"I beg pardon, of course it is, but what am I to do about that commode?"
"I repeat—sell it."
"You know that I haven't a dog's chance of selling it now. Don't flimflam me, Mr. Lark! You're too big a man, too good a sort. You've treated me handsomely over that scale-blue. Now help me out of this hole, if you can."
Lark nodded impressively. He went back to the commode, and examined it meticulously, opening and shutting the doors, looking at the back, scraping the paint of the panels with the point of a penknife. Then the oracle spoke portentously:
"I never haggle with dealers, Mr. Quinney, and I don't want that commode; but, to oblige you, I'll give you five hundred for it, and chance making a hundred profit."
"Make it six hundred, Mr. Lark."
"I repeat—I never haggle."
"Damn it! I must cut a loss."
"Always the wise thing to do. My offer holds good for twenty-four hours. Isn't Tomlin a friend of yours?"
"We've had many dealings together."