Quinney laughed, shaking his head.
"Am I going to let James Miggott fake up all that old stuff? No, by Gum! No!"
"But, damn it! Why not?"
"Several reasons. One'll do. I've sworn solemn not to sell fakes unless they're labelled as such."
"Of all the silly rot——"
"There it is."
Tomlin went away, but he returned next day, and asked for a glass of brown sherry. Quinney had one, too.
"I've a proposition to make," said Tomlin. "You've got a small gold mine in this Miggott, but you don't mean to work him properly. Well, let me do it."
"How?"
"Suppose I send you 'cripples' to be mended. Any objections to that?"