"It's not French polish, but I've never seen varnish as good as this.
Except that it's clear and shows the grain, it's more like some rare
old Japanese lacquer."

"It is varnish. Try to scrape it with your knife."

The man failed to make a mark on it, and the American looked at him
with a smile.

"What would you think of it as a business proposition?"

"If not too dear, it ought to drive every other high-grade varnish off
the market. Do you make the stuff?"

"We're not ready to sell it yet: can't get hold of the raw material in
quantities, and we're not satisfied about the best flux. I'll give you
my card."

It bore the address of a paint and varnish factory in Connecticut, with
the words, "Represented by Cyrus P. Harding," at the bottom.

"Well," said the lumber man, "you seem to have got hold of a good
thing, Mr. Harding; but if you're not open to sell it, what has brought
you over here?"

"I'm looking round; we deal in all kinds of paints, and miss no chance
of a trade. Then I'm going 'way up Northwest. Is there anything doing
in my line there?"

"Not much," the Hudson Bay man answered him. "You may sell a few kegs