“All goods of the same quality,” said the shopman, rubbing his flexible hands together, “and that is the Best.  Nothing in the place that isn’t genuine Magic, and warranted thoroughly rum.  Excuse me, sir!”

I felt him pull at something that clung to my coat-sleeve, and then I saw he held a little, wriggling red demon by the tail—­the little creature bit and fought and tried to get at his hand—­and in a moment he tossed it carelessly behind a counter.  No doubt the thing was only an image of twisted indiarubber, but for the moment—!  And his gesture was exactly that of a man who handles some petty biting bit of vermin.  I glanced at Gip, but Gip was looking at a magic rocking-horse.  I was glad he hadn’t seen the thing.  “I say,” I said, in an undertone, and indicating Gip and the red demon with my eyes, “you haven’t many things like that about, have you?”

“None of ours!  Probably brought it with you,” said the shopman—­also in an undertone, and with a more dazzling smile than ever.  “Astonishing what people will, carry about with them unawares!” And then to Gip, “Do you see anything you fancy here?”

There were many things that Gip fancied there.

He turned to this astonishing tradesman with mingled confidence and respect.  “Is that a Magic Sword?” he said.

“A Magic Toy Sword.  It neither bends, breaks, nor cuts the fingers.  It renders the bearer invincible in battle against any one under eighteen.  Half a crown to seven and sixpence, according to size.  These panoplies on cards are for juvenile knights-errant and very useful—­shield of safety, sandals of swiftness, helmet of invisibility.”

“Oh, dadda!” gasped Gip.

I tried to find out what they cost, but the shopman did not heed me.  He had got Gip now; he had got him away from my finger; he had embarked upon the exposition of all his confounded stock, and nothing was going to stop him.  Presently I saw with a qualm of distrust and something very like jealousy that Gip had hold of this person’s finger as usually he has hold of mine.  No doubt the fellow was interesting, I thought, and had an interestingly faked lot of stuff, really good faked stuff, still——­

I wandered after them, saying very little, but keeping an eye on this prestidigital fellow.  After all, Gip was enjoying it.  And no doubt when the time came to go we should be able to go quite easily.

It was a long, rambling place, that showroom, a gallery broken up by stands and stalls and pillars, with archways leading off to other departments, in which the queerest-looking assistants loafed and stared at one, and with perplexing mirrors and curtains.  So perplexing, indeed, were these that I was presently unable to make out the door by which we had come.

The shopman showed Gip magic trains that ran without steam or clockwork, just as you set the signals, and then some very, very valuable boxes of soldiers that all came alive directly you took off the lid and said——­I myself haven’t a very quick ear, and it was a tongue-twisting sound, but Gip—­he has his mother’s ear—­got it in no time.  “Bravo!” said the shopman, putting the men back into the box unceremoniously and handing it to Gip.  “Now,” said the shopman, and in a moment Gip had made them all alive again.