“It’s a noo management,” mentioned Mr. Tridge.
“I know. It’s the fifth noo management in fourteen months, so they tells me. Shore’aven don’t seem what you might call a hartistic place, do it? Specially when they done Shakespeare six weeks ago. Only done ’im once, they did, but that was enough. That was what reely led to the sale.”
“What sale?” inquired Mr. Tridge.
“Why, the last time it shut. They ’ad a sale of fixtures up there, when the creditors wouldn’t take out their money in tickets. That was where the glass shandyleary came from.”
“Shandy-’ow-much?” demanded Mr. Tridge.
“Shandyleary. I’ve got it in my shop now. I bought it off a chap what bought it at the sale. Great big thing it is, what used to ’ang in the centre of the roof. ’Andsome thing it is, too, in its way, all made of sparkly bits of glass as big as—”
“As big as a second-’and dealer’s Sunday scarfpin,” pointedly suggested Mr. Tridge.
“Aye, pretty nigh,” accepted Mr. Dobb, with complacency. “I’m going to sell it back soon to the chap what’s running the theayter now.”
“Does ’e know you’re going to?”
“Not yet, ’e don’t,” admitted Mr. Dobb. “Why, ’e don’t even know I’ve got it yet. But I’ve got some one to sound ’im to see whether ’e’s at all inclined to buy it, and ’e said ’e won’t ’ave it at no price. But it takes two to make a quarrel, don’t it? Anyway, whether ’e reely wants it or not, ’e’s going to buy it.”