I bought the typewriter in a pawn shop on Third Avenue. The pawn shop proprietor was a balding old man with a walrus mustache. " How much?" I asked him. "Five dollars," he said casually. I glanced at him skeptically. The machine was a Remington Noiseless, with italics, probably worth a little over a hundred new, and it couldn't have been more than a year or two old. " How much?" I asked. "Five dollars, is what I said. Five." He held up the fingers of his widespread hand. "Five. One-two-three....