bought a rusty steel fender for two
shillings and, when she went to clean it, it turned out to be solid
silver--a bit of loot from some old French chateau. I must confess
that I've never found any spoil, but I only root among the books.
Once, I thought I'd got hold of a Coverdale Bible, but it proved to be
a fake."

"All right," agreed Shafto, "I'd like to try my luck; I'll go with you
and look for a set of gold fire-irons. I've nothing special on--only
tennis in the afternoon."

"And the market is at its best in the morning--we'll start at ten."

Friday morning found the couple roaming aimlessly round that great bare
enclosure at the end of the Camden Road, known as the Caledonian
Market. It was just eleven by the clock tower, and wares were still
pouring in; arriving in all manner of shabby carts and vans--mostly
drawn by aged and decrepit horses. Every variety of goods had its own
particular pitch. In one quarter were piles of books, brown, musty
volumes of all shapes and sizes, also tattered magazines, and of
theological works a great host. Farther on the explorers came to a
vast collection of old iron. It was as if numbers of travelling
tinkers had here discharged their stock; fenders, gasoliers,
stair-rods, tin-cans, officers' swords--yes, at least a dozen--frying
pans and saucepans. Old clothes were needless to say, a prominent
feature. Here you might suit yourself with a bald-looking sealskin, a
red flannel petticoat, a soiled evening gown on graceful lines, or a
widow's bonnet. Here also were black costumes (dripping beads), broken
feathers, and hopeless hats. Old furniture had several stands and was
an important department. Grandfather clocks, sideboards, chairs
(Chippendale or otherwise), chairs in horsehair or upholstered in
wool-work, and framed family portraits solicited notice. Should anyone
marvel as to what becomes of the rubbish and relics belonging to houses
whose contents have been scattered, after several generations--trifles
that survived wrecked fortunes, odds and ends which, for sacred
reasons, people had clung to till the last, let them repair to the
"Market"--the relics are there, lying on unresponsive cobble stones, a
pitiful spectacle, handled, despised, and cast aside--the precious
hoarded treasures of a bygone age.

Delicately worked samplers, faded water-colours, portraits, old seals,
snuff-boxes, and lockets, attract the curio-hunter. Here is a Prayer
Book with massive