“I got a bedstead,” said Mr. Lane.
“What about a sofa?” asked Mr. Dobb.
Mr. Lane shook his head. He was giving his attention to the worn old arm-chair.
“You don’t expect ever to sell a shabby old thing like that, do you?” he asked, artfully.
“It is a bit knocked about,” confessed Mr. Dobb. “But it’s a real fine old chair of its kind. I reckon to get a pretty good price for it when it’s been restored. I’ll ’ave it restuffed and reup’olstered, and it’ll fetch a big price, I lay.”
“It looks very lumpy,” observed Mr. Lane, and seized the opportunity to prod the sagging seat with his finger. He thrilled electrically when his touch encountered something vaguely massy and hard in the horsehair stuffing. Mr. Dobb, who had planned that thrill with the aid of a bulky old volume from the rubbish corner, winked pleasantly at the ceiling.
“I ain’t ’ardly ’ad a good look at it yet,” said Mr. Dobb. “It was in with a lot of other things I was after, though I meant to ’ave it, of course, soon as ever I spotted it. Genuine antike, that is.”
“Oh, I don’t think so!” said Mr. Lane.
“Well, it belonged to a old chap ’oo died in Shore’aven ’ere, and ’e’d ’ad it pretty nigh all ’is life, and chance it!” contended Mr. Dobb.
“I wonder the man who bought it then didn’t overhaul it,” mentioned Mr. Lane, thoughtfully. “Perhaps he did?” he suggested, a little dashed.