“You call that thing a knife? A pocketknife?
Sort of does look like one.
Open her up, let’s see what she claims for blades.
Call them blades? Son-of-a-beagle!
They wouldn’t cut hot butter on a summer’s day.
A granddaddy Boker, huh? Who told you that?
Handed down in the family, aye?
Genuine article? Asking a hundred dollars?
Uh-uh. Don’t try pulling that hockey on me.
I’ve been swapping knives sixty-five years.
I know knives like you know your wife,
And I’ve heard more lies than I’ve heard facts,
But I’ll tell you what:
You look like a fellow who could use two bucks,
And that’s all I’ll shell out for it.
Maybe I can sharpen the scudder a whet,
And scoot a little Three-in-One along the cracks,
And put it off on some witty with no more brains
than a jaybird,
And get my money back.
Just maybe.”