"I should like to choose. . . ."
"It is take it, or leave it. I allow no choice. I am offering you a gift."
The pedlar laid his half-open pack on the grass.
"Dip in your hand and take one, if you will."
The young man dipped in his hand at a venture, and drew out one—the soul of an ape.
"Not that! I will not have that!" cried he.
"Then you will have none," said the pedlar, dropping the soul in his pack again. "If the great Soul Maker, who manufactures them by the million, allows neither picking nor choosing, beyond the casual dip of chance, do you think that a mere pedlar in souls, like myself, can do business on a basis which he has found unprofitable? Pooh, man, get back your soul if you can, or else you may do without one, as far as I am concerned." And off strolled the pedlar, whistling as he went.
The young man leaned his head dejectedly on his hand.
"How can I get back my soul?" he moaned.
"Why not live without one?" croaked a voice above his shoulder.