Kiss Kiss by Roald Dahl Page A

Now this cupboard, well, it’s rather attractive, but again,
not valuable. This chest-of-drawers”—he walked casually past the
Chippendale Commode and gave it a little contemptuous flip with his
fingers—“worth a few pounds, I dare say, but no more. A rather
crude reproduction, I’m afraid. Probably made in Victorian times. Did
you paint it white?”
      
“Yes,” Rummins said. “Bert did it.”
      
“A very wise move. It’s considerably less offensive in white.”
      
“That’s a strong piece of furniture,” Rummins said. “Some
nice carving on it too.”
      
“Machine-carved,” Mr Boggis answered superbly, bending
down to examine the exquisite craftsmanship. “You can tell it
a mile off. But still, I suppose it’s quite pretty in its way. It
has its points.”
      
He began to saunter off, then he checked himself and turned
slowly back again. He placed the tip of one finger against the
point of his chin, laid his head over to one side, and frowned
as though deep in thought.
      
“You know what?” he said, looking at the commode, speaking so
casually that his voice kept trailing off. “I’ve just
remembered . . . I’ve been wanting a set of legs something

like that for a long time. I’ve got a rather curious table in my
own little home, one of those low things that people put in
front of the sofa, sort of a coffee-table, and last Michaelmas,
when I moved house, the foolish movers damaged the legs in
the most shocking way. I’m very fond of that table. I always
keep my big Bible on it, and all my sermon notes.”
      
He paused, stroking his chin with the finger. “Now I was
just thinking. These legs on your chest-of-drawers might be
very suitable. Yes, they might indeed. They could easily be
cut off and fixed on to my table.”
      
He looked around and saw the three men standing absolutely
still, watching him suspiciously, three pairs of eyes, all different
but equally mistrusting, small pig-eyes for Rummins, large
slow eyes for Claud, and two odd eyes for Bert, one of them
very queer and boiled and misty pale, with a little black dot
in the centre, like a fish eye on a plate.
      
Mr Boggis smiled and shook his head. “Come, come, what
on earth am I saying? I’m talking as though I owned the piece
myself. I do apologise.”
      
“What you mean to say is you’d like to buy it,” Rummins
said.
      
“Well . . .” Mr Boggis glanced back at the commode, frowning.
“I’m not sure. I might . . . and then again . . . on second
thoughts . . . no . . . I think it might be a bit too much trouble.
It’s not worth it. I’d better leave it.”
      
“How much were you thinking of offering?” Rummins
asked.
      
“Not much, I’m afraid. You see, this is not a genuine antique.
It’s merely a reproduction.”
      
“I’m not so sure about that,” Rummins told him. “It’s been
in here over twenty years, and before that it was up at the
Manor House. I bought it there myself at auction when the
old Squire died. You can’t tell me that thing’s new.”
      
“It’s not exactly new, but it’s certainly not more than about
sixty years old.”
      
“It’s more than that,” Rummins said. “Bert, where’s that bit
of paper you once found at the back of one of them drawers?
That old bill.”
      
The boy looked vacantly at his father.
      
Mr Boggis opened his mouth, then quickly shut it again
without uttering a sound. He was beginning literally to shake
with excitement, and to calm himself he walked over to the
window and stared out at a plump brown hen pecking around
for stray grains of corn in the yard.
      
“It was in the back of that drawer underneath all them
rabbit-snares,” Rummins was saying. “Go on and fetch it out
and show it to the parson.”
      
When Bert went forward to the commode, Mr Boggis
turned round