“Afraid of meeting some girls, I suppose,” sneered Tom.
“Say, supposing Komsky hasn’t got it,” suggested Sid, while Phil blushed.
“Perish the thought!” cried the pitcher. “We’ve got to get our chair back, and if that Shylock hasn’t it some of the other second-hand dealers in town have.”
They strolled along, talking of the chair, the chances for a good football team, and many other college matters until the next car came, when they hopped aboard, and were soon in Haddonfield.
“Vell, young gentlemans, vot is it? Somedings nice vor de college room, ain’t it? Yes! No? Vell, Isaac Komsky has it vot effer you like, und cheap! So help me gracious, I lose money on everyt’ing I sell! Now, vot it is?”
Thus spoke the old second-hand dealer, when our three friends entered. Eagerly he had come forward, rubbing his hands and wagging his long, matted beard, while from under bushy eyebrows he peered at them with eager orbs.
“We’re looking for a chair, Komsky,” said Tom, brusquely. “A nice, easy, soft, comfortable chair that we can sit in.”
“Oh, so! An easy chair is it? Vell, I haf many, und cheap! It is a shame about de cheapness. Look, here is one, vot is so—vot you call—easy, dot it vould make you schleepy efen ven you looket at it, ain’t it?”
He thrust forward a most uncomfortable wooden rocker, with gaudy cushions on the seat and back. The cushions were in Randall colors—yellow and maroon—and the chair had evidently been sold by some student, either because he needed the money or because he could afford better furniture.
“No, that’s not the kind we want,” said Tom, whose eyes were roving about the cluttered-up shop. He and his chums had decided on the course of pretending to want to buy a chair, with the idea that if Komsky had taken theirs, by hook or crook, he would be more apt to show it if he saw prospective customers, than if he knew they had come demanding their rights. “We want an easier chair,” went on Tom.