MR BOGGIS WAS DRIVING the car slowly, leaning back comfortably in the seat with one
elbow resting on the sill of the open window. How beautiful the countryside, he thought; how
pleasant to see a sign or two of summer once again. The primroses1 especially. And the hawthorn2.
The hawthorn was exploding white and pink and red along the hedges and the primroses were
growing underneath3 in little clumps4, and it was beautiful.
He took one hand off the wheel and lit himself a cigarette. The best thing now, he told himself,
would be to make for the top of Brill Hill. He could see it about half a mile ahead. And that must
be the village of Brill, that cluster of cottages among the trees right on the very summit. Excellent.
Not many of his Sunday sections had a nice elevation5 like that to work from.
He drove up the hill and stopped the car just short of the summit on the outskirts6 of the village.
Then he got out and looked around. Down below, the countryside was spread out before him like a
huge green carpet. He could see for miles. It was perfect. He took a pad and pencil from his
pocket, leaned against the back of the car, and allowed his practised eye to travel slowly over the
landscape.
He could see one medium farmhouse7 over on the right, back in the fields, with a track leading to
it from the road. There was another larger one beyond it. There was a house surrounded by tall
elms that looked as though it might be a Queen Anne, and there were two likely farms away over
on the left. Five places in all. That was about the lot in this direction.
Mr Boggis drew a rough sketch8 on his pad showing the position of each so that he’d be able to
find them easily when he was down below, then he got back into the car and drove up through the
village to the other side of the hill. From there he spotted9 six more possibles – five farms and one
big white Georgian house. He studied the Georgian house through his binoculars10. It had a clean
prosperous look, and the garden was well ordered. That was a pity. He ruled it out immediately.
There was no point in calling on the prosperous.
In this square then, in this section, there were ten possibles in all. Ten was a nice number, Mr
Boggis told himself. Just the right amount for a leisurely11 afternoon’s work. What time was it now?
Twelve o’clock. He would have liked a pint12 of beer in the pub before he started, but on Sundays
they didn’t open until one. Very well, he would have it later. He glanced at the notes on his pad.
He decided13 to take the Queen Anne first, the house with the elms. It had looked nicely dilapidated
through the binoculars. The people there could probably do with some money. He was always
lucky with Queen Annes, anyway. Mr Boggis climbed back into the car, released the handbrake,
and began cruising slowly down the hill without the engine.
Apart from the fact that he was at this moment disguised in the uniform of a clergyman, there
was nothing very sinister14 about Mr Cyril Boggis. By trade he was a dealer15 in antique furniture,
with his own shop and showroom in the King’s Road, Chelsea. His premises17 were not large, and
generally he didn’t do a great deal of business, but because he always bought cheap, very very
cheap, and sold very very dear, he managed to make quite a tidy little income every year. He was
a talented salesman, and when buying or selling a piece he could slide smoothly19 into whichever
mood suited the client best. He could become grave and charming for the aged18, obsequious20 for the
rich, sober for the godly, masterful for the weak, mischievous21 for the widow, arch and saucy22 for
the spinster. He was well aware of his gift, using it shamelessly on every possible occasion, and
often, at the end of an unusually good performance, it was as much as he could do to prevent
himself from turning aside and taking a bow or two as the thundering applause of the audience
went rolling through the theatre.
In spite of this rather clownish quality of his, Mr Boggis was not a fool. In fact, it was said of
him by some that he probably knew as much about French, English, and Italian furniture as
anyone else in London. He also had surprisingly good taste, and he was quick to recognize and
reject an ungraceful design, however genuine the article might be. His real love, naturally, was for
the work of the great eighteenth-century English designers, Ince, Mayhew, Chippendale, Robert
Adam, Manwaring, Inigo Jones, Hepplewhite, Kent, Johnson, George Smith, Lock, Sheraton, and
the rest of them, but even with these he occasionally drew the line. He refused, for example, to
allow a single piece from Chippendale’s Chinese or Gothic period to come into his showroom, and
the same was true of some of the heavier Italian designs of Robert Adam.
During the past few years, Mr Boggis had achieved considerable fame among his friends in the
trade by his ability to produce unusual and often quite rare items with astonishing regularity23.
Apparently24 the man had a source of supply that was almost inexhaustible, a sort of private
warehouse25, and it seemed that all he had to do was to drive out to it once a week and help himself.
Whenever they asked him where he got the stuff, he would smile knowingly and wink26 and murmur27
something about a little secret.
The idea behind Mr Boggis’s little secret was a simple one, and it had come to him as a result of
something that had happened on a certain Sunday afternoon nearly nine years before, while he was
driving in the country.
He had-gone out in the morning to visit his old mother, who lived in Sevenoaks, and on the way
back the fanbelt on his car had broken, causing the engine to overheat and the water to boil away.
He had got out of the car and walked to the nearest house, a smallish farm building about fifty
yards off the road, and had asked the woman who answered the door if he could please have a jug28
of water.
While he was waiting for her to fetch it, he happened to glance in through the door to the living-
room, and there, not five yards from where he was standing29, he spotted something that made him
so excited the sweat began to come out all over the top of his head. It was a large oak armchair of
a type that he had only seen once before in his life. Each arm, as well as the panel at the back, was
supported by a row of eight beautifully turned spindles. The back panel itself was decorated by an
inlay of the most delicate floral design, and the head of a duck was carved to lie along half the
length of either arm. Good God, he thought. This thing is late fifteenth century!
He poked30 his head in further through the door, and there, by heavens, was another of them on
the other side of the fireplace!
He couldn’t be sure, but two chairs like that must be worth at least a thousand pounds up in
London. And oh, what beauties they were!
When the woman returned, Mr Boggis introduced himself and straight away asked if she would
like to sell her chairs.
Dear me, she said. But why on earth should she want to sell her chairs?
No reason at all, except that he might be willing to give her a pretty nice price.
And how much would he give? They were definitely not for sale, but just out of curiosity, just
for fun, you know, how much would he give?
Thirty-five pounds.
How much?
Thirty-five pounds.
Dear me, thirty-five pounds. Well, well, that was very interesting. She’d always thought they
were valuable. They were very old. They were very comfortable too. She couldn’t possibly do
without them, not possibly. No, they were not for sale but thank you very much all the same.
They weren’t really so very old, Mr Boggis told her, and they wouldn’t be at all easy to sell, but
it just happened that he had a client who rather liked that sort of thing. Maybe he could go up
another two pounds – call it thirty-seven. How about that?
They bargained for half an hour, and of course in the end Mr Boggis got the chairs and agreed
to pay her something less than a twentieth of their value.
That evening, driving back to London in his old station-wagon with the two fabulous32 chairs
tucked away snugly33 in the back, Mr Boggis had suddenly been struck by what seemed to him to be
a most remarkable34 idea.
Look here, he said. If there is good stuff in one farmhouse, then why not in others? Why
shouldn’t he search for it? Why shouldn’t he comb the countryside? He could do it on Sundays. In
that way, it wouldn’t interfere35 with his work at all. He never knew what to do with his Sundays.
So Mr Boggis bought maps, large scale maps of all the counties around London, and with a fine
pen he divided each of them up into a series of squares. Each of these squares covered an actual
area of five miles by five, which was about as much territory, he estimated, as he could cope with
on a single Sunday, were he to comb it thoroughly36. He didn’t want the towns and the villages. It
was the comparatively isolated37 places, the large farmhouses38 and the rather dilapidated country
mansions39, that he was looking for; and in this way, if he did one square each Sunday, fifty-two
squares a year, he would gradually cover every farm and every country house in the home
counties.
But obviously there was a bit more to it than that. Country folk are a suspicious lot. So are the
impoverished40 rich. You can’t go about ringing their bells and expecting them to show you around
their houses just for the asking, because they won’t do it. That way you would never get beyond
the front door. How then was he to gain admittance? Perhaps it would be best if he didn’t let them
know he was a dealer at all. He could be the telephone man, the plumber41, the gas inspector42. He
could even be a clergyman ….
From this point on, the whole scheme began to take on a more practical aspect. Mr Boggis
ordered a large quantity of superior cards on which the following legend was engraved43:
THE REVEREND
CYRIL WINNINGTON BOGGIS
President of the Society In association with
for the Preservation44 of The Victoria and
Rare Furniture Albert Museum
From now on, every Sunday, he was going to be a nice old parson spending his holiday
travelling around on a labour of love for the ‘Society’, compiling an inventory45 of the treasures that
lay hidden in the country homes of England. And who in the world was going to kick him out
when they heard that one?
Nobody.
And then, once he was inside, if he happened to spot something he really wanted, well – he
knew a hundred different ways of dealing46 with that.
Rather to Mr Boggis’s surprise, the scheme worked. In fact, the friendliness47 with which he was
received in one house after another through the countryside was, in the beginning, quite
embarrassing, even to him. A slice of cold pie, a glass of port, a cup of tea, a basket of plums, even
a full sit-down Sunday dinner with the family, such things were constantly being pressed upon
him. Sooner or later, of course, there had been some bad moments and a number of unpleasant
incidents, but then nine years is more than four hundred Sundays, and that adds up to a great
quantity of houses visited. All in all, it had been an interesting, exciting, and lucrative48 business.
And now it was another Sunday and Mr Boggis was operating in the country of
Buckinghamshire, in one of the most northerly squares on his map, about ten miles from Oxford49,
and as he drove down the hill and headed for his first house, the dilapidated Queen Anne, he began
to get the feeling that this was going to be one of his lucky days.
He parked the car about a hundred yards from the gates and got out to walk the rest of the way.
He never liked people to see his car until after a deal was completed. A dear old clergyman and a
large station-wagon somehow never seemed quite right together. Also the short walk gave him
time to examine the property closely from the outside and to assume the mood most likely to be
suitable for the occasion.
Mr Boggis strode briskly up the drive. He was a small fat-legged man with a belly50. The face
was round and rosy51, quite perfect for the part, and the two large brown eyes that bulged52 out at you
from this rosy face gave an impression of gentle imbecility. He was dressed in a black suit with
the usual parson’s dog-collar round his neck, and on his head a soft black hat. He carried an old
oak walking-stick which lent him, in his opinion, a rather rustic53 easy-going air.
He approached the front door and rang the bell. He heard the sound of footsteps in the hall and
the door opened and suddenly there stood before him, or rather above him, a gigantic woman
dressed in riding-breeches. Even through the smoke of her cigarette he could smell the powerful
odour of stables and horse manure55 that clung about her.
‘Yes?’ she asked, looking at him suspiciously. ‘What is it you want?’
Mr Boggis, who half expected her to whinny any moment, raised his hat, made a little bow, and
handed her his card. ‘I do apologize for bothering you,’ he said, and then he waited, watching her
face as she read the message.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said, handing back the card. ‘What is it you want?’
Mr Boggis explained about the Society for the Preservation of Rare Furniture.
‘This wouldn’t by any chance be something to do with the Socialist56 Party?’ she asked, staring at
him fiercely from under a pair of pale bushy brows.
From then on, it was easy. A Tory in riding-breeches, male or female, was always a sitting duck
for Mr Boggis. He spent two minutes delivering an impassioned eulogy57 on the extreme Right
Wing of the Conservative Party, then two more denouncing the Socialists58. As a clincher, he made
particular reference to the Bill that the Socialists had once introduced for the abolition59 of
bloodsports in the country, and went on to inform his listener that his idea of heaven – ‘though you
better not tell the bishop60, my dear’ – was a place where one could hunt the fox, the stag, and the
hare with large packs of tireless hounds from morn till night every day of the week, including
Sundays.
Watching her as he spoke61, he could see the magic beginning to do its work. The woman was
grinning now, showing Mr Boggis a set of enormous, slightly yellow teeth. ‘Madam,’ he cried, ‘I
beg of you, please don’t get me started on Socialism.’ At that point, she let out a great guffaw62 of
laughter, raised an enormous red hand, and slapped him so hard on the shoulder that he nearly
went over.
‘Come in!’ she shouted. ‘I don’t know what the hell you want, but come on in!’
Unfortunately, and rather surprisingly, there was nothing of any value in the whole house, and
Mr Boggis, who never wasted time on barren territory, soon made his excuses and took his leave.
The whole visit had taken less than fifteen minutes, and that, he told himself as he climbed back
into his car and started off for the next place, was exactly as it should be.
From now on, it was all farmhouses, and the nearest was about half a mile up the road. It was a
large half-timbered brick building of considerable age, and there was a magnificent pear tree still
in blossom covering almost the whole of the south wall.
Mr Boggis knocked on the door. He waited, but no one came. He knocked again, but still there
was no answer, so he wandered around the back to look for the farmer among the cowsheds. There
was no one there either. He guessed that they must all still be in church, so he began peering in the
windows to see if he could spot anything interesting. There was nothing in the dining-room.
Nothing in the library either. He tried the next window, the living-room, and there, right under his
nose, in the little alcove63 that the window made, he saw a beautiful thing, a semicircular card-table
in mahogany, richly veneered, and in the style of Hepplewhite, built around 1780.
‘Ah-ha,’ he said aloud, pressing his face hard against the glass. ‘Well done, Boggis.’
But that was not all. There was a chair there as well, a single chair, and if he were not mistaken
it was of an even finer quality than the table. Another Hepplewhite, wasn’t it? And oh, what a
beauty! The lattices on the back were finely carved with the honeysuckle, the husk, and the
paterae, the caning64 on the seat was original, the legs were very gracefully65 turned and the two back
ones had that peculiar66 outward splay that meant so much. It was an exquisite67 chair. ‘Before this
day is done,’ Mr Boggis said softly, ‘I shall have the pleasure of sitting down upon that lovely
seat.’ He never bought a chair without doing this. It was a favourite test of his, and it was always
an intriguing68 sight to see him lowering himself delicately into the seat, waiting for the ‘give’,
expertly gauging69 the precise but infinitesimal degree of shrinkage that the years had caused in the
mortice and dovetail joints70.
But there was no hurry, he told himself. He would return here later. He had the whole afternoon
before him.
The next farm was situated71 some way back in the fields, and in order to keep his car out of sight,
Mr Boggis had to leave it on the road and walk about six hundred yards along a straight track that
led directly into the back yard of the farmhouse. This place, he noticed as he approached, was a
good deal smaller than the last, and he didn’t hold out much hope for it. It looked rambling72 and
dirty, and some of the sheds were clearly in bad repair.
There were three men standing in a close group in a corner of the yard, and one of them had two
large black greyhounds with him, on leashes73. When the men caught sight of Mr Boggis walking
forward in his black suit and parson’s collar, they stopped talking and seemed suddenly to stiffen74
and freeze, becoming absolutely still, motionless, three faces turned towards him, watching him
suspiciously as he approached.
The oldest of the three was a stumpy man with a wide frog-mouth and small shifty eyes, and
although Mr Boggis didn’t know it, his name was Rummins and he was the owner of the farm.
The tall youth beside him, who appeared to have something wrong with one eye, was Bert, the
son of Rummins.
The shortish flat-faced man with a narrow corrugated75 brow and immensely broad shoulders was
Claud. Claud had dropped in on Rummins in the hope of getting a piece of pork or ham out of him
from the pig that had been killed the day before. Claud knew about the killing76 – the noise of it had
carried far across the fields – and he also knew that a man should have a government permit to do
that sort of thing, and that Rummins didn’t have one.
‘Good afternoon,’ Mr Boggis said. ‘Isn’t it a lovely day?’
None of the three men moved. At that moment they were all thinking precisely77 the same thing –
that somehow or other this clergyman, who was certainly not the local fellow, had been sent to
poke31 his nose into their business and to report what he found to the government.
‘What beautiful dogs,’ Mr Boggis said. ‘I must say I’ve never been greyhound-racing myself,
but they tell me it’s a fascinating sport.’
Again the silence, and Mr Boggis glanced quickly from Rummins to Bert, then to Claud, then
back again to Rummins, and he noticed that each of them had the same peculiar expression on his
face, something between a jeer78 and a challenge, with a contemptuous curl to the mouth and a sneer79
around the nose.
‘Might I inquire if you are the owner?’ Mr Boggis asked, undaunted, addressing himself to
Rummins.
‘What is it you want?’
‘I do apologize for troubling you, especially on a Sunday.’
Mr Boggis offered his card and Rummins took it and held it up close to his face. The other two
didn’t move, but their eyes swivelled over to one side, trying to see.
‘And what exactly might you be wanting?’ Rummins asked.
For the second time that morning, Mr Boggis explained at some length the aims and ideals of
the Society for the Preservation of Rare Furniture.
‘We don’t have any,’ Rummins told him when it was over. ‘You’re wasting your time.’
‘Now, just a minute, sir,’ Mr Boggis said, raising a finger. ‘The last man who said that to me
was an old farmer down in Sussex, and when he finally let me into his house, d’you know what I
found? A dirty-looking old chair in the corner of the kitchen, and it turned out to be worth four
hundred pounds! I showed him how to sell it, and he bought himself a new tractor with the
money.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Claud said. ‘There ain’t no chair in the world worth four
hundred pound.’
‘Excuse me,’ Mr Boggis answered primly80, ‘but there are plenty of chairs in England worth more
than twice that figure. And you know where they are? They’re tucked away in the farms and
cottages all over the country, with the owners using them as steps and ladders and standing on
them with hobnailed boots to reach a pot of jam out of the top cupboard or to hang a picture. This
is the truth I’m telling you, my friends.’
Rummins shifted uneasily on his feet. ‘You mean to say all you want to do is go inside and
stand there in the middle of the room and look around?’
‘Exactly,’ Mr Boggis said. He was at last beginning to sense what the trouble might be. ‘I don’t
want to pry81 into your cupboards or into your larder82. I just want to look at the furniture to see if you
happen to have any treasures here, and then I can write about them in our Society magazine.’
‘You know what I think?’ Rummins said, fixing him with his small wicked eyes. ‘I think you’re
after buying the stuff yourself. Why else would you be going to all this trouble?’
‘Oh, dear me. I only wish I had the money. Of course, if I saw something that I took a great
fancy to, and it wasn’t beyond my means, I might be tempted83 to make an offer. But alas84, that
rarely happens.’
‘Well,’ Rummins said, ‘I don’t suppose there’s any harm in your taking a look around if that’s
all you want.’ He led the way across the yard to the back door of the farmhouse, and Mr Boggis
followed him; so did the son Bert, and Claud with his two dogs. They went through the kitchen,
where the only furniture was a cheap deal table with a dead chicken lying on it, and they emerged
into a fairly large, exceedingly filthy85 living-room.
And there it was! Mr Boggis saw it at once, and he stopped dead in his tracks and gave a little
shrill86 gasp87 of shock. Then he stood there for five, ten, fifteen seconds at least, staring like an idiot,
unable to believe, not daring to believe what he saw before him. It couldn’t be true, not possibly!
But the longer he stared, the more true it began to seem. After all, there it was standing against the
wall right in front of him, as real and as solid as the house itself. And who in the world could
possibly make a mistake about a thing like that? Admittedly it was painted white, but that made
not the slightest difference. Some idiot had done that. The paint could easily be stripped off. But
good God! Just look at it! And in a place like this!
At this point, Mr Boggis became aware of the three men, Rummins, Bert, and Claud, standing
together in a group over by the fireplace, watching him intently. They had seen him stop and gasp
and stare, and they must have seen his face turning red, or maybe it was white, but in any event
they had seen enough to spoil the whole goddamn business if he didn’t do something about it
quick. In a flash, Mr Boggis clapped one hand over his heart, staggered to the nearest chair, and
collapsed88 into it, breathing heavily.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Claud asked.
‘It’s nothing,’ he gasped89. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute. Please – a glass of water. It’s my heart.’
Bert fetched him the water, handed it to him, and stayed close beside him, staring down at him
with a fatuous90 leer on his face.
‘I thought maybe you were looking at something,’ Rummins said. The wide frog-mouth
widened a fraction further into a crafty91 grin, showing the stubs of several broken teeth.
‘No, no,’ Mr Boggis said. ‘Oh dear me, no. It’s just my heart. I’m so sorry. It happens every
now and then. But it goes away quite quickly. I’ll be all right in a couple of minutes.’
He must have time to think, he told himself. More important still, he must have time to compose
himself thoroughly before he said another word. Take it gently, Boggis. And whatever you do,
keep calm. These people may be ignorant, but they are not stupid. They are suspicious and wary92
and sly. And if it is really true – no it can’t be, it can’t be true …
He was holding one hand up over his eyes in a gesture of pain, and now, very carefully,
secretly, he made a little crack between two of the fingers and peeked93 through.
Sure enough, the thing was still there, and on this occasion he took a good long look at it. Yes –
he had been right the first time! There wasn’t the slightest doubt about it! It was really
unbelievable!
What he saw was a piece of furniture that any expert would have given almost anything to
acquire. To a layman94, it might not have appeared particularly impressive, especially when covered
over as it was with dirty white paint, but to Mr Boggis it was a dealer’s dream. He knew, as does
every other dealer in Europe and America, that among the most celebrated95 and coveted96 examples
of eighteenth-century English furniture in existence are the three famous pieces known as ‘The
Chippendale Commodes’. He knew their history backwards97 – that the first was ‘discovered’ in
1920, in a house at Moreton-in-Marsh, and was sold at Sotheby’s the same year; that the other two
turned up in the same auction98 rooms a year later, both coming out of Raynham Hall, Norfolk.
They all fetched enormous prices. He couldn’t quite remember the exact figure for the first one, or
even the second, but he knew for certain that the last one to be sold had fetched thirty-nine
hundred guineas. And that was in 1921! Today the same piece would surely be worth ten thousand
pounds. Some man, Mr Boggis couldn’t remember his name, had made a study of these
commodes fairly recently and had proved that all three must have come from the same workshop,
for the veneers99 were all from the same log, and the same set of templates had been used in the
construction of each. No invoices100 had been found for any of them, but all the experts were agreed
that these three commodes could have been executed only by Thomas Chippendale himself, with
his own hands, at the most exalted102 period in his career.
And here, Mr Boggis kept telling himself as he peered cautiously through the crack in his
fingers, here was the fourth Chippendale Commode! And he had found it! He would be rich! He
would also be famous! Each of the other three was known throughout the furniture world by a
special name – The Chastleton Commode, The First Raynham Commode, The Second Raynham
Commode. This one would go down in history as The Boggis Commode! Just imagine the faces of
the boys up there in London when they got a look at it tomorrow morning! And the luscious103 offers
coming in from the big fellows over in the West End – Frank Partridge, Mallet104, Jetley, and the rest
of them! There would be a picture of it in The Times, and it would say, ‘The very fine Chippendale
Commode which was recently discovered by Mr Cyril Boggis, a London dealer ….’ Dear God,
what a stir he was going to make!
This one here, Mr Boggis thought, was almost exactly similar to the Second Raynham
Commode. (All three, the Chastleton and the two Raynhams, differed from one another in a
number of small ways.) It was a most impressive handsome affair, built in the French rococo105 style
of Chippendale’s Directoire period, a kind of large fat chest-of-drawers set upon four carved and
fluted106 legs that raised it about a foot from the ground. There were six drawers in all, two long ones
in the middle and two shorter ones on either side. The serpentine107 front was magnificently
ornamented108 along the top and sides and bottom, and also vertically109 between each set of drawers,
with intricate carvings110 of festoons and scrolls112 and clusters. The brass113 handles, although partly
obscured by white paint, appeared to be superb. It was, of course, a rather ‘heavy’ piece, but the
design had been executed with such elegance114 and grace that the heaviness was in no way
offensive.
‘How’re you feeling now?’ Mr Boggis heard someone saying.
‘Thank you, thank you, I’m much better already. It passes quickly. My doctor says it’s nothing
to worry about really so long as I rest for a few minutes whenever it happens. Ah yes,’ he said,
raising himself slowly to his feet. ‘That’s better. I’m all right now.’
A trifle unsteadily, he began to move around the room examining the furniture, one piece at a
time, commenting upon it briefly115. He could see at once that apart from the commode it was a very
poor lot.
‘Nice oak table,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid it’s not old enough to be of any interest. Good
comfortable chairs, but quite modern, yes, quite modern. Now this cupboard, well, it’s rather
attractive, but again, not valuable. This chest-of-drawers’ – he walked casually116 past the
Chippendale Commode and gave it a little contemptuous flip117 with his fingers – ‘worth a few
pounds, I dare say, but no more. A rather crude reproduction, I’m afraid. Probably made in
Victorian times. Did you paint it white?’
‘Yes,’ Rummins said, ‘Bert did it.’
‘A very wise move. It’s considerably118 less offensive in white.’
‘That’s a strong piece of furniture,’ Rummins said. ‘Some nice carving111 on it too.’
‘Machine-carved,’ Mr Boggis answered superbly, bending down to examine the exquisite
craftsmanship119. ‘You can tell it a mile off. But still, I suppose it’s quite pretty in its way. It has its
points.’
He began to saunter off, then he checked himself and turned slowly back again. He placed the
tip of one finger against the point of his chin, laid his head over to one side, and frowned as though
deep in thought.
‘You know what?’ he said, looking at the commode, speaking so casually that his voice kept
trailing off. ‘I’ve just remembered … I’ve been wanting a set of legs something like that for a long
time. I’ve got a rather curious table in my own little home, one of those low things that people put
in front of the sofa, sort of a coffee-table, and last Michaelmas, when I moved house, the foolish
movers damaged the legs in the most shocking way. I’m very fond of that table. I always keep my
big Bible on it, and all my sermon notes.’
He paused, stroking his chin with the finger. ‘Now I was just thinking. These legs on your
chest-of-drawers might be very suitable. Yes, they might indeed. They could easily be cut off and
fixed120 on to my table.’
He looked around and saw the three men standing absolutely still, watching him suspiciously,
three pairs of eyes, all different but equally mistrusting, small pig-eyes for Rummins, large slow
eyes for Claud, and two odd eyes for Bert, one of them very queer and boiled and misty121 pale, with
a little black dot in the centre, like a fish eye on a plate.
Mr Boggis smiled and shook his head. ‘Come, come, what on earth am I saying? I’m talking as
though I owned the piece myself. I do apologize.’
‘What you mean to say is you’d like to buy it,’ Rummins said.
‘Well …’ Mr Boggis glanced back at the commode, frowning. ‘I’m not sure. I might … and
then again … on second thoughts … no … I think it might be a bit too much trouble. It’s not
worth it. I’d better leave it.’
‘How much were you thinking of offering?’ Rummins asked.
‘Not much, I’m afraid. You see, this is not a genuine antique. It’s merely a reproduction.’
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Rummins told him. ‘It’s been in here over twenty years, and before
that it was up at the Manor122 House. I bought it there myself at auction when the old Squire123 died.
You can’t tell me that thing’s new.’
‘It’s not exactly new, but it’s certainly not more than about sixty years old.’
‘It’s more than that,’ Rummins said. ‘Bert, where’s that bit of paper you once found at the back
of one of them drawers? That old bill.’
The boy looked vacantly at his father.
Mr Boggis opened his mouth, then quickly shut it again without uttering a sound. He was
beginning literally124 to shake with excitement, and to calm himself he walked over to the window
and stared out at a plump brown hen pecking around for stray grains of corn in the yard.
‘It was in the back of that drawer underneath all them rabbit-snares,’ Rummins was saying. ‘Go
on and fetch it out and show it to the parson.’
When Bert went forward to the commode, Mr Boggis turned round again. He couldn’t stand not
watching him. He saw him pull out one of the big middle drawers, and he noticed the beautiful
way in which the drawer slid open. He saw Bert’s hand dipping inside and rummaging125 around
among a lot of wires and strings126.
‘You mean this?’ Bert lifted out a piece of folded yellowing paper and carried it over to the
father, who unfolded it and held it up close to his face.
‘You can’t tell me this writing ain’t bloody127 old,’ Rummins said, and he held the paper out to Mr
Boggis, whose whole arm was shaking as he took it. It was brittle128 and it cracked slightly between
his fingers. The writing was in a long sloping copperplate hand:
Edward Montagu, Esq.
Dr
To Thos. Chippendale
A large mahogany Commode Table of exceeding fine wood, very rich carvd, set upon fluted legs, two
very neat shapd long drawers in the middle part and two ditto on each side, with rich chasd Brass
Handles and Ornaments129, the whole completely finished in the most exquisite taste
.........................................£87
Mr Boggis was holding on to himself tight and fighting to suppress the excitement that was
spinning round inside him and making him dizzy. Oh God, it was wonderful! With the invoice101, the
value had climbed even higher. What in heaven’s name would it fetch now? Twelve thousand
pounds? Fourteen? Maybe fifteen or even twenty? Who knows?
Oh, boy!
He tossed the paper contemptuously on to the table and said quietly, ‘It’s exactly what I told
you, a Victorian reproduction. This is simply the invoice that the seller – the man who made it and
passed it off as an antique – gave to his client. I’ve seen lots of them. You’ll notice that he doesn’t
say he made it himself. That would give the game away.’
‘Say what you like,’ Rummins announced, ‘but that’s an old piece of paper.’
‘Of course it is, my dear friend. It’s Victorian, late Victorian. About eighteen ninety. Sixty or
seventy years old. I’ve seen hundreds of them. That was a time when masses of cabinet-makers
did nothing else but apply themselves to faking the fine furniture of the century before.’
‘Listen, Parson,’ Rummins said, pointing at him with a thick dirty finger, ‘I’m not saying as
how you may not know a fair bit about this furniture business, but what I am saying is this: How
on earth can you be so mighty130 sure it’s a fake when you haven’t even seen what it looks like
underneath all that paint?
‘Come here,’ Mr Boggis said. ‘Come over here and I’ll show you.’ He stood beside the
commode and waited for them to gather round. ‘Now, anyone got a knife?’
Claud produced a horn-handled pocket knife, and Mr Boggis took it and opened the smallest
blade. Then, working with apparent casualness but actually with extreme care, he began chipping
off the white paint from a small area on the top of the commode. The paint flaked131 away cleanly
from the old hard varnish132 underneath, and when he had cleared away about three square inches, he
stepped back and said, ‘Now, take a look at that!’
It was beautiful – a warm little patch of mahogany, glowing like a topaz, rich and dark with the
true colour of its two hundred years.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ Rummins asked.
‘It’s processed! Anyone can see that!’
‘How can you see it. Mister? You tell us.’
‘Well, I must say that’s a trifle difficult to explain. It’s chiefly a matter of experience. My
experience tells me that without the slightest doubt this wood has been processed with lime. That’s
what they use for mahogany, to give it that dark aged colour. For oak, they use potash salts, and
for walnut133 it’s nitric acid, but for mahogany it’s always lime.’
The three men moved a little closer to peer at the wood. There was a slight stirring of interest
among them now. It was always intriguing to hear about some new form of crookery134 or deception135.
‘Look closely at the grain. You see that touch of orange in among the dark red-brown. That’s
the sign of lime.’
They leaned forward, their noses close to the wood, first Rummins, then Claud, then Bert.
‘And then there’s the patina136,’ Mr Boggis continued.
‘The what?’
He explained to them the meaning of this word as applied137 to furniture.
‘My dear friends, you’ve no idea the trouble these rascals138 will go to to imitate the hard beautiful
bronze-like appearance of genuine patina. It’s terrible, really terrible, and it makes me quite sick to
speak of it!’ He was spitting each word sharply off the tip of the tongue and making a sour mouth
to show his extreme distaste. The men waited, hoping for more secrets.
‘The time and trouble that some mortals will go to in order to deceive the innocent!’ Mr Boggis
cried. ‘It’s perfectly139 disgusting! D’you know what they did here, my friends? I can recognize it
clearly. I can almost see them doing it, the long, complicated ritual of rubbing the wood with
linseed oil, coating it over with french polish that has been cunningly coloured, brushing it down
with pumice-stone and oil, beeswaxing it with a wax that contains dirt and dust, and finally giving
it the heat treatment to crack the polish so that it looks like two-hundred-year-old varnish! It really
upsets me to contemplate140 such knavery141!’
The three men continued to gaze at the little patch of dark wood.
‘Feel it!’ Mr Boggis ordered. ‘Put your fingers on it! There, how does it feel, warm or cold?’
‘Feels cold,’ Rummins said.
‘Exactly, my friend! It happens to be a fact that faked patina is always cold to the touch. Real
patina has a curiously142 warm feel to it.’
‘This feels normal,’ Rummins said, ready to argue.
‘No, sir, it’s cold. But of course it takes an experienced and sensitive finger-tip to pass a positive
judgement. You couldn’t really be expected to judge this any more than I could be expected to
judge the quality of your barley143. Everything in life, my dear sir, is experience.’
The men were staring at this queer moon-faced clergyman with the bulging144 eyes, not quite so
suspiciously now because he did seem to know a bit about his subject. But they were still a long
way from trusting him.
Mr Boggis bent145 down and pointed146 to one of the metal drawer-handles on the commode. ‘This is
another place where the fakers go to work,’ he said. ‘Old brass normally has a colour and
character all of its own. Did you know that?’
They stared at him, hoping for still more secrets.
‘But the trouble is that they’ve become exceedingly skilled at matching it. In fact it’s almost
impossible to tell the difference between “genuine old” and “faked old”. I don’t mind admitting
that it has me guessing. So there’s not really any point in our scraping the paint off these handles.
We wouldn’t be any the wiser.’
‘How can you possibly make new brass look like old?’ Claud said. ‘Brass doesn’t rust54, you
know.’
‘You are quite right, my friend. But these scoundrels have their own secret methods.’
‘Such as what?’ Claud asked. Any information of this nature was valuable, in his opinion. One
never knew when it might come in handy.
‘All they have to do,’ Mr Boggis said, ‘is to place these handles overnight in a box of mahogany
shavings saturated147 in sal ammoniac. The sal ammoniac turns the metal green, but if you rub off the
green, you will find underneath it a fine soft silvery-warm lustre148, a lustre identical to that which
comes with very old brass. Oh, it is so bestial149, the things they do! With iron they have another
trick.’
‘What do they do with iron?’ Claud asked, fascinated.
‘Iron’s easy,’ Mr Boggis said. ‘Iron locks and plates and hinges are simply buried in common
salt and they come out all rusted150 and pitted in no time.’
‘All right,’ Rummins said. ‘So you admit you can’t tell about the handles. For all you know,
they may be hundreds and hundreds of years old. Correct?’
‘Ah,’ Mr Boggis whispered, fixing Rummins with two big bulging brown eyes. ‘That’s where
you’re wrong. Watch this.’
From his jacket pocket, he took out a small screwdriver151. At the same time, although none of
them saw him do it, he also took out a little brass screw which he kept well hidden in the palm of
his hand. Then he selected one of the screws in the commode – there were four to each handle –
and began carefully scraping all traces of white paint from its head. When he had done this, he
started slowly to unscrew it.
‘If this is a genuine old brass screw from the eighteenth century,’ he was saying, ‘the spiral will
be slightly uneven152 and you’ll be able to see quite easily that it has been hand-cut with a file. But if
this brasswork is faked from more recent times, Victorian or later, then obviously the screw will
be of the same period. It will be a mass-produced, machine-made article. Anyone can recognize a
machine-made screw. Well, we shall see.’
It was not difficult, as he put his hands over the old screw and drew it out, for Mr Boggis to
substitute the new one hidden in his palm. This was another little trick of his, and through the
years it had proved a most rewarding one. The pockets of his clergyman’s jacket were always
stocked with a quantity of cheap brass screws of various sizes.
‘There you are,’ he said, handing the modern screw to Rummins. ‘Take a look at that. Notice
the exact evenness of the spiral? See it? Of course you do. It’s just a cheap common little screw
you yourself could buy today in any ironmonger’s in the country.’
The screw was handed round from the one to the other, each examining it carefully. Even
Rummins was impressed now.
Mr Boggis put the screwdriver back in his pocket together with the fine hand-cut screw that
he’d taken from the commode, and then he turned and walked slowly past the three men towards
the door.
‘My dear friends,’ he said, pausing at the entrance to the kitchen, ‘it was so good of you to let
me peep inside your little home – so kind. I do hope I haven’t been a terrible old bore.’
Rummins glanced up from examining the screw. ‘You didn’t tell us what you were going to
offer,’ he said.
‘Ah,’ Mr Boggis said. ‘That’s quite right. I didn’t, did I? Well, to tell you the honest truth, I
think it’s all a bit too much trouble. I think I’ll leave it.’
‘How much would you give?’
‘You mean that you really wish to part with if?’
‘I didn’t say I wished to part with it. I asked you how much.’
Mr Boggis looked across at the commode, and he laid his head first to one side, then to the
other, and he frowned, and pushed out his lips, and shrugged153 his shoulders, and gave a little
scornful wave of the hand as though to say the thing was hardly worth thinking about really, was
it?
‘Shall we say … ten pounds. I think that would be fair.’
‘Ten pounds!’ Rummins cried. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. Parson, please!’
‘It’s worth more’n that for firewood!’ Claud said, disgusted.
‘Look here at the bill!’ Rummins went on, stabbing that precious document so fiercely with his
dirty fore-finger that Mr Boggis became alarmed. ‘It tells you exactly what it cost! Eighty-seven
pounds! And that’s when it was new. Now it’s antique it’s worth double!’
‘If you’ll pardon me, no, sir, it’s not. It’s a second-hand154 reproduction. But I’ll tell you what, my
friend – I’m being rather reckless, I can’t help it – I’ll go up as high as fifteen pounds. How’s
that?’
‘Make it fifty,’ Rummins said.
A delicious little quiver like needles ran all the way down the back of Mr Boggis’s legs and then
under the soles of his feet. He had it now. It was his. No question about that. But the habit of
buying cheap, as cheap as it was humanly possible to buy, acquired by years of necessity and
practice, was too strong in him now to permit him to give in so easily.
‘My dear man,’ he whispered softly, ‘I only want the legs. Possibly I could find some use for
the drawers later on, but the rest of it, the carcass itself, as your friend so rightly said, it’s
firewood, that’s all.’
‘Make it thirty-five,’ Rummins said.
‘I couldn’t sir, I couldn’t! It’s not worth it. And I simply mustn’t allow myself to haggle155 like
this about a price. It’s all wrong. I’ll make you one final offer, and then I must go. Twenty
pounds.’
‘I’ll take it,’ Rummins snapped. ‘It’s yours.’
‘Oh dear,’ Mr Boggis said, clasping his hands. ‘There I go again. I should never have started
this in the first place.’
‘You can’t back out now, Parson. A deal’s a deal.’
‘Yes, yes, I know.’
‘How’re you going to take it?’
‘Well, let me see. Perhaps if I were to drive my car up into the yard, you gentlemen would be
kind enough to help me load it?’
‘In a car? This thing’ll never go in a car! You’ll need a truck for this!’
‘I don’t think so. Anyway, we’ll see. My car’s on the road. I’ll be back in a jiffy. We’ll manage
it somehow, I’m sure.’
Mr Boggis walked out into the yard and through the gate and then down the long track that led
across the field towards the road. He found himself giggling156 quite uncontrollably, and there was a
feeling inside him as though hundreds and hundreds of tiny bubbles were rising up from his
stomach and bursting merrily in the top of his head, like sparkling-water. All the buttercups in the
field were suddenly turning into golden sovereigns, glistening157 in the sunlight. The ground was
littered with them, and he swung off the track on to the grass so that he could walk among them
and tread on them and hear the little metallic158 tinkle159 they made as he kicked them around with his
toes. He was finding it difficult to stop himself from breaking into a run. But clergymen never run;
they walk slowly. Walk slowly, Boggis. Keep calm, Boggis. There’s no hurry now. The commode
is yours! Yours for twenty pounds, and it’s worth fifteen or twenty thousand! The Boggis
Commode! In ten minutes it’ll be loaded into your car – it’ll go in easily – and you’ll be driving
back to London and singing all the way! Mr Boggis driving the Boggis Commode home in the
Boggis car. Historic occasion. What wouldn’t a newspaperman give to get a picture of that!
Should he arrange it? Perhaps he should. Wait and see. Oh, glorious day! Oh, lovely sunny
summer day! Oh, glory be!
Back in the farmhouse, Rummins was saying, ‘Fancy that old bastard160 giving twenty pound for a
load of junk like this.’
‘You did very nicely, Mr Rummins,’ Claud told him. ‘You think he’ll pay you?’
‘We don’t put it in the car till he do.’
‘And what if it won’t go in the car?’ Claud asked. ‘You know what I think, Mr Rummins? You
want my honest opinion? I think the bloody thing’s too big to go in the car. And then what
happens? Then he’s going to say to hell with it and just drive off without it and you’ll never see
him again. Nor the money either. He didn’t seem all that keen on having it, you know.’
Rummins paused to consider this new and rather alarming prospect161.
‘How can a thing like that possibly go in a car?’ Claud went on relentlessly162. ‘A parson never
has a big car anyway. You ever seen a parson with a big car, Mr Rummins?’
‘Can’t say I have.’
‘Exactly! And now listen to me. I’ve got an idea. He told us, didn’t he, that it was only the legs
he was wanting. Right? So all we’ve got to do is to cut ’em off quick right here on the spot before
he comes back, then it’ll be sure to go in the car. All we’re doing is saving him the trouble of
cutting them off himself when he gets home. How about it, Mr Rummins?’ Claud’s flat bovine163
face glimmered164 with a mawkish165 pride.
‘It’s not such a bad idea at that,’ Rummins said, looking at the commode. ‘In fact it’s a bloody
good idea. Come on then, we’ll have to hurry. You and Bert carry it out into the yard. I’ll get the
saw. Take the drawers out first.’
Within a couple of minutes, Claud and Bert had carried the commode outside and had laid it
upside down in the yard amidst the chicken droppings and cow dung and mud. In the distance,
half-way across the field, they could see a small black figure striding along the path towards the
road. They paused to watch. There was something rather comical about the way in which this
figure was conducting itself. Every now and again it would break into a trot166, then it did a kind of
hop16, skip, and jump, and once it seemed as though the sound of a cheerful song came rippling167
faintly to them from across the meadow.
‘I reckon he’s balmy,’ Claud said, and Bert grinned darkly, rolling his misty eye slowly round
in its socket168.
Rummins came waddling169 over from the shed, squat170 and froglike, carrying a long saw. Claud
took the saw away from him and went to work.
‘Cut ’em close,’ Rummins said. ‘Don’t forget he’s going to use ’em on another table.’
The mahogany was hard and very dry, and as Claud worked, a fine red dust sprayed out from
the edge of the saw and fell softly to the ground. One by one, the legs came off, and when they
were all severed171, Bert stooped down and arranged them carefully in a row.
Claud stepped back to survey the results of his labour. There was a longish pause.
‘Just let me ask you one question, Mr Rummins,’ he said slowly. ‘Even now, could you put that
enormous thing into the back of a car?’
‘Not unless it was a van.’
‘Correct!’ Claud cried. ‘And parsons don’t have vans, you know. All they’ve got usually is
piddling little Morris Eights or Austin Sevens.’
‘The legs is all he wants,’ Rummins said. ‘If the rest of it won’t go in, then he can leave it. He
can’t complain. He’s got the legs.’
‘Now you know better’n that, Mr Rummins,’ Claud said patiently. ‘You know damn well he’s
going to start knocking the price if he don’t get every single bit of this into the car. A parson’s just
as cunning as the rest of ’em when it comes to money, don’t you make any mistake about that.
Especially this old boy. So why don’t we give him his firewood now and be done with it. Where
d’you keep the axe172?’
‘I reckon that’s fair enough,’ Rummins said. ‘Bert, go fetch the axe.’
Bert went into the shed and fetched a tall woodcutter’s axe and gave it to Claud. Claud spat173 on
the palms of his hands and rubbed them together. Then, with a long-armed high-swinging action,
he began fiercely attacking the legless carcass of the commode.
It was hard work, and it took several minutes before he had the whole thing more or less
smashed to pieces.
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ he said, straightening up, wiping his brow. ‘That was a bloody good
carpenter put this job together and I don’t care what the parson says.’
‘We’re just in time!’ Rummins called out. ‘Here he comes!’
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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2
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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3
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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4
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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5
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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6
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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7
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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8
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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9
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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10
binoculars
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| n.双筒望远镜 | |
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11
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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14
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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15
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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16
hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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17
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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19
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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20
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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22
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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23
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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24
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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25
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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27
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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28
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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30
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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31
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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32
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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33
snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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34
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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35
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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36
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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39
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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40
impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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41
plumber
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| n.(装修水管的)管子工 | |
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42
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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43
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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44
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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45
inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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46
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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47
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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48
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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49
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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50
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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51
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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52
bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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53
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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54
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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55
manure
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| n.粪，肥，肥粒；vt.施肥 | |
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56
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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57
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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58
socialists
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| 社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
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59
abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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60
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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61
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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62
guffaw
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| n.哄笑；突然的大笑 | |
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63
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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64
caning
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| n.鞭打 | |
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65
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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66
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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67
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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68
intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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69
gauging
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| n.测量[试]，测定，计量v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的现在分词 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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70
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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71
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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72
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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73
leashes
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| n.拴猎狗的皮带( leash的名词复数 ) | |
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74
stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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75
corrugated
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|
| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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76
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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77
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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78
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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79
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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80
primly
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| adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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81
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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82
larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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83
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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84
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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85
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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86
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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87
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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88
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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89
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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90
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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91
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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92
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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93
peeked
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| v.很快地看( peek的过去式和过去分词 )；偷看；窥视；微露出 | |
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94
layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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95
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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96
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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97
backwards
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|
| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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98
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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99
veneers
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| n.饰面薄板( veneer的名词复数 )；虚假的外表；虚饰；牙罩冠 | |
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100
invoices
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| 发票( invoice的名词复数 )； （发货或服务）费用清单； 清单上货物的装运； 货物的托运 | |
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101
invoice
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| vt.开发票；n.发票，装货清单 | |
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102
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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103
luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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104
mallet
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| n.槌棒 | |
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105
rococo
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| n.洛可可；adj.过分修饰的 | |
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106
fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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107
serpentine
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|
| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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108
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
vertically
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| adv.垂直地 | |
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110
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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111
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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112
scrolls
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| n.（常用于录写正式文件的）纸卷( scroll的名词复数 )；卷轴；涡卷形（装饰）；卷形花纹v.（电脑屏幕上）从上到下移动（资料等），卷页( scroll的第三人称单数 )；（似卷轴般）卷起；（像展开卷轴般地）将文字显示于屏幕 | |
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113
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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114
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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115
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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116
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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117
flip
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| vt.快速翻动；轻抛；轻拍；n.轻抛；adj.轻浮的 | |
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118
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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119
craftsmanship
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| n.手艺 | |
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120
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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121
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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122
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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123
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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124
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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125
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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126
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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127
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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128
brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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129
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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130
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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131
flaked
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| 精疲力竭的，失去知觉的，睡去的 | |
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132
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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133
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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134
crookery
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| n.不正当行为 | |
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135
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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136
patina
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| n.铜器上的绿锈，年久而产生的光泽 | |
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137
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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138
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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139
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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140
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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141
knavery
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| n.恶行，欺诈的行为 | |
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142
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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143
barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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144
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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145
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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146
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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147
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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148
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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149
bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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150
rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
screwdriver
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| n.螺丝起子；伏特加橙汁鸡尾酒 | |
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152
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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153
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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154
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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155
haggle
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| vi.讨价还价，争论不休 | |
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156
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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157
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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158
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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159
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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160
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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161
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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162
relentlessly
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| adv.不屈不挠地；残酷地；不间断 | |
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163
bovine
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| adj.牛的；n.牛 | |
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164
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
mawkish
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| adj.多愁善感的的；无味的 | |
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166
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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167
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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168
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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169
waddling
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的现在分词 ) | |
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170
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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171
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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172
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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173
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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