A Small a.k.a “Pocket” Dunhill Bent Shell Magnum (continued)
In any event--for anyone who may still be with me, I told myself one Sunday morning, roughly a month ago, that a little window-shopping over my morning espresso wouldn’t hurt— even if, despite my best intentions, what can end up happening too often suggests Oscar Wilde’s dictum, “I can resist anything. . . except temptation.”
In this case, what attracted my bemused attention (like a tug on a water dowser’s forked stick) was a somewhat garbled, misspelt title (accompanied by no additional description, but a few decent quality photographs)—
“Dunhill shell priar part number119708/176 in used condition”
Some of the time this sort of thing is just honest ignorance; while on other occasions, when not outright fraud, it can imply a certain amount of guile. In this instance, other than the final digit turning out to be a five (and not a six) what little was there felt instinctively okay, and ultimately proved accurate enough. Indeed—to skip ahead—as I would later find out, the seller really did know nothing whatsoever about pipes in general, nor this one in particular, other than she’d found it at a “house clearance,” somewhere near Brighton, England, where she lived, and really could tell me nothing more about it or its “provenance.”
What was rather of more immediate concern was whether she’d be willing to ship to the US. And since the pipe had been listed perhaps an hour earlier—as an auction with a minimum opening bid of £50 as well as the option of making an “offer”—I quickly sent her a message on both subjects.
She wrote back, “I would post to us,” and so, I figured what the heck— and made with what seemed to me a fair-minded offer for what I took to be a completely unrestored group 3-4 sized Dunhill Shell bent, with particularly crisp nomenclature, a stem without any sign of oxidation, and a blast of unusually expressive character. By all appearances in shape, it was part of a family of related Dunhill models I particularly like. Definitely not the legendary LC or the graceful 120—and its bowl looked to me a tad too short and just a bit too stout to be a 56— but I thought even if it turned out to be a comparatively modest mid-1920s 53, that would be acceptable.
There was no obvious damage (although that’s a risk of the game, and one tries to figure the possibility in calculating what you decide you is reasonable to spend). Only what seemed to be the sort of bumps and scraps of comparatively benign and long neglect. And exactly what you might expect a forgotten pipe would suffer after being at the back of a cluttered drawer for a few decades.
The only mystery that nagged at me was that there really didn’t seem to be a shape number stamped anywhere.
But in the mid-1920s, at least according to John Loring, nomenclature errors and omission were not entirely unknown. And if the 1926 Export Edition of About Smoke (and the 1927 edition that followed) are to be believed, Dunhill shells of the time ought to have been stamped with roman numerals—although there is enough ambiguity in the catalogues’ sales prose to suggest that roman numerals weren’t necessarily about nomenclature stamping at all, and that at least early on (in contrast to smooth finish models), Dunhill’s original marketing idea (rapidly abandoned) was that every shell pipe should be a unique individual, unless the customer asked it conform to a catalogue shape.
The next problem, it seemed, when the seller responded only a few minutes after I placed my offer, was she said she’d gotten another offer from a rival potential buyer for exactly the same amount. Could I do better? I added 10%. And the deal was done.
A PayPal invoice followed. I gave her directions about packing, insisted on tracking, and my “Shell Priar” was in the the mail the following morning.
Almost instantly the package disappeared for the next three weeks from one of Europe’s worst international postal processing hubs, before finally appearing in a scan at Elk Grove, Illinois (of all places).
Meanwhile, to pass the time (and quiet my anxiety it might be lost), I studied the listing’s photos for some hint of scale, and/or any sign that a shape number had been somehow erased. But scale’s a fairly tricky and common problem with online transactions, and really, how much smaller than a size 3 was it likely to be?
I suppose I might have asked the seller for specifics, but she really didn’t seem to know or have noticed anything more about the “Priar” than she did about her signed Teddy Bear painting, an antique Chinese teacup saucer, a Stanley Tool staple gun, two Royal Salute blended whiskey corks, or the vintage NASCAR playstation game. It was to her no different than a hundred other very miscellaneous “items” she listed for sale each month.
Finally, to my great relief, the package arrived.
The generous use of bubble wrap was reassuring. But there was little hint of what I was unwrapping until voila!— and I found myself holding an absolutely gargantuan, beautifully proportioned, jet black stem.
Over the next couple of hours, it was all rather like a segment of the “Antiques Road Show”—but one in which I got to play all the different characters. So Not a 53, 56, 120 or LC. That I knew instantly, but what (or more like it, WTF!!!)? Once the pipe was assembled—it seemed astonishing.
It didn’t take me before before I found myself gazing at what appeared to be my new Dunhill’s fraternal twin. This in a photograph I’d studied and admired occasionally for nearly fifteen years—that of the “1925 Dunhill Shell Small Magnum” in John Loring’s collection. But could this possibly be so?
Out of some 250,000 pipes Dunhill made annually during the period 1921/22-1939, according to Loring, perhaps 200 magnums of various shapes and sizes had been produced. Of these, perhaps five “pocket magnums” were known to still exist (out of a total figure of roughly 50—some 38 recorded by Rich Esserman in a 1999 census he published in the “35th Anniversary” issue of the “Pipe Smokers Ephemeris,” and perhaps ten discovered since).
The best idea, it seemed to me, was to get a second opinion from an old friend who’d once run the internet’s most elegant online vintage pipe shop that had consistently done a brisk business in very high end and costly pre-war Dunhills.
“Is it at least eight inches?” was he most wanted to know. (A somewhat loaded question (so phrased)—recalling drunken first dates with future girlfriends in a less enlightened era, long ago.)
This actually took me some time to answer accurately, since measuring pipes for resale or any other purpose had never much concerned me. But yes. 8.125.” With a bowl 2.75” tall.
That was the good news. Utterly amazingly good news.
The seriously bad news, however, was that the shank had two nasty cracks that looked nastier the more closely one examined them in strong light. And at least to me, this was clearly not an occasion for superglue and rubber bands.
Alternatively, I could muster much enthusiasm for the idea of a conventional silver band repair—if there were any alternative. Nor did I find in any way appealing the prospect of the pipe existing in perpetual future limbo gathering dust in a trophy case or as a lawn ornament. I suppose I could have worn it on a gold chain as part of my costume at a pipe show as an icebreaking conversation starter with strangers. But really, these were all terrible, rather sad possible answers to what to do.
And so, on bended knee I wrote to GeorgeD the same night to ask if he might find the clearly formidable challenge intriguing, and the pipe worthy of his ministrations. And the next day, my magnum was on its way to Kansas City.
The bottom line, of George’s assessment was very cautious, carefully qualified optimism that a decent outcome was far from unlikely. At least IF pretty much everything fell into place, and the stars were aligned. On the other hand, a not insignificant risk was that the shank might shatter into several pizza shaped wedges. And it was very much my call. The only possible answer, at least for me, was to take the gamble. This, even before George had finished his sentence.
The final result (and the heroic lengths to which George went, following meticulous diagnostics, preparation, and planning, as can be seen on George’s YouTube channel as linked above) reached me safely on Tuesday afternoon.
Maybe not quite in the same league as finding Vermeer’s “The Concert” (stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner in Boston in 1990), nor the missing Amber Room from the Catherine Palace of Tsarskoye Selo. But an especially well-carved “pocket magnum” has now been added to the tally of known survivors. And I am in awe, far from convinced I in any way deserve quite so magnificent an object. But delighted that the fates have entrusted me to be its steward for some years to come.
And so, once again, I am telling myself, no more pipes (even if no particular harm can come from an occasional hour of window shopping). And trying to find the courage (and likely the better part of an entire afternoon) to fill the bowl with tobacco and actually smoke it. Thank you, George! Thank you!
