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 it?’
‘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 hea
d first to one side, then to the other, and he frowned, and pushed out his lips, and shrugged 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 forefinger 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 secondhand 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 haggle 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 toward the road. He found himself giggling 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, glistening 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 metallic tinkle 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 bastard 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.’