“Well, I don’t take a penny less than fifteen quid for that chair. Look at the woodwork! A bit scratched, maybe, but sound—sound and ’eavy. They don’t make ’em like that nowadays.”
“But fifteen pounds!” murmured Mr. Lane.
“Oh, I shall get more than that for it when I’ve squared it up and restored it,” foretold Mr. Dobb, confidently. “Why, I know more than one collector in these parts that’ll only be too anxious to secure it soon as ever ’e sees it. In a way, I’m doing you a favour by giving you first chance.”
“But fifteen pounds!” protested Mr. Lane.
“Well, I’ll say twelve as it stands, seeing as I shan’t ’ave to bother with restoring it. There, twelve! Just to make a reg’lar customer of you, only don’t go talking too much. Why, you can’t get much new in the furniture line to-day for twelve; and as for antikes—. Solid, that’s what it is! ’Ere, ’alf a mo’! I’ll just strip the cover off and leave the stuffing aside, and you’ll see what a fine strong frame it’s got.”
“No, don’t do that—don’t do that!” babbled Mr. Lane, desperately. “It’s all right! I mean, I believe you. But—but twelve pounds! I wouldn’t mind going to—to four, or even five, but—but twelve! It isn’t a particularly handsome chair—”
“But you seem pretty keen to ’ave it, sir, for all that,” Mr. Dobb pointed out. “However, please yourself. If you don’t take it I shall put it in my window there, and somebody’s bound to come along and—”
“You—you couldn’t let me have it on approval for a day or two?” suggested Mr. Lane, but not hopefully.
“No, sir. This is a cash business. But I’ll tell you what—if you like to let me take out the stuffing and leave it ’ere, I’d knock off a quid. Good ’orse’air’s always worth—”
“No, no. I want it as it is!”