"Ain't this-here an
interestin' item, now, Miss Lawrence?"
"_Ooooooh!_ What in heaven's name is that thing?" she demanded.
"That-there's a sword. A real African native sword. Look at that
scabbard, now; made out of real crocodile-skin. A whole young crocodile,
head, feet, an' all. I tell you, Miss Lawrence, that-there item is
unique!"
"It's revolting! It's the most repulsive object that's ever been brought
into this shop, which is saying quite a lot. Colonel Rand! If you don't
have a hangover this morning, will you please come here and look at this
thing?"
Rand laid down the Merril carbine he had been examining and walked over
beside Karen. The man--whom Rand judged to be some rural free-lance
antique-prospector--extended the object of the girl's repugnance. It was
an African sword, all right, with a plain iron hilt and cross-guard. The
design looked Berber, but the workmanship was low-grade, and probably
attributable to some even more barbarous people. The scabbard was what
was really surprising, if you liked that kind of surprises. It was an
infant crocodile, rather indifferently smoke-cured; the sword simply went
in between the creature's jaws and extended the length of the body and
into the tail.
Pages:
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153