“How much did he give you for it?” I asked.
“Twenty shillings,” returned he, sulkily, “and it won’t pay expenses.”
“Twenty shillings!” I exclaimed; “for a table that cost three times as much at least!—What do you expect to sell it for?”
“That’s my business,” answered the broker.
I pulled out my purse, and threw a sovereign and a half on the table, saying—
“FIFTY PER CENT. will be, I think, profit enough even on such a transaction.”
“I did not offer you the table,” returned the broker. “I am not bound to sell except I please, and at my own price.”
“Possibly. But I tell you the whole affair is illegal. And if you carry away that table, I shall see what the law will do for me. I assure you I will prosecute you myself. You take up that money, or I will. It will go to pay counsel, I give you my word, if you do not take it to quench strife.”
I stretched out my hand. But the broker was before me. Without another word, he pocketed the money, jumped into his cart with his man, and drove off, leaving the churchwarden and the parson standing at the door of the dissenting minister with his mahogany table on the path between them.
“Now, Mr Brownrigg,” I said, “lend me a hand to carry this table in again.”