For a considerable time Shafto strolled about with his hands in his
pockets, so far seeing nothing to tempt him. Meanwhile his companion
eagerly examined books and bargained over a tattered old volume.
Shafto noted with surprise the number of well-dressed visitors poking
among the stalls, in search of treasure trove. There were a parson
with a greedy-looking leather bag, an officer in uniform, and various
smart ladies, hunting in couples. Among a quantity of jugs and basins,
soup tureens and coarse crockery, Shafto's idle glance fell upon a
frightful Chinese figure, the squat presentation of a man, about eight
inches in height.

"I say, did you ever see such a horror?" he asked, pointing it out to
his companion; "a curio for ugliness, and just the sort of monster Mrs.
Malone would love. I'll try if I can get hold of it. What's the price
of the China demon?" he inquired of a wizened old woman, who wore a
bashed black bonnet and a pair of blue sand shoes.

"Five shillin'," she replied promptly.

"Five shillings!" he exclaimed. "You're joking."

"No time for jokes here," she retorted, "it's a good piece" (picking up
the figure), "and come out of a grand house. If it were in Bond
Street, they'd ask you five pounds. I showed it to a man, who said it
was good, although there was no mark, and it might be worth a lot; but
I've no time to be raking up things--my trade is a quick sale--and
cash."

"I'll give you half a crown," said the customer.