“What’s that?” inquired Shafto.
“Well, I’m told that lately a woman bought a rusty steel fender for two shillings and, when she went to clean it, it turned out to be solid silver—a bit of loot from some old French chateau. I must confess that I’ve never found any spoil, but I only root among the books. Once, I thought I’d got hold of a Coverdale Bible, but it proved to be a fake.”
“All right,” agreed Shafto, “I’d like to try my luck; I’ll go with you and look for a set of gold fire-irons. I’ve nothing special on—only tennis in the afternoon.”
“And the market is at its best in the morning—we’ll start at ten.”
Friday morning found the couple roaming aimlessly round that great bare enclosure at the end of the Camden Road, known as the Caledonian Market. It was just eleven by the clock tower, and wares were still pouring in; arriving in all manner of shabby carts and vans—mostly drawn by aged and decrepit horses. Every variety of goods had its own particular pitch. In one quarter were piles of books, brown, musty volumes of all shapes and sizes, also tattered magazines, and of theological works a great host. Farther on the explorers came to a vast collection of old iron. It was as if numbers of travelling tinkers had here discharged their stock; fenders, gasoliers, stair-rods, tin-cans, officers’ swords—yes, at least a dozen—frying pans and saucepans. Old clothes were needless to say, a prominent feature. Here you might suit yourself with a bald-looking sealskin, a red flannel petticoat, a soiled evening gown on graceful lines, or a widow’s bonnet. Here also were black costumes (dripping beads), broken feathers, and hopeless hats. Old furniture had several stands and was an important department. Grandfather clocks, sideboards, chairs (Chippendale or otherwise), chairs in horsehair or upholstered in wool-work, and framed family portraits solicited notice. Should anyone marvel as to what becomes of the rubbish and relics belonging to houses whose contents have been scattered, after several generations—trifles that survived wrecked fortunes, odds and ends which, for sacred reasons, people had clung to till the last, let them repair to the “Market”—the relics are there, lying on unresponsive cobble stones, a pitiful spectacle, handled, despised, and cast aside—the precious hoarded treasures of a bygone age.
Delicately worked samplers, faded water-colours, portraits, old seals, snuff-boxes, and lockets, attract the curio-hunter. Here is a Prayer Book with massive silver clasps, inscribed, “Dearest Mary, on our wedding day, June 4th, 1847, from Gilbert.” There, in a red morocco case, is a miniature of a handsome naval officer. At the back, under glass, are two locks of hair, joined by a true lover’s knot in seed pearls. Some ruthless hand will pick out those pearls and throw the hair away.
For a considerable time Shafto strolled about with his hands in his pockets, so far seeing nothing to tempt him. Meanwhile his companion eagerly examined books and bargained over a tattered old volume. Shafto noted with surprise the number of well-dressed visitors poking among the stalls, in search of treasure trove. There were a parson with a greedy-looking leather bag, an officer in uniform, and various smart ladies, hunting in couples. Among a quantity of jugs and basins, soup tureens and coarse crockery, Shafto’s idle glance fell upon a frightful Chinese figure, the squat presentation of a man, about eight inches in height.
“I say, did you ever see such a horror?” he asked, pointing it out to his companion; “a curio for ugliness, and just the sort of monster Mrs. Malone would love. I’ll try if I can get hold of it. What’s the price of the China demon?” he inquired of a wizened old woman, who wore a bashed black bonnet and a pair of blue sand shoes.
“Five shillin’,” she replied promptly.
“Five shillings!” he exclaimed. “You’re joking.”