lines carved in a dark wood whose dusky, soft luster reminded me of the deep richness of a pair of cordovan hoots the old colonel used to wear when the Fifteenth paraded in Rizal.
"I knew you'd fancy it," exclaimed the shopman, as he removed its burden of books and dusted the top. "Only fifteen guineas. No veneer there; solid teak," he lied.
It wasn't teak; of that I was sure. It reminded me rather of that iron-hard and iron-heavy wood from Mindanao, more or less properly called Philippine ebony.
"Wonderful workmanship," continued the shopkeeper. "Look at those legs, sir."
They were wonderful: exquisitely fashioned, curving slightly outward and ending in feet fashioned to resemble the paws of a beast of prey— savage, pitiless claws whose realism made me for a moment wonder why the table was not confined in a cage.
More odd than the table itself was the heavy chain that secured one leg to a massive ring in the floor.
"Fifteen guineas," I reflected. Then, to the dealer: "What the devil! Do you chain it to keep it from walking away? For it's certainly too heavy to steal."
The dealer started, coughed, flushed. My remark had reminded him of what in his enthusiasm he had doubtless forgotten: that tables are not usually shackled to the floor.
"There were two or three attempts made to steal this very table from my window," he began, looking very foolish. "It's no end an attractive piece. And these collectors, you know—begging your pardon, sir, but you yourself might be tempted"
Plainly the man was improvising. The poor fellow probably had persecution delusions, or something of the kind, and felt a bit wooden at having me notice the evidence thereof.
The more I looked at that table and its graceful, feline curves
"Fifteen guineas? . . . How about ten, cash? And"—I paused, then shot it to him—"and how about a bill of sale with this curious table which has to be chained to the floor in the most obscure comer of your shop?"
That sunk him!
"Very good, sir. Yes, sir. And I can give you a bill of sale. I'm a reputable dealer, sir."
"Not so bad," I congratulated myself, as I left the shop with a bill of sale. "Perhaps it isn't stolen property; but there certainly is something wrong with its past . . . though I care not a hoot in a hailstorm," I concluded, as I pictured Yvonne's ecstasies at that pagan table with its savage claws, curiously carved legs, and catlike grace. If the personality of a piece of furniture could grow on me in such a short while, her temperamental majesty would undoubtedly be thrilled from her toenails to her eyebrows.
True to his promise, the dealer delivered the table that very afternoon, shortly after I reached home and told Yvonne of my discovery. The lift as usual was out of order: so I was not surprized to note that the two men who brought the table to our apartment on the third floor were somewhat the worse for wear. They set it in the middle of the drawing-room as though it had been a red-hot rock, and edged away front it a pace or two.
"It's heavy as a battleship," I remarked, hefting it.
No wonder the men were exhausted; that massive table resisted my grip as though its claws had sunk into the floor. "Heavy as a battleship?" repeated one of the porters. "And that's only 'alf of it. Thank you, sir."
