Part 4 (1/2)

”I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” said I confronting them. ”Will you be good enough to explain this intrusion?”

They stared at me as if I were a servant asking for higher wages. The speaker, a fat man with a bristly moustache and a red necktie, drew himself up haughtily.

”Who the devil are you?” he demanded, fixing me with a glare.

I knew at once that he was the kind of an American I have come to hate with a zest that knows no moderation; the kind that makes one ashamed of the national melting pot. I glared back at him.

”I happen to be the owner of this place, and you'll oblige me by clearing out.”

”What's that? Here, here, none of that sort of talk, my friend. We're here to look over your stuff, and we mean business, but you won't get anywhere by talking like--”

”There is nothing for sale here,” I said shortly. ”And you've got a lot of nerve to come bolting into a private house--”

”Say,” said the second man, advancing with a most insulting scowl, ”we'll understand each other right off the reel, my friend. All you've got to do is to answer us when we ask for prices. Now, bear that in mind, and don't try any of your high-and-mighty tactics on us.”

”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 n.o.body,” 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 hall-seat that Pontius Pilate sat in when waiting for an audience with the first of the great Teutonic barons. The treaty between the Romans and the Teutons was signed on that table over there,--the one you have so judiciously selected, I perceive. Of course, you know that _this_ was the Saxon seat of government. Charlemagne lived here with all his court.”

They tried not to look impressed, but rather overdid it.

”That's the sort of a story you fellows always put up, you skinflints from Boston. I'll bet my head you _are_ from Boston,” said Mr.

Rocksworth shrewdly.

”I couldn't afford to have you lose your head, Mr. Rocksworth, so I shan't take you on,” said I merrily.

”Don't get fresh now,” said he stiffly.

Mr. Riley-Werkheimer walked past me to take a closer look at the seat, almost treading on my toes rather than to give an inch to me.

”How can you prove that it's the genuine article?” he demanded curtly.

”You have my word for it, sir,” I said quietly.

”Pish tus.h.!.+” said he.