There was a long silence of utter astonishment, during which the American rapidly thumbed strips of green paper, and made mental calculations.
‘Eight hundred dollars!’ exclaimed he, at last, in tones of unalloyed admiration. ‘Mister Potts, sir, you’re a gifted genius! I ante-up, Colonel, to once, an’ allow I’ll take a back seat.’
And so, in their several fashions, said the rest; whilst the lion of the evening ate his dinner, sipped his porphyry, and kept his own counsel.
‘Cost me four bob, landed in Sydney, averaging the lot,’ said Mr Potts confidentially to a friend that evening, as they enjoyed their coffee and cigars [204] ]on the balcony. ‘I’m on my own hook, too, now. I seen that the specimen-sheet-monthly-delivery-collection-per-agent game was blown—not that I guessed it was near as bad as it really is. So I sends straight away to New York for this consignment, specially got up and prepared for the Bush. It was a regular bobby-dazzler! You see, the boards are only stuck on with glue, type and paper’s as rough as they make ’em, and the picturin’s done by a cheap colour patent. I’ve got another lot nearly due by this—not for here, though. You fellows have ruined this district. Of course the Dorees was genuine. I bought the three of ’em a job lot in town for a song. They’re the only books I’ve got left now. If I’d had a score more of Turpins and such, I could have sold ’em at the station.’
. . . . . . . . . .
‘There’s old Morris, of Barracaboo, just come in,’ remarked someone the next morning. ‘He’s on his way home from Larras Show, I expect.’
‘Which is him?’ asked Mr Potts eagerly (all literary people are not necessarily purists).
‘Sorry to disturb you at lunch, sir,’ said Mr Potts presently, as he entered, bearing a large book. ‘But Mrs Morris was kind enough to say that this would do nicely for Master Reginald’s birthday. ‘Don Quixote,’ sir, the most startling work of that celebrated author, Gustavus Do-ree, sir. Splendidly illustrated, sir. Your good lady was very much pleased with it.’
[205]
]‘Umph, umph,’ growled the manager. ‘Been out at the station, eh? Didn’t they run you, eh? No whips, no dogs! Eh! eh! What?’
‘I am not an advance agent for books I know nothing about, sir,’ returned the other with dignity, as he took the volume up again. ‘I sell a genuine article, sir, for cash on the nail. In transactions of that kind there can be no mistake, sir.’