“These are not plated,” the man with the wicker hamper said, holding up a cuff bracelet. “Solid copper.”

Childan nodded without answering. The man would hang around for a while, shuffle his samples about, but finally he would move on.

The telephone rang. Childan answered it. Customer inquiring about an ancient rocking chair, very valuable, which Childan was having mended for him. It had not been finished, and Childan had to tell a convincing story. Staring through the store window at the midday traffic, he soothed and reassured. At last the customer, somewhat appeased, rang off.

No doubt about it, he thought as he hung up the phone. The Colt .44 affair had shaken him considerably. He no longer viewed his stock with the same reverence. Bit of knowledge like that goes a long way. Akin to primal childhood awakening; facts of life. Shows, he ruminated, the link with our early years: not merely U.S. history involved, but our own personal. As if, he thought, question might arise as to authenticity of our birth certificate. Or our impression of Dad.

Maybe I don’t actually recall F.D.R. as example. Synthetic image distilled from hearing assorted talk. Myth implanted subtly in tissue of brain. Like, he thought, myth of Hepplewhite. Myth of Chippendale. Or rather more on lines of Abraham Lincoln ate here. Used this old silver knife, fork, spoon. You can’t see it, but the fact remains.

At the other counter, still fumbling with his displays and wicker hamper, the salesman said, “We can make pieces to order. Custom made. If any of your customers have their own ideas.” His voice had a strangled quality; he cleared his throat, gazing at Childan and then down at a piece of jewelry which he held. He did not know how to leave, evidently. Childan smiled and said nothing.

Not my responsibility. His, to get himself back out of here. Place saved or no.

Tough, such discomfort. But he doesn’t have to be salesman. We all suffer in this life. Look at me. Taking it all day from Japs such as Mr. Tagomi. By merest inflection manage to rub my nose in it, make my life miserable.

And then an idea occurred to him. Fellow’s obviously not experienced. Look at him. Maybe I can get some stuff on consignment. Worth a try.

“Hey,” Childan said.

The man glanced up swiftly, fastened his gaze.

Advancing toward him, his arms still folded, Childan said, “Looks like a quiet half hour, here. No promises, but you can lay some of those things out. Clear back those racks of ties.” He pointed.

Nodding, the man began to clear himself a space on the top of the counter. He reopened his hamper, once more fumbled with the velvet trays.

He’ll lay everything out, Childan knew. Arrange it painstakingly for the next hour. Fuss and adjust until he’s got it all set up. Hoping. Praying. Watching me out of the corner of his eye every second. To see if I’m taking any interest. Any at all.

“When you have it out,” Childan said, “if I’m not too busy I’ll take a look.”

The man worked feverishly, as if he had been stung.

Several customers entered the store then, and Childan greeted them. He turned his attention to them and their wishes, and forgot the salesman laboring over his display. The salesman, recognizing the situation, became stealthy in his movements; he made himself inconspicuous. Childan sold a shaving mug, almost sold a hand-hooked rug, took a deposit on an afghan. Time passed. At last the customers left. Once more the store was empty except for himself and the salesman.

The salesman had finished. His entire selection of jewelry lay arranged on the black velvet on the surface of the counter.

Going leisurely over, Robert Childan lit a Land-O-Smiles and stood rocking back and forth on his heels, humming beneath his breath. The salesman stood silently. Neither spoke.

At last Childan reached out and pointed at a pin. “I like that.”

The salesman said in a rapid voice, “That’s a good one. You won’t find any wire brush scratches. All rouge-finished. And it won’t tarnish. We have a plastic lacquer sprayed on them that’ll last for years. It’s the best industrial lacquer available.”

Childan nodded slightly.

“What we’ve done here,” the salesman said, “is to adapt tried and proven industrial techniques to jewelry making. As far as I know, nobody has ever done it before. No molds. All metal to metal. Welding and brazing.” He paused. “The backs are hand-soldered.”

Childan picked up two bracelets. Then a pin. Then another pin. He held them for a moment, then set them off to one side.

The salesman’s face twitched. Hope.

Examining the price tag on a necklace, Childan said, “Is this—”

“Retail. Your price is fifty percent of that. And you buy say around a hundred dollars or so, we give you an additional two percent.”

One by one Childan laid several more pieces aside. With each additional one, the salesman became more agitated; he talked faster and faster, finally repeating himself, even saying meaningless foolish things, all in an undertone and very urgently. He really thinks he’s going to sell, Childan knew. By his own expression he showed nothing; he went on with the game of picking pieces.

“That’s an especially good one,” the salesman was rambling on, as Childan fished out a large pendant and then ceased. “I think you got our best. All our best.” The man laughed.

“You really have good taste.” His eyes darted. He was adding in his mind what Childan had chosen. The total of the sale.

Childan said, “Our policy, with untried merchandise, has to be consignment.”

For a few seconds the salesman did not understand. He stopped his talking, but he stared without comprehension.

Childan smiled at him.

“Consignment,” the salesman echoed at last.

“Would you prefer not to leave it?” Childan said.

Stammering, the man finally said, “You mean I leave it and you pay me later on when—”

“You get two-thirds of the proceeds. When the pieces sell. That way you make much more. You have to wait, of course, but—” Childan shrugged. “It’s up to you. I can give it some window display, possibly. And if it moves, then possibly later on, in a month or so, with the next order—well, we might see our way clear to buy some outright.”

The salesman had now spent well over an hour showing his wares, Childan realized. And he had everything out. All his displays disarranged and dismantled. Another hour’s work to get it back ready to take somewhere else. There was silence. Neither man spoke.

“Those pieces you put to one side—” the salesman said in a low voice. “They’re the ones you want?”

“Yes. I’ll let you leave them all.” Childan strolled over to his office in the rear of the store. “I’ll write up a tag. So you’ll have a record of what you’ve left with me.” As he came back with his tag book he added, “You understand that when merchandise is left on a consignment basis the store doesn’t assume liability in case of theft or damage.” He had a little mimeographed release for the salesman to sign. The store would never have to account for the items left. When the unsold portion was returned, if some could not be located—they must have been stolen, Childan declared to himself. There’s always theft going on in stores. Especially small items like jewelry.

There was no way that Robert Childan could lose. He did not have to pay for this man’s jewelry; he had no investment in this kind of inventory. If any of it sold he made a profit, and if it did not, he simply returned it all—or as much as could be found—to the salesman at some vague later date.

Childan made out the tag, listing the items. He signed it and gave a copy to the salesman. “You can give me a call,” he said, “in a month or so. To find out how it’s been doing.”

Taking the jewelry which he wanted he went off to the back of the store, leaving the salesman to gather up his remaining stuff.