The clerk stared at the watch, raised it, and let it fall on its face. The glass splintered, and he jumped in his seat as if a pistol had been discharged.
“What is it?” he screamed.
“It looks like an antique chronometer,” said the policeman, examining it curiously. “See the twelve hours on the dial.”
“Well, they aren’t listed,” the clerk grumbled.
“You lie, you thief,” retorted the policeman.
With some reluctance, but without resentment, the clerk opened a large book in a paper cover, closely printed in fine hieroglyphics interspersed with figures. He turned from place to place until he found what he was trying not to find.
“Museum chronometers, first century B.C. Listed at two hektones,” he mumbled, and began unlocking a drawer.
“B. C.!” I exclaimed. “What do you mean?”
He paused in the act of pulling the drawer out and glared at me.
“I said ‘museum chronometer of the first century before civilization,’ you fool!” he snarled. “That’s what it is, and that’s what it’s listed at. Here!”