“Picture, eh?” S. Gedge Antiques dubiously scratched a scrub of whisker with the nail of his forefinger. “Don’t fancy pictures myself. Chancey things are pictures. Never brought me much luck. However, I’ll have a look at it. Take off the paper.”
William took off the paper and handed to his master the article it had contained. With a frown of petulant disgust the old man held an ancient and dilapidated daub up to the light. So black it was with grime and age that to his failing eyes not so much as a hint of the subject was visible.
“Nothing to write home about anyhow,” was the sour comment. “Worth nothing beyond the price of the frame. And I should put that”—S. Gedge pursed a mouth of professional knowledge—“at five shillings.”
“Five shillings, sir, is what I paid for it.”
“Not worth bringing home.” S. Gedge shook a dour head. Somehow he resented his assistant making a private purchase, but that may have been because there was nothing in the purchase when made. “Why buy a thing like that?”
William took the picture gravely from his master and held it near the window.
“I have an idea, sir, there may be a subject underneath.”
“Don’t believe in ideas myself,” snapped S. Gedge, taking a microscope from the counter. After a brief use of it he added, “There may be a bit o’ badly painted still life, but what’s the good o’ that.”
“I’ve a feeling, sir, there’s something below it.”
“Rubbish anyhow. It’ll be a fortnight’s job to get the top off and then like as not you’ll have wasted your time. Why buy a pig in a poke when you might have invested your five shillings in a bit more china? However, it’s no affair of mine.”