V.—A Case for Loyola
We had no introduction save the circumstance that we chanced both to be taking refreshment at the same time—and, after all, is not that a bond? He did not begin to talk at once, and very likely would not have done so had not a little man come hastily in, received his drink, laid his money on the bar without a word, also without a word consumed it, and hurried out again.
“You might guess a hundred times before you could say what that man does,” said my neighbour.
I gave it up at once. He might have been anything requiring no muscle, and there are so many varieties of such professions. An insurance agent, but he was too busy and taciturn; a commission agent, but he was alone; a cheap oculist, but he would not be free at this hour. I therefore gave it up at once.
“He’s a conjurer,” said the man. “Not on the stage; goes out to parties and smokers.”
I expressed the necessary amount of surprise and satisfaction.
“Odd what different things men do,” he continued. “There’s all sorts of trades, isn’t there? I often sit for hours watching men and wondering what they are. Sometimes you can tell easily. A carpenter, for instance, often has a rule pocket in his trousers that you can spot. A lawyer’s clerk has a certain way with him. Horses always leave their mark on men, and you can tell coachmen even in plain clothes. But there’s many to baffle you.”
“Yes,” I said, “it needs a Sherlock Holmes.”
“And yet there’s some to puzzle even him,” said my man. “Now what do you think he’d make of me?”
Upon my word I couldn’t say. He was just the ordinary artisan, with a little thoughtfulness added. A small, pale man, grizzled and neat, but the clothes were old. The shininess and bagginess of the knees suggested much kneeling; nothing else gave me a hint.
“I give that up too,” I said.
“Well,” he replied, “I’ll tell you, because you’re a stranger. I’m a worm-holer.”
“A worm-holer?”
“Yes, I make worm-holes in furniture to make it seem older and fetch a better price.”
“Great heavens!” I said; “I have heard of it, of course, but I never thought to meet a worm-holer face to face. How do you do it?”
“It’s not difficult,” he said, “to make the actual holes. The trick is to make ’em look real.”
“And what becomes of the furniture?”
“America chiefly,” he said. “They like old English things there, the older the better. Guaranteed Tudor things will fetch anything ... we guarantee all ours.”
“And you have no conscience about it?” I asked.
“None,” he said. “Not any more. I had a little once, but there, the Americans are so happy with their finds it would be a shame to disappoint them. I look on myself as a benefactor to the nation now. I often lie awake at nights—I sleep badly—thinking of the collectors in U.S.A. hugging themselves with joy to think of the treasures I’ve made for them.”