"Can't you prosecute?" she asked indignantly.
"Never saw the fellow before, never likely to see him again. Hired for the job, he was—earned his money, too."
After this experience he kept out of third-class London sales, buying as before from provincial dealers, making it worth their while to come to him first. Your provincial man is not omniscient, and is prepared to accept a small profit upon every article that passes through his hands. Quinney secured some bargains, but he could not sell them, because he had no customers.
His next experience was more serious. He had gone to Melshire to buy a certain satin-wood commode with panels painted by Angelica Kauffman. The owner of the commode, a fox-hunting squire, knew nothing of its value, but he happened to know Quinney, and he offered the commode to Quinney for fifty pounds. This incident illustrates nicely the sense of honour which prevails among dealers in antiques. The commode had been advertised as part of the contents of an ancient manor house. Other Melshire dealers, many of them Quinney's friends, were attending the sale. Immensely to the fox-hunting squire's surprise, Quinney pointed out that it would not be fair to the other dealers to buy before-hand a valuable bit of furniture already advertised in a printed catalogue. He concluded:
"It'll fetch more than fifty pounds."
At the sale it fetched ninety-seven pounds. At the "knock-out" afterwards, bidding against the other dealers, Quinney paid nine hundred pounds for this "gem," and told himself, with many chucklings, that he would double his money within a few weeks. He returned to London with his prize, and recited the facts to Susan, whose sympathy ranged itself upon the side of the Melchester squire.
"Seems to me that poor man was robbed. Ninety-seven pounds for a thing that you say is worth two thousand. It's awful."
"Is it? Now, look ye here, Susie, I'm going to put you right on this for ever and ever, see? I'm not in this business for my health. Like every other merchant, I buy in the cheapest market, and sell in the dearest. It's not my business to educate country gentlemen, who've had twice my advantages. If the owners of good stuff don't take the trouble to find out the value of what they've got, so much the worse for them, the blooming idiots! I play the game, my girl. I might have bought that commode for a level fifty. Think of it! Why didn't I? Because I'm an honourable man. Because it wouldn't have been straight with the others who were after that commode. Has it soaked in? I'll just add this: It's we dealers who create values. Never thought o' that, did you? Nor anyone else outside the profession. But it's gospel truth. Dealers create the big prices, not the silly owners, who don't know enough to keep their pictures in decent condition. I remember a country parson who kept his umbrella in a big famille verte jar. Tomlin bought that jar for a few pounds, and sold it at Christopher's for fifteen hundred. The parson made a fine hullabaloo, but it served him jolly well right. We do the work, and we're entitled to the big profits."
Susan felt crushed, but a leaven of her mother in her constrained her to reply:
"I hope that commode is worth nine hundred pounds."