“I know ’im, too,” put in Mr. Tridge. “’E comes round to me every day for a shave.”
“So I understand,” said Mr. Dobb, dryly.
“’E’s doing pretty well for a new-comer, too, ain’t ’e?” queried Mr. Clark, not without suspicion of relish.
“Too jolly well!” declared Mr. Dobb.
“’E wouldn’t buy my carumgorum studs off of me, though,” mentioned Mr. Clark, as though this were a circumstance that disproved Mr. Pincott’s business inefficiency. “Three chances I give ’im, too, to say nothing of leaving ’em at ’is shop for four days for ’im to make up ’is mind. ’E was out when I left ’em.”
“Oh, ’e ain’t a fool, not by no means!” observed Mr. Dobb. “Well, and now do you know Mr. Simon Lister?”
“I know hof ’im,” volunteered Mr. Clark. “’E’s that old chap what lives in the big new ’ouse along the London road, what used to be something in the hoil and colour line.”
“That’s the chap,” accepted Mr. Dobb. “’E come into a fortune, unexpected, about a year ago. ’E’s one of my regular customers.”
“What! you don’t mean to say a rich old chap like that drops around with old iron and odd crockery to sell to you?” cried Mr. Tridge, in surprise.
“Oh, no!” corrected Mr. Dobb, a trifle loftily. “’E belongs to the hart section of my business. He buys off of me; ’e don’t sell. ’E buys china and vallyble hornyments and so forth. A collector, ’e is, only the better kind. What they calls a connosher. ’E only goes in for good stuff.”