I shook my head “Mr Buckland’s not the tuppence type.” “Course he is You don’t let anyone see that thing without paying Penny for the poor, tuppence for the rich.” “You ask him, then.” Mam frowned “I will.” Handing me the paddle she used to stir the linens, she wiped her hands on her apron and headed downstairs I poked at the washing, happy enough for a little break from Mr Buckland’s questions—though it would have been funny to see Mam try to cope with him She was fine with some of the other gentlemen Henry De La Beche, for instance, she bossed about like another son But William Buckland defeated even my mam She come up a time later, exhausted from his constant chatter, and without tuppence She shook her head “Your pa used to tell me when that man come to the workshop, he’d give up getting any work done and settle back for a sleep while Mr Buckland went on Now, he wants you back down to tell him about the cleaning and what we’re going to do with it Tell him we want a good price, and don’t want being cheated by a gentleman again!” When I come in Mr Buckland was leaving by the door that led onto Cockmoile Square “Oh, Mary, I’ll just be a moment I’m fetching Doctor Carpenter here to see this And a few others this afternoon who I’m sure will be most interested in it.” “Just as long as it’s not Lord Henley!” I called after him “Why not Lord Henley?” I explained about the first croc, with its monocle, waistcoat and straightened tail as Miss Philpot had described it “That idiot!” Mr Buckland cried “He should have sold it to Oxford or the British Museum rather than to Bullock’s I’m sure I could have convinced either to take it I shall so with this one.” Without asking, Mr Buckland took over the selling of the croc from Mam and Miss Elizabeth Before Mam could stop him he’d written enthusiastic letters to possible buyers She were cross at first, but not once he’d found us a rich gentleman in Bristol who paid us forty pounds for it—the museums having said no That made up for all that Mam and me had to put up with from Mr Buckland For he was about all summer, fired with the idea of crocodiles entombed in the cliffs and ledges, waiting to be freed While we had ours in the workshop, he was in and out all day as if the room were his, bringing with him gentlemen who poked about, measuring and sketching and discussing my croc I noticed during all the talk, Mr Buckland never once called it a crocodile He was like Miss Elizabeth that way It made me begin to accept it were something else—though until we knew what that was, I would still call it a crocodile