A man in another queer garment—some kind of cloth upper, with a white linen thing beneath it and a ribbon tied around his neck—looked up without surprise at Mikel's literally untimely garb, and said: "Yes, sir?"
Mikel drew out the knife.
"Very valuable," he said. "An heirloom. How much will you give me?"
The man shrank back, not as if he were afraid of the knife, but as if he were suddenly afraid of Mikel.
"You kidding me?" he asked. "Or is this a stick-up?"
Mikel was not sure what the words meant, so he merely shook his head.
"Then are you nuts? There's nothing valuable about that thing. It's just an ordinary kitchen knife."
"Not valuable?" Mikel's face fell. "But look—wooden handle, steel blade."
"So what? Every knife has a wooden handle and a steel blade."
"You will not give me money for it?"