He entered the store, a narrow building sandwiched between two larger ones, and looked curiously at the objects surrounding him. Jeff recognized few and wanted none, but looking at them strengthened his own conviction that, no matter what the article might be, it was desirable to somebody. Jeff turned toward the man who came to meet him. He had half expected somebody old and creaking, but this man was only about thirty and far from decrepit. "What may I do for you?" "I have an old pistol," Jeff said, "and maybe I'd sell it if I got the right price." The man smiled. "Mister, I sell antiques. I do not buy them." "You don't? Where do you get your stock then?" The smile became a grin. "I get my merchandise in my own way. Let me see your pistol." Jeff handed it over. The man examined it closely and finally said, "They're a drug on the market. I'll give you fifty cents." "In that case, wrap up six for me. I'll give you three dollars for 'em." "Where would I get six?" "You said they're a drug on the market." "So," the man admitted, "are most other antiques. Their value depends on how badly somebody wants them. Find somebody who wants the pistol and you'll get a fair price. To somebody who doesn't want it, it isn't worth a penny." "That makes sense." "What are you going to do now?" "Find somebody who wants it." But, though Jeff visited other dealers in antiques, none offered him more than a dollar for the pistol and nobody offered anything for the miniatures. It was very late when he returned to the Kennard. 9. MIGHTY MISSION In his room at the Kennard, Jeff slept late. The past four days had been busy ones, and more than a little hectic, and he was tired. Mr. Calworth himself had brought back three of the cheapest knives. Admittedly they were worth five dollars each, but they were not merchandise that Ryerson could sell to its more exacting customers. If they were to pay premium prices, they demanded premium quality and Ryerson had better knives in stock that they sold for four dollars and a half. However, Mr. Calworth had softened their return by taking the fringed hunting shirt, the four pairs of moccasins and the polished hunting horn, and privately Jeff kicked himself for failing to offer them in the first place. They had brought thirty-eight dollars and Ryerson's would take all Jeff could supply if the quality remained as good. The pistol was also gone. Failing to sell it to anyone at the price he wanted to get, Jeff had carelessly left it on his dresser. The maid who tidied up the room had found it, decided that only a desperate outlaw would use such a thing and taken to it the clerk. Unable to resolve a situation so grave, and unwilling to take the responsibility, the clerk had consulted the manager and the manager had come to see Jeff.