“’Andsome?” queried Mr. Pincott. “What’s it want to be ’andsome for? It’s a genuine Old Master! ’Undreds of years old! It’s been in one family for generations.”
“Ah, that’s the kind of thing I want,” said Mr. Lister. “And ’ow did you come to ’ear of it?”
“I’ve ’ad my eye on it for months past,” Mr. Pincott told him. “I’ve been waiting my opportunity. You know ’ow it is in our line. You ’ave to go slow, otherwise you’re likely to get the price raised.”
“That’s so,” said Lister, with a nod of appreciation for such nice consideration of his pocket. “And ’oo’s it by?” he queried, examining the canvas with enhanced interest.
“Andrew Carrotti, the famous Old Master,” returned Mr. Pincott glibly. “Surely you don’t need me to tell you anything more about ’im?”
“I don’t seem to ’ave ’eard the name before, though,” admitted Mr. Lister, very honestly.
“Oh, you’ve ’eard of ’im and forgot,” returned Mr. Pincott, easily. “It’ll look well on that wall there, opposite the window, won’t it? If you’ve got any pickcher-cord ’andy—”
“’Tain’t every one that’s got a genuine Old Master hanging on their dining-room wall,” remarked Mr. Lister, with naïve pleasure. “Little did I ever dream, when I used to be serving out ’alf-pounds of sugar—”
“Mind you, you’re lucky to get it,” said Mr. Pincott. “If I wasn’t so himpulsive, I’d ’ave took it up to London and sold it at Christie’s, but I’m content with a small profit, so long as I can keep your patronage and—”
“What are you going to ask me for it?” inquired Mr. Lister, with a belated effort to appear businesslike; and evinced no more objection than a twinge of surprise when Mr. Pincott nominated a price.