cried, “I beg of you,
please
don’t get me started on Socialism.” At that point, she let out a great guffaw of laughter, raised an enormous red hand, and slapped him so hard on the shoulder that he nearly went over.
“Come in!” she shouted. “I don’t know what the hell you want, but come on in!”
Unfortunately, and rather surprisingly, there was nothing of any value in the whole house, and Mr. Boggis, who never wasted time on barren territory, soon made his excuses and took his leave. The whole visit had taken less than fifteen minutes, and that, he told himself as he climbed back into his car and started off for the next place, was exactly as it should be.
From now on, it was all farmhouses, and the nearest was about half a mile up the road. It was a large half-timbered brick building of considerable age, and there was a magnificent pear tree still in blossom covering almost the whole of the south wall.
Mr. Boggis knocked on the door. He waited, but no one came. He knocked again, but still there was no answer, so he wandered around the back to look for the farmer among the cowsheds. Therewas no one there either. He guessed that they must all still be in church, so he began peering in the windows to see if he could spot anything interesting. There was nothing in the dining room. Nothing in the library either. He tried the next window, the living room, and there, right under his nose, in the little alcove that the window made, he saw a beautiful thing, a semicircular cardtable in mahogany, richly veneered, and in the style of Hepplewhite, built around 1780.
“Ah-ha,” he said aloud, pressing his face hard against the glass. “Well done, Boggis.”
But that was not all. There was a chair there as well, a single chair, and if he were not mistaken it was of an even finer quality than the table. Another Hepplewhite, wasn’t it? And oh, what a beauty! The lattices on the back were finely carved with the honeysuckle, the husk, and the paterae, the caning on the seat was original, the legs were very gracefully turned and the two back ones had that peculiar outward splay that meant so much. It was an exquisite chair. “Before this day is done,” Mr. Boggis said softly, “I shall have the pleasure of sitting down upon that lovely seat.” He never bought a chair without doing this. It was a favourite test of his, and it was always an intriguing sight to see him lowering himself delicately into the seat, waiting for the “give,” expertly gauging the precise but infinitesimal degree of shrinkage that the years had caused in the mortice and dovetail joints.
But there was no hurry, he told himself. He would return here later. He had the whole afternoon before him.
The next farm was situated some way back in the fields, and in order to keep his car out of sight, Mr. Boggis had to leave it on theroad and walk about six hundred yards along a straight track that led directly into the back yard of the farmhouse. This place, he noticed as he approached, was a good deal smaller than the last, and he didn’t hold out much hope for it. It looked rambling and dirty, and some of the sheds were clearly in bad repair.
There were three men standing in a close group in a corner of the yard, and one of them had two large black greyhounds with him, on leashes. When the men caught sight of Mr. Boggis walking forward in his black suit and parson’s collar, they stopped talking and seemed suddenly to stiffen and freeze, becoming absolutely still, motionless, three faces turned towards him, watching him suspiciously as he approached.
The oldest of the three was a stumpy man with a wide frog-mouth and small shifty eyes, and although Mr. Boggis didn’t know it, his name was Rummins and he was the owner of the farm.
The tall youth beside him, who appeared to have something wrong with one eye, was Bert, the son of Rummins.
The shortish flat-faced man with a narrow corrugated brow and immensely broad shoulders was Claud. Claud
please
don’t get me started on Socialism.” At that point, she let out a great guffaw of laughter, raised an enormous red hand, and slapped him so hard on the shoulder that he nearly went over.
“Come in!” she shouted. “I don’t know what the hell you want, but come on in!”
Unfortunately, and rather surprisingly, there was nothing of any value in the whole house, and Mr. Boggis, who never wasted time on barren territory, soon made his excuses and took his leave. The whole visit had taken less than fifteen minutes, and that, he told himself as he climbed back into his car and started off for the next place, was exactly as it should be.
From now on, it was all farmhouses, and the nearest was about half a mile up the road. It was a large half-timbered brick building of considerable age, and there was a magnificent pear tree still in blossom covering almost the whole of the south wall.
Mr. Boggis knocked on the door. He waited, but no one came. He knocked again, but still there was no answer, so he wandered around the back to look for the farmer among the cowsheds. Therewas no one there either. He guessed that they must all still be in church, so he began peering in the windows to see if he could spot anything interesting. There was nothing in the dining room. Nothing in the library either. He tried the next window, the living room, and there, right under his nose, in the little alcove that the window made, he saw a beautiful thing, a semicircular cardtable in mahogany, richly veneered, and in the style of Hepplewhite, built around 1780.
“Ah-ha,” he said aloud, pressing his face hard against the glass. “Well done, Boggis.”
But that was not all. There was a chair there as well, a single chair, and if he were not mistaken it was of an even finer quality than the table. Another Hepplewhite, wasn’t it? And oh, what a beauty! The lattices on the back were finely carved with the honeysuckle, the husk, and the paterae, the caning on the seat was original, the legs were very gracefully turned and the two back ones had that peculiar outward splay that meant so much. It was an exquisite chair. “Before this day is done,” Mr. Boggis said softly, “I shall have the pleasure of sitting down upon that lovely seat.” He never bought a chair without doing this. It was a favourite test of his, and it was always an intriguing sight to see him lowering himself delicately into the seat, waiting for the “give,” expertly gauging the precise but infinitesimal degree of shrinkage that the years had caused in the mortice and dovetail joints.
But there was no hurry, he told himself. He would return here later. He had the whole afternoon before him.
The next farm was situated some way back in the fields, and in order to keep his car out of sight, Mr. Boggis had to leave it on theroad and walk about six hundred yards along a straight track that led directly into the back yard of the farmhouse. This place, he noticed as he approached, was a good deal smaller than the last, and he didn’t hold out much hope for it. It looked rambling and dirty, and some of the sheds were clearly in bad repair.
There were three men standing in a close group in a corner of the yard, and one of them had two large black greyhounds with him, on leashes. When the men caught sight of Mr. Boggis walking forward in his black suit and parson’s collar, they stopped talking and seemed suddenly to stiffen and freeze, becoming absolutely still, motionless, three faces turned towards him, watching him suspiciously as he approached.
The oldest of the three was a stumpy man with a wide frog-mouth and small shifty eyes, and although Mr. Boggis didn’t know it, his name was Rummins and he was the owner of the farm.
The tall youth beside him, who appeared to have something wrong with one eye, was Bert, the son of Rummins.
The shortish flat-faced man with a narrow corrugated brow and immensely broad shoulders was Claud. Claud
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