had dropped in on Rummins in the hope of getting a piece of pork or ham out of him from the pig that had been killed the day before. Claud knew about the killing—the noise of it had carried far across the fields—and he also knew that a man should have a government permit to do that sort of thing, and that Rummins didn’t have one.
“Good afternoon,” Mr. Boggis said. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”
None of the three men moved. At that moment they were all thinking precisely the same thing—that somehow or other this clergyman, who was certainly not the local fellow, had been sent topoke his nose into their business and to report what he found to the government.
“What beautiful dogs,” Mr. Boggis said. “I must say I’ve never been greyhound-racing myself, but they tell me it’s a fascinating sport.”
Again the silence, and Mr. Boggis glanced quickly from Rummins to Bert, then to Claud, then back again to Rummins, and he noticed that each of them had the same peculiar expression on his face, something between a jeer and a challenge, with a contemptuous curl to the mouth and a sneer around the nose.
“Might I enquire if you are the owner?” Mr. Boggis asked, undaunted, addressing himself to Rummins.
“What is it you want?”
“I do apologize for troubling you, especially on a Sunday.”
Mr. Boggis offered his card and Rummins took it and held it up close to his face. The other two didn’t move, but their eyes swivelled over to one side, trying to see.
“And what exactly might you be wanting?” Rummins asked.
For the second time that morning, Mr. Boggis explained at some length the aims and ideals of the Society for the Preservation of Rare Furniture.
“We don’t have any,” Rummins told him when it was over. “You’re wasting your time.”
“Now, just a minute, sir,” Mr. Boggis said, raising a finger. “The last man who said that to me was an old farmer down in Sussex, and when he finally let me into his house, d’you know what I found? A dirty-looking old chair in the corner of the kitchen, and it turned out to be worth
four hundred pounds
! I showed him how to sell it, and he bought himself a new tractor with the money.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Claud said. “There ain’t no chair in the world worth four hundred pound.”
“Excuse me,” Mr. Boggis answered primly, “but there are plenty of chairs in England worth more than twice that figure. And you know where they are? They’re tucked away in the farms and cottages all over the country, with the owners using them as steps and ladders and standing on them with hobnailed boots to reach a pot of jam out of the top cupboard or to hang a picture. This is the truth I’m telling you, my friends.”
Rummins shifted uneasily on his feet. “You mean to say all you want to do is go inside and stand there in the middle of the room and look around?”
“Exactly,” Mr. Boggis said. He was at last beginning to sense what the trouble might be. “I don’t want to pry into your cupboards or into your larder. I just want to look at the furniture to see if you happen to have any treasures here, and then I can write about them in our Society magazine.”
“You know what I think?” Rummins said, fixing him with his small wicked eyes. “I think you’re after buying the stuff yourself. Why else would you be going to all this trouble?”
“Oh, dear me. I only wish I had the money. Of course, if I saw something that I took a great fancy to, and it wasn’t beyond my means, I might be tempted to make an offer. But alas, that rarely happens.”
“Well,” Rummins said, “I don’t suppose there’s any harm in your taking a look around if that’s all you want.” He led the way across the yard to the back door of the farmhouse, and Mr. Boggis followed him; so did the son Bert, and Claud with his two dogs. Theywent through the kitchen, where the only furniture was a cheap deal table with a dead chicken lying on it,
“Good afternoon,” Mr. Boggis said. “Isn’t it a lovely day?”
None of the three men moved. At that moment they were all thinking precisely the same thing—that somehow or other this clergyman, who was certainly not the local fellow, had been sent topoke his nose into their business and to report what he found to the government.
“What beautiful dogs,” Mr. Boggis said. “I must say I’ve never been greyhound-racing myself, but they tell me it’s a fascinating sport.”
Again the silence, and Mr. Boggis glanced quickly from Rummins to Bert, then to Claud, then back again to Rummins, and he noticed that each of them had the same peculiar expression on his face, something between a jeer and a challenge, with a contemptuous curl to the mouth and a sneer around the nose.
“Might I enquire if you are the owner?” Mr. Boggis asked, undaunted, addressing himself to Rummins.
“What is it you want?”
“I do apologize for troubling you, especially on a Sunday.”
Mr. Boggis offered his card and Rummins took it and held it up close to his face. The other two didn’t move, but their eyes swivelled over to one side, trying to see.
“And what exactly might you be wanting?” Rummins asked.
For the second time that morning, Mr. Boggis explained at some length the aims and ideals of the Society for the Preservation of Rare Furniture.
“We don’t have any,” Rummins told him when it was over. “You’re wasting your time.”
“Now, just a minute, sir,” Mr. Boggis said, raising a finger. “The last man who said that to me was an old farmer down in Sussex, and when he finally let me into his house, d’you know what I found? A dirty-looking old chair in the corner of the kitchen, and it turned out to be worth
four hundred pounds
! I showed him how to sell it, and he bought himself a new tractor with the money.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Claud said. “There ain’t no chair in the world worth four hundred pound.”
“Excuse me,” Mr. Boggis answered primly, “but there are plenty of chairs in England worth more than twice that figure. And you know where they are? They’re tucked away in the farms and cottages all over the country, with the owners using them as steps and ladders and standing on them with hobnailed boots to reach a pot of jam out of the top cupboard or to hang a picture. This is the truth I’m telling you, my friends.”
Rummins shifted uneasily on his feet. “You mean to say all you want to do is go inside and stand there in the middle of the room and look around?”
“Exactly,” Mr. Boggis said. He was at last beginning to sense what the trouble might be. “I don’t want to pry into your cupboards or into your larder. I just want to look at the furniture to see if you happen to have any treasures here, and then I can write about them in our Society magazine.”
“You know what I think?” Rummins said, fixing him with his small wicked eyes. “I think you’re after buying the stuff yourself. Why else would you be going to all this trouble?”
“Oh, dear me. I only wish I had the money. Of course, if I saw something that I took a great fancy to, and it wasn’t beyond my means, I might be tempted to make an offer. But alas, that rarely happens.”
“Well,” Rummins said, “I don’t suppose there’s any harm in your taking a look around if that’s all you want.” He led the way across the yard to the back door of the farmhouse, and Mr. Boggis followed him; so did the son Bert, and Claud with his two dogs. Theywent through the kitchen, where the only furniture was a cheap deal table with a dead chicken lying on it,
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