Quinneys 21

Quinneys 21

"Leave those swine alone, Joe."

 

"I mean to, old man."

 

"But remember this, they won’t leave you alone, the dirty dogs!"

 

They didn’t.

 

Upon the eve of a small sale in the suburbs, held at the house of a

bankrupt merchant, who had bought, in the days of his prosperity, some

good bits of furniture, Quinney was "nosing round," as he called it, by

himself, jotting down in a notebook the prices he was prepared to pay on

the morrow. Suddenly there entered a truculent-looking young man of the

type that may be seen boxing at Wonderland, which is just off the

Whitechapel Road. He swaggered up to Quinney and said drawlingly:

 

"Buyin’ against my crowd, you was, las’ week?"

 

Quinney eyed him nervously, as he answered with spirit:

 

"Your crowd, hey?"

 

"I said my crowd. Want to join us?"

 

"No, my lad, I don’t."

 

"Why not?"

 

"I’m rather careful about the company I keep, see?"

 

The young man glanced round. They were quite alone. Then he hit

Quinney hard. Our hero ducked ineffectively, and caught the blow on his

left eye. Instantly he realized that his antagonist was what is called a

"workman." Nevertheless he "set about him." In less than a minute the

fine old adage which sets forth that right is greater than might was

lamentably perverted. Quinney was left half senseless on a Turkey

carpet which bore stains of the encounter, and his aggressor fled. Next

day, Quinney remained at home, tended by Susan, who admitted that she

felt like Jael, the wife of Heber, the Kenite.

 

"Can’t you prosecute?" she asked indignantly.

 

"Never saw the fellow before, never likely to see him again. Hired for

the job, he was—earned his money, too."

 

After this experience he kept out of third-class London sales, buying as

before from provincial dealers, making it worth their while to come to

him first. Your provincial man is not omniscient, and is prepared to

accept a small profit upon every article that passes through his hands.

Quinney secured some bargains, but he could not sell them, because he

had no customers.

 

His next experience was more serious. He had gone to Melshire to buy a

certain satin-wood commode with panels painted by Angelica Kauffman.

The owner of the commode, a fox-hunting squire, knew nothing of its

value, but he happened to know Quinney, and he offered the commode to

Quinney for fifty pounds. This incident illustrates nicely the sense of

honour which prevails among dealers in antiques. The commode had been

advertised as part of the contents of an ancient manor house. Other

Melshire dealers, many of them Quinney’s friends, were attending the

sale. Immensely to the fox-hunting squire’s surprise, Quinney pointed

out that it would not be fair to the other dealers to buy before-hand a

valuable bit of furniture already advertised in a printed catalogue. He

concluded:

 

"It’ll fetch more than fifty pounds."

 

At the sale it fetched ninety-seven pounds. At the "knock-out"

afterwards, bidding against the other dealers, Quinney paid nine hundred

pounds for this "gem," and told himself, with many chucklings, that he

would double his money within a few weeks. He returned to London with

his prize, and recited the facts to Susan, whose sympathy ranged itself

upon the side of the Melchester squire.

 

"Seems to me that poor man was robbed. Ninety-seven pounds for a thing

that you say is worth two thousand. It’s awful."

 

"Is it? Now, look ye here, Susie, I’m going to put you right on this

for ever and ever, see? I’m not in this business for my health. Like

every other merchant, I buy in the cheapest market, and sell in the

dearest. It’s not my business to educate country gentlemen, who’ve had

twice my advantages. If the owners of good stuff don’t take the trouble

to find out the value of what they’ve got, so much the worse for them,

the blooming idiots! I play the game, my girl. I might have bought

that commode for a level fifty. Think of it! Why didn’t I? Because

I’m an honourable man. Because it wouldn’t have been straight with the

others who were after that commode. Has it soaked in? I’ll just add

this: It’s we dealers who create values. Never thought o’ that, did

you? Nor anyone else outside the profession. But it’s gospel truth.

Dealers create the big prices, not the silly owners, who don’t know

enough to keep their pictures in decent condition. I remember a country

parson who kept his umbrella in a big _famille verte_ jar. Tomlin

bought that jar for a few pounds, and sold it at Christopher’s for

fifteen hundred. The parson made a fine hullabaloo, but it served him

jolly well right. We do the work, and we’re entitled to the big

profits."

 

Susan felt crushed, but a leaven of her mother in her constrained her to

reply:

 

"I hope that commode is worth nine hundred pounds."

 

"It’s worth a damn sight more than that, Susie!"

 

Tomlin came to see it next day. He examined it carefully, with his

sharp nose cocked at a critical angle. Finally, he said hesitatingly:

 

"Are you quite sure, Joe, that Angelica Kauffman painted them panels?"

 

"Just as sure, old man, as if I’d seen her at it."

 

Nevertheless, Tomlin’s question rankled.

 

 

*II*

 

With many apologies, we present the reader to Messrs. Lark and Bundy, of

Oxford Street. Gustavus Lark is probably the best known of the London

art dealers. He is now an old man, and his sons and Bundy’s sons manage

an immense business. Ten years ago he had not retired. Criticism of

him or his methods are irrelevant to this chronicle, but a side-light is

thrown upon them when we consider how he treated Joe Quinney, a young

man against whom he had no grudge whatever. Gustavus Lark heard, of

course, that a Melchester dealer, newly settled in Soho Square, had

bought a commode said to be painted by Angelica Kauffman for nine

hundred pounds. Immediately he sent for his eldest son, a true chip of

the old block.

 

"Why did we not hear of this?"

 

The son answered curtly:

 

"Because we can’t hear of everything. There wasn’t one big London

dealer at the sale; and the only thing worth having was this commode."

 

"Is it the goods?"

 

"I believe so."

 

"Do you know?"

 

"Well, yes—I know."

 

"I must send for Pressland."

 

Pressland deserves some little attention. England honours him as a

connoisseur of Old Masters. Upon pictures his word is often the first

and the last. We know that he "boomed" certain painters, long dead. To

quote Quinney, he "created" values. And he worked hand in hand with

just such men as Gustavus Lark. In appearance he might have been a

successful dentist. He wore a frock-coat and small side-whiskers. He

said "Please" in an ingratiating tone. His hands were scrupulously

clean, as if he had washed them often after dirty jobs. Out of a pale,

sallow face shone two small grey eyes, set too close together. He

contradicted other experts with an inimitable effrontery. "What is

this?" he would say, laying a lean forefinger upon a doubtful signature.

"A Velasquez? I think not. Why? Because, my dear sir, I know!"

 

Admittedly, he did know about Velasquez; and this knowledge was, so to

speak, on tap, at the service of anybody willing to pay a reasonable

fee. But his knowledge of furniture and porcelain was placed with

reserve at the disposition of dealers. He told many persons that he

made mistakes, and the public never guessed that such mistakes were paid

for munificently.

 

Gustavus Lark sent for Pressland. The men met in Lark’s sanctum, an

austere little room, simply furnished. There is another room next to

it, and when Gustavus sends for a very particular visitor nobody enters

that ante-chamber except a member of the firm.

 

"Do you know this Soho Square man, Quinney?"

 

"I have met him."

 

"Has he come to stay?"

 

"Um! I think so."

 

Gustavus Lark stroked his beard. He looked very handsome and

prosperous, not unlike a genial monarch whom he was said by his clerks

to understudy.

 

"I want you," he said slowly, "to go to Soho Square this morning, and if

by any chance Quinney should ask your opinion of the commode, why"—he

laughed pleasantly—"in that case I shouldn’t mind betting quite a

considerable sum that you would discover it to be—er—a clever

reproduction."

 

Pressland smiled.

 

"Probably."

 

"I mean to have a look at it myself later."

 

Pressland went his way. Part of his success in life may be assigned to

a praiseworthy habit of executing small and big commissions with

becoming promptitude. He strolled into Quinney’s shop as if he were the

most idle man in town.

 

"Anything to show me?" he asked languidly.

 

Quinney was delighted to see him. He recognized Pressland at once.

 

"Happy and honoured to see you, sir."

 

Presently, he took him upstairs into the drawing-room, already spoken of

as the "sanctuary." In it were all his beloved treasures. He had done

up the room "regardless." Here stood his Chippendale cabinet, filled

with Early Worcester and Chelsea; here were his cherished prints in

colour, his finest specimens of Waterford glass, two or three beautiful

miniatures, and many other things. Pressland was astonished, but he

said little, nodding his head from time to time, and listening

attentively to Quinney. As soon as he entered the room he perceived the

satin-wood commode standing in the place of honour.

 

Pressland praised the Chippendale cabinet, and ignored the commode.

Quinney frowned. Finally he jerked out:

 

"What do you think of that, sir?"

 

"What?"

 

"That commode. Pedigree bit, out of an old Melshire manor house. Good

stuff, hey?"

 

Pressland adjusted his pince-nez, and stared hard and long at the

panels. Quinney began to fidget.