ehead in reflection.

"Bolivia?" said he. "Now let me see." He pondered heavily for a few
moments and then sighed. "You see," he explained, "we sell so many
lots, from so many different places, that we can hardly keep the run
of them. But our books will show," proudly; "everything we do is in
our books."

He looked down the long, table-crowded store and called loudly:

"Sime!"

Sime instantly put in an appearance. He was small, sandy-haired and
freckled; he wore an alert expression and carried a marking pencil
behind his ear.

"This is our shipping and receiving clerk," said Mr. Bernstine. "He's
up to everything around the place." Then he lowered his voice and
jerked his fat thumb toward the newcomer secretly, addressing
Pendleton: "Clever! Just full of it."

Sime listened to Ashton-Kirk's question attentively.

"Yes," he said, in answer, "we had some of that stuff lately. Sold
well, too, considering the time of the year." He pulled open a drawer
and took out a fat, canvas-covered book. "Two gross rifles; one
hundred gross cartridges." He closed the book, tossed it into the
drawer and then slid the drawer shut. "There were a few bayonets, too.
About half a dozen."

With his round, fat countenance shining with admiration, Mr. Bernstine
once more caught Pendleton's eye.

"Just full of it," he murmured, sotto voce. "As full as he can be."

"The bayonets," said Ashton-Kirk, "are what we are after. They were
all sold, I suppose?"

"Yes," replied Sime. "I remember, when the last one went, saying to
one of our men that we were lucky. You see, bayonets don't sell very
well except to military companies; and _they_ are not organizing every
day."

"Do you know who bought them?"

Sime took the marking pencil from behind his ear and proceeded to
scratch his head with its point. Mr. Bernstine watched him anxiously.
But when the shipping clerk pulled open the drawer once more, the
employer's face lighted up.

"Ah!" said he to Pendleton. "The books! Now we'll have it."

"They were all taken away by the people who bought them," announced
Sime, after a great flipping of ink spattered pages, "All except one."

"And that one--"

"It went by our boy. It was sold to Mr. Cartwright the artist, and was
sent to his studio up here in Fifth St. But there was another--the
last one that we had," suddenly, "and now that I get thinking of it, I
remember we had some trouble about it. The man that bought it was a
Dago."

Pendl