and. I'm not nuts enough to expect anything like
that in a lump sum, but please, let's not mention ten thousand dollars in
this connection any more. That's on the order of Lawyer Marks bidding
seventy-five cents for Uncle Tom; it's only good for laughs."

"Well, how much more than that do you think Gresham and his crowd will
offer?"

"I haven't talked price with them, yet," Rand repeated. "I mean to, as
soon as I can."

"Well, you get their offer, and I'll top it," Rivers declared. "I'm
willing to go as high as twenty-five thousand for that collection; they
won't go that high."

Although he just managed not to show it, Rand was really surprised. Even
a consciousness of abstracting had not prepared him for the shock of
hearing Arnold Rivers raise his own offer to something resembling an
acceptable figure. A good case, he reflected, could be made of that
for the actuality of miracles.

He rose, picking up his trench coat.

"Well! That's something like it, now," he said. "I'll see you later; I
don't know how long it's going to take me to get a list prepared, and
circularize the old-arms trade. I should hear from everybody who's
interested in a few weeks. You can be sure I'll keep your offer in mind."

He slipped into the coat and put on his hat, and then picked up the
package containing the Confederate revolver. Rivers had risen, too; he
was watching Rand nervously. When Rand tucked the package under his arm
and began drawing on his gloves, Rivers cleared his throat.

"Mr. Rand, I'm dreadfully sorry," he began, "but I'll have to return your
money and take back that revolver. It should not have been sold." He got
Rand's sixty dollars out of his pocket as though he expected it to catch
fire, and held it out.

Rand favored him with a display of pained surprise.

"Why, I can't do that," he replied. "I bought this revolver in good
faith, and you accepted payment and were satisfied with the transaction.
The sale's been made, now."

Rivers seemed distressed. It was probably the first time he had ever been
on the receiving end of that routine, and he didn't like it.

"Now you're being unreasonable, Mr. Rand," he protested. "Look here; I'll
give you seventy-five dollars' credit on anything else in the shop. You
certainly can't find fault with an offer like that."

"I don't want anything else in the shop; I want this revolver you sold
me." Rand gave him a look of supercilious insolence that was at least a
two hundred