The Virgin of the Sun | Page 5

think now is your chance.
Anyhow, keep this dark as per agreement.
Your obedient, Tom.

(He always signed himself Tom, I suppose to mystify, although I
believe his real name was Betterly.)
The result of this epistle was a long and disagreeable bicycle ride in wet
autumn weather, and a visit to the shop of Mr. Potts. Tom, alias
Betterly, who was trying to sell some mysterious undergarments to a fat
old woman, caught sight of me, the Editor aforesaid, and winked. In a
shadowed corner of the shop sat Mr. Potts himself upon a high stool, a
wizened little old man with a bent back, a bald head, and a hooked nose
upon which were set a pair of enormous horn-rimmed spectacles that
accentuated his general resemblance to an owl perched upon the edge
of its nest-hole. He was busily engaged in doing nothing, and in staring
into nothingness as, according to Tom, was his habit when communing
with what he, Tom, called his "dratted speerits."
"Customer!" said Tom in a harsh voice. "Sorry to disturb you at your
prayers, Guv'nor, but not having two pair of hands I can't serve a
crowd," meaning the old woman of the undergarments and myself.
Mr. Potts slid off his stool and prepared for action. When he saw,
however, who the customer was he bristled--that is the only word for it.
The truth is that although between us there was an inward and spiritual
sympathy, there was also an outward and visible hostility. Twice I had
outbid Mr. Potts at a local auction for articles which he desired.
Moreover, after the fashion of every good collector he felt it to be his
duty to hate me as another collector. Lastly, several times I had offered
him smaller sums for antiques upon which he set a certain monetary
value. It is true that long ago I had given up this bargaining for the
reason that Mr. Potts would never take less than he asked. Indeed he
followed the example of the vendor of the Sibylline books in ancient
Rome. He did not destroy the goods indeed after the fashion of that
person and demand the price of all of them for the one that remained,
but invariably he put up his figure by 10 per cent. and nothing would
induce him to take off one farthing.
"What do /you/ want, sir?" he said grumpily. "Vests, hose, collars, or
socks?"

"Oh, socks, I think," I replied at hazard, thinking that they would be
easiest to carry, whereupon Mr. Potts produced some peculiarly
objectionable and shapeless woollen articles which he almost threw at
me, saying that they were all he had in stock. Now I detest woollen
socks and never wear them. Still, I made a purchase, thinking with
sympathy of my old gardener whose feet they would soon be scratching,
and while the parcel was being tied up, said in an insinuating voice,
"Anything fresh upstairs, Mr. Potts?"
"No, sir," he answered shortly, "at least, not much, and if there were
what's the use of showing them to you after the business about that
clock?"
"It was £15 you wanted for it, Mr. Potts?" I asked.
"No, sir, it was £17 and now it's 10 per cent. on to that; you can work
out the sum for yourself."
"Well, let's have another look at it, Mr. Potts," I replied humbly,
whereon with a grunt and a muttered injunction to Tom to mind the
shop, he led the way upstairs.
Now the house in which Mr. Potts dwelt had once been of considerable
pretensions and was very, very old, Elizabethan, I should think,
although it had been refronted with a horrible stucco to suit modern
tastes. The oak staircase was good though narrow, and led to numerous
small rooms upon two floors above, some of which rooms were
panelled and had oak beams, now whitewashed like the panelling--at
least they had once been whitewashed, probably in the last generation.
These rooms were literally crammed with every sort of old furniture,
most of it decrepit, though for many of the articles dealers would have
given a good price. But at dealers Mr. Potts drew the line; not one of
them had ever set a foot upon that oaken stair. To the attics the place
was filled with this furniture and other articles such as books, china,
samplers with the glass broken, and I know not what besides, piled in
heaps upon the floor. Indeed where Mr. Potts slept was a mystery;
either it must have been under the counter in his shop, or perhaps at

nights he inhabited a worm-eaten Jacobean bedstead which stood in an
attic, for I observed a kind of pathway to it running through a number
of legless chairs, also some dirty blankets between the