“Ah, ’e meant to, but ’e never ’ad the time,” said Mr. Dobb. “’E bought it with that idea, ’e told me, and ’e took it to ’is cottage in the country, meaning to see to it. But ’e ’append to lose ’is job, and, what with finding a fresh one, and then making arrangements to shift ’is family, ’e was so busy that the old chair just stayed up in ’is attic, untouched, from the time ’e took it ’ome to the time I bought it yesterday.”
“And what would you be asking for it as it stands?”
“Well, I dunno,” mused Mr. Dobb. “It ’ud pay me better to touch it up a bit first, I suppose. A genuine antike, you know. Still, if anybody was to offer me, say—oh, fifteen for it—”
“Fifteen shillings!” cried Mr. Lane, in excitement. “Right you—”
“Shillings? No!” scornfully interrupted Mr. Dobb. “Pounds, of course!”
“Why, it’s nowhere near worth that!”
“It’s worth what it’ll fetch,” said Mr. Dobb. “Anyway, by the time I’ve pulled it into shape a bit, and—”
“I’ll give you a couple of pounds for it as it stands,” offered Mr. Lane.
“Why, that ain’t a quarter of what I give for it myself!” returned Mr. Dobb. “But I’ve got a set of fire-irons what you can ’ave for two quid, if you like,” he offered, brightly.
“I don’t want fire-irons,” said Mr. Lane, pettishly.