Upon entering the house, Quinney went into the shop, and disdainfully surveyed the stock-in-trade. Everything lay higgledy-piggledy. The big window was full of faked brass-work which seemed to gleam derisively at a dirty card upon which was inscribed the legend, "Genuine Antiques." Among the brass-work were bits of pottery and some framed mezzo-tints. Inside the shop, upon an unswept floor, old furniture was piled ceiling high. Some of it was really good, for mahogany was just then coming into fashion again, but in such matters Old Joe had always been behind his times. He preferred oak, the more solid the better, buying everything at country sales that happened to go cheap; assorted lots allured him irresistibly. He was incapable of arranging his wares, laughing scornfully at his son’s suggestions. In the same spirit he refused to remove dust and dirt, being of the opinion that they lent a tone to antiques which were not quite genuine. He had never bought really good stuff to sell to customers outside the trade. When, as frequently happened, he came across a valuable piece of furniture or a bit of fine china, he would communicate at once with a dealer, and in particular with a certain Thomas Tomlin, who invariably paid ten per cent advance on the bargain, which might be regarded as a handsome profit. To the visitors, especially Americans, who dropped in to Quinney’s on their way to and from the Cathedral, Old Joe would sell at a huge profit what he contemptuously stigmatized as rubbish. A few of his regular customers were well aware that Old Joe knew nothing of the real value of some of his wares. He bought engravings and prints in colour, and these he sold at a price about double of what he had paid, chuckling as he did so. Porcelain he understood, but not pottery; and even in porcelain he refused obstinately to pay a high price, unless he was quite sure of his turnover. Young Joe had always despised these primitive methods, and nothing pleased him so much as when he was able to rub well into his sire the mortifying fact that ignorance and funk had prevented him from securing a prize. As the young man gazed derisively at his possessions, the roustabout boy told him that Mr. Tomlin had called, promising to return after the funeral; and half an hour later the dealer arrived, to find Young Joe staring devoutly at two figures of Bow and a plate of Early Worcester. Tomlin greeted the young man with a certain deference never exhibited before. "Sorry to disturb you, Joe, on such a sad occasion." "’Tain’t sad!" snapped joe. "You know as well as I do that the old man gave me a hell of a time. Now he’s gone, and that’s all there is about it." "I came about them," Tomlin indicated the china. "Last thing your pore father wrote to me about." "Nice bits, eh?"