“Up to a few days ago,” replied Mr. Dobb. “And that brings me to the matter in ’and. Old George Pincott got to ’ear about this ’ere Mr. Lister, and ’e’s trying ’ard to get ’is ’ooks in ’im and drag ’im clean away from me. After all, I found ’im first, and so I told Pincott, but ’is only answer was that all was fair in love and war.”
Mr. Dobb paused and sighed at such commercial laxity. Mr. Tridge feelingly remarked that he did not know how the principle acted in war, but that sometimes it made things very awkward so far as love was concerned. He was about to cite an instance when Mr. Dobb again claimed attention.
“Ever been in that poky little sweetstuff shop ’alf way down Market Lane?” he asked, as a general question. “Oh, well, I ain’t surprised!” he continued, as heads were shaken negatively. “It’s a tumble-down, ramshackle little place. But there’s a big hoil-painting ’anging up against the end wall, because that’s the only place where they can find room for it.”
“What sort of a picture?” asked Mr. Lock, with interest. “Saucy?”
“No, it’s supposed to be a bit of scenery—scenery in a fog at twilight, by the look of it. It’s signed by a chap called Carrotti, and the old gal what keeps the shop will tell you that it’s been in ’er family for ’undreds of years. She won’t sell it, she says, because it’s a heirloom in the family.”
“Sentimental old geezer,” commented Mr. Clark. “I’d sell—well, I don’t know what I wouldn’t sell if I ’ad the chance!”
“’Ave you tried to buy it off of ’er?” asked Mr. Tridge.
“I haven’t, and I ain’t going to, neither,” said Mr. Dobb. “I’m going to give old George Pincott a chance to buy it and make a big profit out of it.”
“But—” expostulated Mr. Lock, at such altruism.
“It looks,” continued Mr. Dobb, imperturbably, “as if it might be one of them there Old Masters. But it ain’t! Not by no means! I’ve took the opportunity to examine it pretty thorough, and, though I may not know much about hart really, I do know enough to know that this pickcher ain’t worth as much as the frame round it.”