"Just remember that you're a junk-dealer and we'll get along
splendidly," said the other, in a tone meant to crush me. "What do you
ask for this thing?" tapping the dusty spinet with his walking-stick.

It suddenly occurred to me that the situation was humorous.

"You will have to produce your references, gentlemen, before I can
discuss anything with you," I said, after swallowing very hard. (It
must have been my pride.)

They stared. "Good Lord!" gasped the bristly one, blinking his eyes.
"Don't you know who this gentleman is? You--you appear to be an
American. You _must_ know Mr. Riley-Werkheimer of New York."

"I regret to say that I have never heard of Mr. Riley-Werkheimer. I
did not know that Mrs. Riley-Werkheimer's husband was living. And may
I ask who _you_ are?"

"Oh, I am also a nobody," said he, with a wink at his purple-jowled
companion. "I am only poor old Rocksworth, the president of the--"

"Oh, don't say anything more, Mr. Rocksworth," I cried. "I have heard
of _you_. This fine old spinet? Well, it has been reduced in price. Ten
thousand dollars, Mr. Rocksworth."

"Ten thousand nothing! I'll take it at seventy-five dollars. And now
let's talk about this here hall-seat. My wife thinks it's a fake. What
is its history, and what sort of guarantee can you--"

"A fake!" I cried in dismay. "My dear Mr. Rocksworth, that is the very