Pompey Malahide laughed:
“Good,” said he. “Well, where Tankerton Wollup can climb, Pompey Malahide can get his boots—and he’s going to—though Wollup’s father did have the business shrewdness to christen him Tankerton—if you can call it christening in Wardour Street.... Tankerton Wollup! Mine called me Pompey! but, bless him, the old man’s only fault was his sentiment. Pompey! Why, Tankerton’s a name to conjure with! Who’d suspect that his Christian name was Isaac? And if yer had seen the dirty hole in the city where he began and—— But, steady, Pompey, my boy—we mustn’t rake up the manufacture of antique things. Besides, luck has been with him all through—he is even a red Jew.... However, sir, you have brought to my shops of late more than one tip-top swell that bought the real old stuff; and I don’t mind tellin’ you that that’s the side of my business I intend to develop.... Wollup and me began life by debauching public taste—and he’s chucking it—and it’s time I did.... I want to meet my God like a man——”
Doome coughed:
“I thought it was as a baronet,” he said.
The dealer laughed loud and long:
“God! what a wit you have! Now, sir, don’t you hit me on the neck.... Well, I’ve got clear enough eyes to discover that you know the good stuff when you see it at sales, just by the good taste that’s born in you. Now, it’s no manner o’ use putting that good stuff in my windows—the people that furnish their houses slap through from my shops don’t know the good stuff when they see it; and, I’ll be honest with you, sir, I’ll be damned if I do—and my partner, that did, died last Saturday. You see, sir, the fact is I’m in a hole. I know good stuff if it’s been the fashion long enough—but I have not the knowledge to set the fashion. You have, but you can’t for want of means; whilst I want to and have the means. I hope I’m not talkin’ like a bleating cad,” he said.
Bartholomew Doome watched the fat, downright little dealer out of languid eyes; but his alert mind followed every hint. And he had, besides, a very soft corner in his heart for the man. But he said not a word.
“Now, Mr. Doome, I like you—though they do say you are the wickedest man in London——”
Bartholomew Doome flushed with pleasure—he was easily flattered by genuine praise.
“Oh! Mr. Malahide!” he protested.