“Eh?” asked Mr. Pincott. “I didn’t ’ear? Carrots? This ain’t a greengrocery!”
“I asked,” said Mr. Clark, more audibly, “’ow much is Carrottis worth?”
“Carrottis?” echoed Mr. Pincott, puzzled. “What are they, anyway?”
“Pickchers,” explained Mr. Clark. “Sort of these clarrsical pickchers painted by a chap called Carrotti, ages and ages ago.”
“’Ow the dooce should I know?” irritably began Mr. Pincott; and then his professional instincts asserted themselves. “They—they might be worth anything, up or down. It all depends. What makes you ask?”
“There’s a certain party wants to buy one,” said Mr. Clark. “And ’e’s made a offer for it, and it’s been refused. And ’e’s asked me to go along and make a little ’igher offer for it on ’is behalf and yet not on his behalf, if you takes my meaning. ’E’s frightened that they know ’e’s keen on getting it. And I says to myself that if there’s money to be made, why shouldn’t I make a bit extra, too? That’s only fair, ain’t it, sir?”
“Yes, yes,” assented Mr. Pincott. “And who might your friend be?”
“Ah, that ’ud be telling,” said Mr. Clark. “And I promised to keep ’is name right out of it. But,” he added, leering artfully, “there’s only you and ’im in the same business in this ’ere town.”
“’Orace Dobb!” cried Mr. Pincott.
“Well, I can take my haffydavit that I never told you ’is name, now, can’t I?” pointed out Mr. Clark, primly. “Well, be ’e ’oo ’e may, why should I take the trouble to buy it for ’im for a small tip when some one else might be willing to give me a bigger one? ’E ain’t got no particular call on me, and business is business when all’s said and done, ain’t it, sir?”