“Why, it’s a Carrotti!” cried Mr. Pincott. “And you know ’ow long ago ’e lived, don’t you?”
“Can’t say I do. I’ve never ’eard of ’im in all my life before this very minute. When did ’e live?”
“’Undreds of years ago!”
“’Undreds of years ago, eh?” mused Horace, looking again at the canvas. “Fancy that, now. But the pickcher’s so dirty you can ’ardly see what it’s meant to be. I’ve got a little bottle of stuff ’ere,” he went on, producing a small phial full of a liquid, “and if I might clean up just one corner—”
“Yes, do,” invited Mr. Lister.
Mr. Dobb, moistening his handkerchief with a little of the liquid, worked industriously at a small region on the canvas.
“Well, well!” he marvelled. “Blest if there ain’t another pickcher underneath this ’ere one! If the top one is ’undreds of years old, the bottom one must be thousands! Why, look! ’Ere is a old girl in a crinoline just come to light, and a little bit of what looks like the Crystal Palace. Must be a view of the Great Hexibition, or something!”
“Clean it up a bit more,” said Mr. Lister, in a new, and strange voice.
Nothing loth, Mr. Dobb renewed his energies over a wider extent, with such success that presently his theory stood substantiated.
“Well, there it is, sir,” said Mr. Dobb, standing back from his handiwork. “I shouldn’t like to say Pincott deliberately tried to cheat you, but when a man starts in this line of business and knows nothing whatever about it—”