Occasionally on Sundays the pair made little excursions together,
visited the City churches and quaint bits of Old London, or ventured a
dash into the country, or up the river.

"You say Friday is a holiday in your office, Shafto," he remarked one
evening; "how would you like to come for a prowl, and see what we can
find in the Caledonian Market? It's an out-of-the-way place, where
once a week all manner of rubbish is shot, and now and then you pick up
a really staggering bargain."

"What's that?" inquired Shafto.

"Well, I'm told that lately a woman bought a rusty steel fender for two
shillings and, when she went to clean it, it turned out to be solid
silver--a bit of loot from some old French chateau. I must confess
that I've never found any spoil, but I only root among the books.
Once, I thought I'd got hold of a Coverdale Bible, but it proved to be
a fake."

"All right," agreed Shafto, "I'd like to try my luck; I'll go with you
and look for a set of gold fire-irons. I've nothing special on--only
tennis in the afternoon."

"And the market is at its best in the morning--we'll start at ten."

Friday morning found the couple roaming aimlessly round that great bare
enclosure at the end of the Camden Road, known as the Caledonian
Market. It was just eleven by the clock tower, and wares were still
pouring in; arriving in all manner of shabby carts and vans--mostly
drawn by aged and decrepit horses. Every variety of goods had its own