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 L15 you wanted for it, Mr. Potts?” I asked.

“No, sir, it was L17 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.