of disgust. Since this second bereavement, Mrs. Biddlecombe
supported herself and her daughter by taking in lodgers, cleaning lace
and fancy work. She was a stout, energetic creature, not much the worse
for the wear and tear of a never-ending struggle to raise herself to the
position which she had adorned before her second disastrous marriage.
"The funeral was well attended," she remarked.
"The old man was hardly what one might call popular," replied Quinney.
"He'll be missed in Melchester."
"Missed, but not regretted," the son replied grimly.
"Ah!" murmured Mrs. Biddlecombe, thinking of the builder and contractor.
Quinney pulled himself together, sitting upright in the arm-chair and
speaking firmly.
"I ain't here to talk about him. Less said on that subject the better.
I'm my own master now, ma'am, able to please myself. Lord! How he
hated my coming here!"
"I know, I know!"
"Never appreciated Susan, neither. Dessay you think I ought to be at
home, mourning. Well, he knocked all that out o' me long ago. Plain
talk is best. As a matter of business, with an eye on some of our
customers in this stoopid old town, I shall do what is expected in the
way of a tombstone, and I shall try not to sing and dance in High
Street, but between you and me it's a riddance."
Mrs. Biddlecombe smiled uneasily, but she said honestly:
"I've been through it, Mr. Quinney."
"You've had the doose of a time, ma'am--and a born lady, too."
Mrs. Biddlecombe put her handkerchief to her eyes, and dabbed them
gently. She did not quite understand her visitor, who was presenting
himself in a new and startling light, but she was comfortably aware that
his own inclination and nothing else had brought him to Laburnum Row.
For a moment her mind was a welter of confused excitements and
speculations. Would her Susie rise to this momentous occasion? Would
she clasp opportunity to her pretty bosom? And if so, what might not be
done with such clay as Quinney, plastic to the hand of an experienced
potter. Nevertheless, the young man's too brutal declaration of
independence shocked cherished conventions. She beheld him shrinkingly
as an iconoclast, a shatterer of the sacred Fifth Commandment.
"Are you thinking of leaving Melchester?" she asked.
"Not yet, although I am goin' abroad."
"Abroad?"
"To France, ma'am.";
Mrs. Biddlecombe frowned. France was a godless country, where
tempestuous petticoats abounded. She hoped that Susan was arraying
herself in the blue gown. Blue suited the child's milk and roses
complexion. In blue she might provoke comparison with the audacious
hussies across the Channel. She was clever enough to murmur
sympathetically, "You need a holiday, to be sure."
At this Quinney laughed.
"It's business. I'm after old oak. Want to work up a connection--hey?"
"Do you speak French?"
"Me? Do I speak Chocktaw? Do I speak English properly? Do I, now? O'
course you parleyvoo like a native?"
"Not quite, Mr. Quinney."
"And Susie--you learned her French, and the pi-anner?"
"I did my best."
"Angels can do no more," said Quinney admiringly. "Upset yer
neighbours, too."
He smiled maliciously, having suffered long and patiently at the hands
of neighbours. Mrs. Biddlecombe feigned ignorance of his meaning, when
Quinney laughed again, almost indecorously.
"Lord bless you, I know all about that. You pinched to get that piano,"
he indicated an ancient instrument, "because it was the only one in the
row. And French! By Gum! Is there a girl except Susie who parleyvoos
in this part of the town? Not one! The whole row gnashes its teeth over
that."
His pride in Susan's accomplishments touched the mother's heart. Her
voice rang out clearly and triumphantly:
"It's perfectly true."
At this moment Susan Biddlecombe entered the parlour, and Quinney sprang
to his feet to greet her. She was just eighteen, and very pretty and
refined, with small hands and feet, and delicately-cut features. The
mother boasted that she looked a gentlewoman, and for the purposes of
this narrative, it is far more important to add that she was innately
gentle and womanly, with no tainting tincture of the ogling, smirking,
provincial coquette.
Quinney kissed her!
Mrs. Biddlecombe blushed scarlet. Susan smiled, hesitated, and then
kissed Quinney.