"Where is Poopendyke?" I cried, leaping out of bed. "I don't want to
be shaved, Britton, and don't bother about the tub." He had filled my
twentieth century portable tub, recently acquired, and was nervously
creating a lather in my shaving mug,

"You look very rough, sir."

"So much the better."

"Mr. Poopendyke is in despair, sir. He has tried to explain that nothing
is for sale, but the gentlemen say they are onto his game. They go
right on yanking things about and putting their own prices on them and
reserving them. They are perfectly delighted, sir, to have found so
many old things they really want for their new houses."

"I'll--I'll put a stop to all this," I grated, seeing red for an
instant.

"And the ladies, sir! There are three of them, all from New York City,
and they keep on saying they are completely ravished, sir,--with joy,
I take it. Your great sideboard in the dining-room is to go to Mrs.
Riley-Werkheimer, and the hall-seat that the first Baron used to throw
his armour on when he came in from--"

"Great snakes!" I roared. "They haven't moved it, have they? It will
fall to pieces!"

"No, sir. They are piling sconces and candelabra and andirons on it,
regardless of what Mr. Poopendyke says. You'd better hurry, sir. Here