“It belonged to my mother,” she said.
“Of course, of course,” he quavered, repellently, so that her cheeks began to feel hot again. She was deeply hurt by his tone of suspicion. The sacrifice was bad enough––the implication was unbearable.
“I don’t think you want it,” she said, coldly. “Give it back to me. I can perhaps do better at a regular pawnshop.”
But he detained her again, becoming smooth and oily. He first offered her fifty dollars. She truthfully asserted that her father had paid a couple of hundred for it. After long bargaining and haggling he finally agreed to give her eighty-five dollars and, worn out, the girl accepted. She was going out of the shop, with the money, when she stopped again.
“It seems to me that I used to see pistols, or were they revolvers, in your show window,” she said.
He lifted up his hands in alarm.
“Pistols! revolvers! Don’t you know there’s the Sullivan law now? We ain’t allowed to sell ’em––and you ain’t allowed to buy ’em without a license––a license from the police.”
“Oh! That’s a pity,” said Madge. “I’m going away from New York and I thought it might be a good idea to have one with me.”
The old man looked keenly at her again, scratching one ear with unkempt nails. Finally he drew her back of a counter, placing a finger to his lips.