Harry snorts. "Ay, 'tis true. Well, it is kindly meant, I warrant." (Though this is a rather grudging admission.)

They step inside, and there is the lady herself. Harry strides over to the Bar. "How fare you, madam? May I ask a walking-stick of you?"

Why, of course the Bar is happy to oblige! In the form of a nice, delicate little cane, gold-topped and intricately carved. Harry is not particularly amused.

"Something stouter, if you please."

Something like this short, fat little stick, really more like a rather long club?

Harry looks to Enjolras in exasperation: You describe it.