"That I will," said Beale readily. "I'll 'and it round in me 'and. And I'll do the 'andin' meself."
He took it round from one to another, showed the neat corners, the neat carving, the neat fit of the square lid.
"Where'd yer nick that?" asked a man with a red handkerchief.
"The nipper made it."
"Pinched it more likely," some one said.
"I see 'im make it," said Beale, frowning a little.
"Let me 'ave a squint," said a dingy gray old man sitting apart. For some reason of his own Beale let the old man take the box into his hand. But he kept very close to him and he kept his eyes on the box.
"All outer one piece," said the old man. "I dunno oo made it an' I don't care, but that was made by a workman as know'd his trade. I was a cabinet-maker once, though you wouldn't think it to look at me. There ain't nobody here to pay what that little hobjec's worth. Hoil it up with a drop of cold linseed and leave it all night, and then in the morning you rub it on yer trouser leg to shine it, and then rub it in the mud to dirty it, and then hoil it again and dirty it again, and you'll get 'arf a thick 'un for it as a genuwine hold antique. That's wot you do."
"Thankee, daddy," said Beale, "an' so I will."
He slipped the box in his pocket. When Dickie next saw the box it looked as old as any box need look.