“Oh, that’s dialect—I don’t know what it means. My friend taught me to say it. He said if you want to sell antiques, you have to shout like that.” The old man said.

When I heard that, I realized he didn’t even know what he was saying himself. I laughed and said, “Sir, times have changed. That nonsense your friend taught you—nobody says that anymore. That’s why you can’t sell your stuff. Let’s sit down and talk, don’t put on a show for everyone.”

As I spoke, I pointed to a few other diners. They were watching us like it was a performance, probably wondering why I was teasing an old man.

The old man saw everyone looking at us and seemed to understand. He sat back down and said in a low voice, “No wonder I haven’t had any interest after selling for six or seven days—Boss, so when you offered me a drink, did you mean you wanted to buy my stuff?”

I didn’t know what he had in his bag. Judging by his look, he was probably a greenhorn who couldn’t tell the value of antiques. But I’d been tricked enough times to know that people like this were often the real swindlers, so I didn’t dare underestimate him. I said, “Yes, as long as you want to sell. But I have to see your stuff first.”

The old man gave me a suspicious look, then carefully took out his bag. He pulled it out halfway, then put it back in. “How about we change places? My friend said if I get caught selling this, I could be shot. It wasn’t easy for me to bring it out.”

I found it funny. What do you have in there, a Terracotta Warrior or the Simu Fangding? Shot if you get caught—he really looked more and more like a con artist. But seeing how serious he was, I didn’t want to go against him. Besides, everyone around was from Nathaniel Grant, and they were all listening in. He had a point. So I pointed to the kitchen door and said, “Alright, let’s not show the good stuff to others. Let’s go into the back room, and I’ll talk to you in detail about this.”

The old man looked at the liquor and nodded. I gave Young Master a look, and Young Master led us to the back of his shop, to the staff dining area, and brought all the food and drinks inside.

This little room was cut off at the back, very quiet. If I had something to do, I’d take a nap here. Young Master set up a round table, and I told the old man to make himself at home.

He’d been eyeing the baijiu for a while. He tipped his head back and took a big gulp, his face immediately turning red, then started eating. He looked like he’d never had good food before.

I thought this old man was too green—no real street peddler would just drink when offered. But then a chill ran through me. What if this guy was just here for a free meal and drink, and when he opened his bag, it was just a big tile? I’d be pissed, and the food would be wasted.

Thinking that, I didn’t let him eat too much. I asked, “Sir, don’t just eat—let’s talk while we eat. Can we see your stuff?”

But the old man ignored me, downed his glass of baijiu in two gulps, and shamelessly poured himself more. The bottle was empty in no time. He said, “This is good liquor.”

I thought, damn, he can really drink. So I told Young Master to bring two more bottles of Fenjiu and told the old man to take it easy.

The old man just kept eating. I asked him for his stuff a few more times, but he acted like he didn’t hear me. Finally, I snatched his liquor away, and only then did he shove the shabby bag at me.

I hurried to open it, thinking if it was junk, don’t blame me for not respecting my elders—I’d make sure he coughed up everything he’d eaten.

The bag was from before Liberation, the kind of thing a landlord’s wife would carry in the late Qing dynasty. It smelled strong, but in Nathaniel Grant, you could still get a few big bills for it. I unzipped the bag and looked inside. It was full of things wrapped in newspaper.

There’s an old saying: “A single character suppresses a ghost.” That’s why burial goods are always wrapped in something with writing. In the past, it was calligraphy paper; now, it’s newspaper. With so many words, even a whole division of ghosts would be trapped. This custom is still common in many places and industries—wrapping things in newspaper isn’t just for convenience.

I took them out and counted—six in total: three big, two small, and one flat.

I unwrapped one of the big ones, and my ears started to tingle. Inside the newspaper was still mud. At a glance, I saw it was a Western Han dynasty double-handled, slender-necked bronze zhi (Note 1). Judging by its quality and preservation, this wine vessel might have been worth less than twenty copper coins back then, but now it’d easily fetch five thousand yuan.

What did five thousand yuan mean in those years? I felt dizzy just looking at it and quickly checked the others. The two small ones and the other two big ones were all bronze zhi and you (Note 2) of different sizes, clearly from the same set. By my estimate, this set alone could sell for thirty thousand in Nathaniel Grant. If it went to Shanghai or Beijing, who knows how much more.

The last flat item was a decayed bronze fragment, engraved with bird-script inscriptions and cloud-and-thunder patterns, seemingly broken off a larger bronze vessel.

Just these small pieces would be enough for me to make a tidy profit. Seeing that bronze fragment, I guessed he might have even bigger items he hadn’t brought out. I couldn’t help but click my tongue in amazement. For these things, never mind treating him to a meal—treating him for a whole week would be a rare bargain.