“Now, just you look at this-here, Miss Lawrence,” the man was enthusing, undoing another package.  “Here’s something I know you’ll want; I think this-here is real quaint!  Just look, now!” He displayed some long, narrow, dark object, holding it out to her.  “Ain’t this-here an interestin’ item, now, Miss Lawrence?”

“Ooooooh! What in heaven’s name is that thing?” she demanded.

“That-there’s a sword.  A real African native sword.  Look at that scabbard, now; made out of real crocodile-skin.  A whole young crocodile, head, feet, an’ all.  I tell you, Miss Lawrence, that-there item is unique!”

“It’s revolting!  It’s the most repulsive object that’s ever been brought into this shop, which is saying quite a lot.  Colonel Rand!  If you don’t have a hangover this morning, will you please come here and look at this thing?”

Rand laid down the Merril carbine he had been examining and walked over beside Karen.  The man—­whom Rand judged to be some rural free-lance antique-prospector—­extended the object of the girl’s repugnance.  It was an African sword, all right, with a plain iron hilt and cross-guard.  The design looked Berber, but the workmanship was low-grade, and probably attributable to some even more barbarous people.  The scabbard was what was really surprising, if you liked that kind of surprises.  It was an infant crocodile, rather indifferently smoke-cured; the sword simply went in between the creature’s jaws and extended the length of the body and into the tail.  Either end of a moldy-green leather thong had been fastened to the two front paws for a shoulder-baldric.  When new, Rand thought, it must have given its wearer a really distinctive aroma, even for Africa.  He drew the blade gingerly, looked at it, and sheathed it with caution.

“East African; Danakil, or Somali, or something like that,” he commented.  “Be damn good and careful not to scratch yourself on that; if you do, you’ll need about a gallon of anti-tetanus shots.”

“Y’think it might be poisoned?” the man with the dirty neck and the month-old haircut inquired eagerly.  “See, Miss Lawrence?  What I told you; a real African native sword.  I got that-there from Hen Sourbaw, over at Feltonville; his uncle, the Reverend Sourbaw, that used to preach at Hemlock Gap Church, brung it from Africa, himself, about fifty years ago.  He used to be a missionary, in his younger days....  I can make you an awful good price on that-there item, Miss Lawrence.”

“God forbid!” she exclaimed.  “All my customers are heavy drinkers; I wouldn’t want to answer for what might happen if some of them saw that thing, suddenly.”

“Oh, well....  How about that-there little amethyst bottle, then?”

“Well ...  I would give you seven dollars for that,” she grudged.

“Y’would?  Well, it’s yours, then.  An’ how about them-there salt-cellars, an’ that-there knife-box?”

Rand wandered back to examining firearms.  Eventually, after buying the knife-box, Karen got rid of the man with the antiques.  When he had gone, she found a pack of cigarettes, offered it to Rand and lit one for herself.