Blumenthal did not try.
It was self-evident.
A damned hard nut.
I led him to the windows.
"Light as a feather to turn.
Stay put, at any height."
He did not stir.
"And unbreakable glass," I went on, almost desperate. "An inestimable advantage.
In the workshops there stands a Ford . . ."
I told him the story of the baker's wife, improving on it a bit in that I smashed up a child as well.
But Blumenthal had an inner life like a burglar-proof safe.
"All cars have unbreakable glass," he interrupted. "That is nothing out of the way."
"With no car is unbreakable glass the general thing," I replied with mild sharpness. "At most, in a few types, the windscreen.
But in no case the big side windows."
I sounded the horn and turned to a description of the inside comforts—the luggage carrier, the seats, the pockets, the switchboard; I went into every little detail; I even passed Blumenthal the cigarette-lighter, taking advantage of the opportunity to offer him a cigarette, to get at him that way perhaps—but he declined.
"I don't smoke them, thanks," said he, and looked at me in such a bored way that a dreadful thought suddenly occurred to me—perhaps he did not want us at all, perhaps he had merely lost his way and wanted to buy something quite different—a machine for sewing buttonholes or a radio—and was just standing around here awhile, undecided, before going on.
"Let us make a trial run, Herr Blumenthal," I suggested at last, already well beaten.
"Trial run?" said he, as if I had said "railway station."
"Yes, trial run.
You ought to see, of course, how the car runs.
She lies on the road like a board. Might be on rails.
And the engine pulls as if the heavy body were no more than a feather—"
"Ach, trial runs—" He made a belittling gesture. "Trial runs prove nothing.
You find out only afterwards what's the matter with the car."
Of course, you cast-iron limb of Satan, thought I wrath-fully; or do you think I'm going to make you a present of it?
"Very well, then not," said I abandoning all hope.
The fellow did not want it, that was clear.
But then he turned round suddenly, looked me full in the eyes, and asked softly and sharply and very quickly:
"What's the car cost?"
"Seven thousand marks," I replied like a shot without flickering an eyelash.
This chap must not see that I have to consider even for a moment. I knew that.
One second's hesitation would have cost a thousand marks off the price. "Seven thousand marks net," I replied firmly, thinking, "and if you offer five you'll get away with it."
But Blumenthal offered nothing.
He just gave me one short snort:
"Much too dear!"
"Of course!" said I, and resigned the case.
"Why of course'?" asked Blumenthal, suddenly almost human.
"Herr Blumenthal," I replied, "where did you ever meet the man who ever answered anything else to a price?"
A suspicion of a smile stole over his face.
"True.
But the car is really too dear."
I could not believe my ears.
There it was at last, the right note.
The tone of the interested.
Or was this only another damned twist?
At that moment a smartly dressed young fellow walked in the gate of the yard.
He drew a newspaper from his pocket, compared the number of the house once more, and strode up to me.
"Is there a Cadillac for sale here?"
I nodded and gazed speechless at the yellow bamboo cane and the pigskin gloves.
"Can I see it then?" he went on without turning a hair.