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.