Naturally Cleghorn and Webb were conversant with these refinements of mediaeval hydraulics.  In fact when Webb, the sturdier of the two, hauled up the bottom-stone all dripping, Cleghorn promptly declared that in the sense of the contract it was a bucketful; hence his first go at the now uncovered pots.  So heated grew the debate, that finally the grimy excavators climbed to the upper air and appealed to Mayhew, who promptly denied the quibble, deciding that stones and pots were not interchangeable.  The diversion drew attention from the great perforated disc itself, and as the sullen Cleghorn let the exultant Webb down upon the ancient pots, it lay badly bestowed near the curb on the crumbling slope of a rubbish heap.  And now Cleghorn with bitterness of heart was reeling up Webb’s find.  As the coils broadened on the windlass a small iron bucket rose above the parapet, brimming with something that glinted metallically under the dirt.  Beside the bucket flapped the rude swing in which the entrances and exits of the partners were made.  As Cleghorn grasped the bail and swung the precious cargo clear of the well, came up once more the voice of Webb:  “Hustle, Old Man, I’m keen to see them, they feel good.”

Good they were indeed.  Cleghorn, who for fifteen years had haunted shops and museums had never seen the like in equal compass.  As he took them cautiously one by one and held them high in the uncertain light, each revealed a desirable point.  Here was a coat of arms, a date, the initial of an owner.  There were grotesque birds and beasts.  Differing in form and colour, the entire lot agreed in possessing that dull early Italian lustre, which perhaps accidental and less distinguished than that of Spain, is even dearer in a collector’s eyes.  They hinted of all enamelled things that come out of the East—­of the peacock reflections of the tiles of Damascus and Cordova, of the franker polychromy of Rhodian kilns, of the subtler bloom of the dishes of Moorish Spain, of the brassier glazes of Minorca and Sicily—­all these things lay enticingly in epitome in these lustred Italian pots, as they glimmered with a furtive splendour.  Yes, they were a good lot, thought Cleghorn as he placed them reverently on the flagging.  It was the find of a lifetime.  A man with nothing else in his cupboard must be mentioned respectfully among collectors from Dan to Beersheba.

Again the impatient voice of Webb below:  “Hurry up, I say.  It’s getting cold:  the water is gaining.”

“All right,” called Cleghorn, giving a few strokes of the pump, but never taking his eyes from the lustred pots.  Then as if by a sudden inspiration he asked, “Any more in that lot, Dick?”

“Not a one,” cried Webb jubilantly, “there was just a bucketful and a squeeze at that.  But there may be others beneath.  There’s another bottom-stone, and it’s your next turn.  But why don’t you hurry up?”