The match went out and Beale and Dickie went back to supper in the crowded, gas-lit room. When supper was over—it was tripe and onions and fried potatoes, very luxurious—Beale got up and stood before the fire.
"I'm a goin' to 'ave a hauction, I am," he said to the company at large. "Here's a thing and a very pretty thing, a baccy-box, or a snuff-box, or a box to shut yer gold money in, or yer diamonds. What offers?"
"'And it round," said a black-browed woman, with a basket covered in American cloth no blacker than her eyes.
"That I will," said Beale readily. "I'll 'and it round in me 'and. And I'll do the 'andin' meself."
He took it round from one to another, showed the neat corners, the neat carving, the neat fit of the square lid.
"Where'd yer nick that?" asked a man with a red handkerchief.
"The nipper made it."
"Pinched it more likely," some one said.
"I see 'im make it," said Beale, frowning a little.
"Let me 'ave a squint," said a dingy grey old man sitting apart. For some reason of his own Beale let the old man take the box into his hand. But he kept very close to him and he kept his eyes on the box.
"All outer one piece," said the old man. "I dunno oo made it an' I don't care, but that was made by a workman as know'd his trade. I
