His bluff had failed.

He must go about it in another way, if Rosenthal's customer, who owned the lace, was to regain possession before the New Year set in.
"Well, then, sell it to me," he snarled.
"No, I don't sell it to you.

Not if you give me tventy times tventy tollars.

And now you get out of here so k'vick as you can--or me and dot man over by dot sideboard and two more down-stairs vill trow you out! I don't care a tam how big a brass ting you got on your coat.

So you dake it along vid you?
Vell, you have got a cheek!" Pickert's underlip curled in contempt.