I made the rounds of the local pawn shops the other day. I don't often buy but I like to look: at old guns, Sheffield cutlery, vintage leather, binoculars, tools.

At one shop a mounted moose head hung above the counter. Between its antlers a red, tasseled, Shriner-style fez perched ignominiously. Next to it a glassy-eyed bobcat was about to pounce on a terrified ruffed grouse.

At another shop, one I had never been to, there were more animal heads; an impressive collection of power tools; rusted Oneida traps; a scruffy mink coat; at least two dozen boom boxes; barrels full of walking canes, fishing rods, canoe paddles, crutches, baseball bats, ski poles.

At a third shop -- one I visit fairly often -- I stopped to chat with the owner. He tried half-heartedly to interest me in a "genuine Bavarian beer stein" or a "genuine Malaysian fighting knife," or a pair of "genuine Alaska snowshoes," or "a real Decker packsaddle."

In the meager book section I found a bible inscribed: "To James Jr., may you find your way;" a handsome, leather-bound edition of Kipling's 'Just So Stories;' and a paperback that promised to reveal the secrets of getting rich in real estate.

On a shelf behind the cash register a porcelain figurine caught my eye, and I asked to see it.

"That's a nice piece," said the owner. "I can let you have it for thirty-five."

The figurine was of a slender woman in a flowing gown and a tiara. It was mounted on a base of some kind of dense-grained, tropical wood, with a plaque that read: 'To My Princess: On Our 30th Anniversary.'

While I was admiring the princess, a white-haired man in a tan Carhartt jacket walked in.

"I have something you might be interested in," he said.

From a brown paper grocery bag he pulled a small, portable CD player. The shop owner shook his head.

"Sorry," he said. "I've got a dozen of those already."

"How about this," said the man. He reached into the bag and took out a set of socket wrenches in a clear plastic case, the kind of thing you might get for opening a checking account or test driving a car.

"Sorry," said the owner again. "I really can't help you."

"That's all right," said the man. "I didn't really need these things and I just thought you might want them. I know they're not worth much. Anyhow, I should get paid pretty soon. It's just that these things were cluttering up my house and I thought you might be able to use them."

He took his paper bag and walked out, the door jingling behind him.

"Sometimes, in this business, you feel like a jerk," said the shop owner, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

I didn't say anything. A minute later the door jingled again, and the white-haired man walked in.

"I was thinking," he said, "I really don't need this stuff. You might as well have it."

He set the paper bag on the counter, and turned to go.

"Wait," said the shop owner.

He reached in his wallet and handed the man a pair of five dollar bills. The man nodded his thanks and walked out the door, his boot heels clicking on the linoleum.

The shop owner and I stood for minute or two without speaking, the porcelain princess still on the counter between us.

Clay Scott is a veteran, well-traveled reporter who lives in Helena.