"Yes, indeed." I looked at the knife curiously to see if the edge was dented at all, but it wasn't.
"That is the kind of pocket-knife we sell," he continued. "Isn't that the kind of pocket-knife that will please your trade? Just a moment," putting up his hand, "there's a bit of copper wire on your counter yonder. May I borrow it a moment?"
I smiled and fetched it to him.
This time he brought out a pair of shears and snipped three short pieces of wire from the coil, passed the scissors over to me and said, smiling in the most friendly manner, "Same story on the scissors, Mr. Black."
My hand instinctively stretched out for those scissors and I examined the cutting edges carefully.
"Look at this, Larsen," I called out without thinking. . . . "Mr. Larsen looks after our cutlery—tell him about it."
I held out the scissors to the stranger, but he didn't take them.
"Try it for yourself," he said to Larsen.
Larsen did try it.
"Any good shears'll do that," said Larsen.