“I see!” declared Mr. Lock, slapping his knee exultantly. “You want George Pincott to buy it and then get stuck with it?”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t wish ’im anything so unkind as that!” denied Mr. Dobb, primly. “I want ’im to buy it and go along to sell it to Mr. Lister at a good profit.”
“You’ll be growing wings and learning the ’arp next!” foretold Mr. Tridge, in wide-eyed astonishment.
“Yes, and while ’e’s trying to sell it to ’im,” purred Mr. Dobb, “I’m going to step in and hexpose it as a fraud! And that ought to get old Lister away from Pincott and back safe to me and my shop for ever and ever, oughtn’t it?”
“Yes; but how are you going to get Pincott to buy it?” asked Mr. Lock.
“Well, in the first place,” said Mr. Dobb, “don’t forget that Pincott keeps a pretty close eye on me, and that ’e generally goes by what I do, seeing I’m quicker at the business than ’e is. And, for another thing don’t forget that ’e’s a new-comer to these parts, and don’t know that us four was all shipmates together once.”
“Yes, but how—” began Mr. Lock again.
“Ah, that’s where you chaps comes in,” stated Mr. Dobb, and began to converse in lowered, more earnest tones with each of his old companions in turn.
It was on the following evening that the squat and not completely fashionable figure of Mr. George Pincott entered the billiard-room of the “Royal William.” The hour was still early, and Mr. Peter Lock, the marker, was rather forlornly reading a newspaper in a corner. Considerably did he brighten at the advent of even so unremunerative a patron as Mr. Pincott, and willingly did he accept that gentleman’s challenge to play a short game in the interval of waiting for brisker business.
“I see a friend of yours this afternoon, sir,” observed Mr. Lock, casually, after a while. “At least, hardly a friend, but more of an acquaintance.”