"You don't happen to have any old metal bottles—copper or—or brass would do—for sale?"
"You don't git at me like that! Bottles is made o' glorss."
"Well, a jar, then—a big brass pot—anything of that kind?"
"Don't keep 'em," said the boy, and buried himself once more in his copy of "Spicy Sniggers."
"I'll just look round," said Horace, and began to poke about with a sinking heart, and a horrid dread that he might have come to the wrong shop, for the big pot-bellied vessel certainly did not seem to be there. At last, to his unspeakable joy, he discovered it under a piece of tattered drugget. "Why, this is the sort of thing I meant," he said, feeling in his pocket and discovering that he had exactly a sovereign. "How much do you want for it?"
"I dunno," said the boy.
"I don't mind three shillings," said Horace, who did not wish to appear too keen at first.
"I'll tell the guv'nor when he comes in," was the reply, "and you can look in later."
"I want it at once," insisted Horace. "Come, I'll give you three-and-six for it."