172	----	Updates to this eBook were provided by Andrew Sly. THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP BY CHRISTOPHER MORLEY TO THE BOOKSELLERS Be pleased to know, most worthy, that this little book is dedicated to you in affection and respect. The faults of the composition are plain to you all. I begin merely in the hope of saying something further of the adventures of ROGER MIFFLIN, whose exploits in "Parnassus on Wheels" some of you have been kind enough to applaud. But then came Miss Titania Chapman, and my young advertising man fell in love with her, and the two of them rather ran away with the tale. I think I should explain that the passage in Chapter VIII, dealing with the delightful talent of Mr. Sidney Drew, was written before the lamented death of that charming artist. But as it was a sincere tribute, sincerely meant, I have seen no reason for removing it. Chapters I, II, III, and VI appeared originally in The Bookman, and to the editor of that admirable magazine I owe thanks for his permission to reprint. Now that Roger is to have ten Parnassuses on the road, I am emboldened to think that some of you may encounter them on their travels. And if you do, I hope you will find that these new errants of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation are living up to the ancient and honourable traditions of our noble profession. CHRISTOPHER MORLEY. Philadelphia, April 28, 1919 The Haunted Bookshop Chapter I The Haunted Bookshop If you are ever in Brooklyn, that borough of superb sunsets and magnificent vistas of husband-propelled baby-carriages, it is to be hoped you may chance upon a quiet by-street where there is a very remarkable bookshop. This bookshop, which does business under the unusual name "Parnassus at Home," is housed in one of the comfortable old brown-stone dwellings which have been the joy of several generations of plumbers and cockroaches. The owner of the business has been at pains to remodel the house to make it a more suitable shrine for his trade, which deals entirely in second-hand volumes. There is no second-hand bookshop in the world more worthy of respect. It was about six o'clock of a cold November evening, with gusts of rain splattering upon the pavement, when a young man proceeded uncertainly along Gissing Street, stopping now and then to look at shop windows as though doubtful of his way. At the warm and shining face of a French rotisserie he halted to compare the number enamelled on the transom with a memorandum in his hand. Then he pushed on for a few minutes, at last reaching the address he sought. Over the entrance his eye was caught by the sign: PARNASSUS AT HOME R. AND H. MIFFLIN BOOKLOVERS WELCOME! THIS SHOP IS HAUNTED He stumbled down the three steps that led into the dwelling of the muses, lowered his overcoat collar, and looked about. It was very different from such bookstores as he had been accustomed to patronize. Two stories of the old house had been thrown into one: the lower space was divided into little alcoves; above, a gallery ran round the wall, which carried books to the ceiling. The air was heavy with the delightful fragrance of mellowed paper and leather surcharged with a strong bouquet of tobacco. In front of him he found a large placard in a frame: THIS SHOP IS HAUNTED by the ghosts Of all great literature, in hosts; We sell no fakes or trashes. Lovers of books are welcome here, No clerks will babble in your ear, Please smoke--but don't drop ashes! ---- Browse as long as you like. Prices of all books plainly marked. If you want to ask questions, you'll find the proprietor where the tobacco smoke is thickest. We pay cash for books. We have what you want, though you may not know you want it. Malnutrition of the reading faculty is a serious thing. Let us prescribe for you. By R. & H. MIFFLIN, Proprs. The shop had a warm and comfortable obscurity, a kind of drowsy dusk, stabbed here and there by bright cones of yellow light from green-shaded electrics. There was an all-pervasive drift of tobacco smoke, which eddied and fumed under the glass lamp shades. Passing down a narrow aisle between the alcoves the visitor noticed that some of the compartments were wholly in darkness; in others where lamps were glowing he could see a table and chairs. In one corner, under a sign lettered ESSAYS, an elderly gentleman was reading, with a face of fanatical ecstasy illumined by the sharp glare of electricity; but there was no wreath of smoke about him so the newcomer concluded he was not the proprietor. As the young man approached the back of the shop the general effect became more and more fantastic. On some skylight far overhead he could hear the rain drumming; but otherwise the place was completely silent, peopled only (so it seemed) by the gurgitating whorls of smoke and the bright profile of the essay reader. It seemed like a secret fane, some shrine of curious rites, and the young man's throat was tightened by a stricture which was half agitation and half tobacco. Towering above him into the gloom were shelves and shelves of books, darkling toward the roof. He saw a table with a cylinder of brown paper and twine, evidently where purchases might be wrapped; but there was no sign of an attendant. "This place may indeed be haunted," he thought, "perhaps by the delighted soul of Sir Walter Raleigh, patron of the weed, but seemingly not by the proprietors." His eyes, searching the blue and vaporous vistas of the shop, were caught by a circle of brightness that shone with a curious egg-like lustre. It was round and white, gleaming in the sheen of a hanging light, a bright island in a surf of tobacco smoke. He came more close, and found it was a bald head. This head (he then saw) surmounted a small, sharp-eyed man who sat tilted back in a swivel chair, in a corner which seemed the nerve centre of the establishment. The large pigeon-holed desk in front of him was piled high with volumes of all sorts, with tins of tobacco and newspaper clippings and letters. An antiquated typewriter, looking something like a harpsichord, was half-buried in sheets of manuscript. The little bald-headed man was smoking a corn-cob pipe and reading a cook-book. "I beg your pardon," said the caller, pleasantly; "is this the proprietor?" Mr. Roger Mifflin, the proprietor of "Parnassus at Home," looked up, and the visitor saw that he had keen blue eyes, a short red beard, and a convincing air of competent originality. "It is," said Mr. Mifflin. "Anything I can do for you?" "My name is Aubrey Gilbert," said the young man. "I am representing the Grey-Matter Advertising Agency. I want to discuss with you the advisability of your letting us handle your advertising account, prepare snappy copy for you, and place it in large circulation mediums. Now the war's over, you ought to prepare some constructive campaign for bigger business." The bookseller's face beamed. He put down his cook-book, blew an expanding gust of smoke, and looked up brightly. "My dear chap," he said, "I don't do any advertising." "Impossible!" cried the other, aghast as at some gratuitous indecency. "Not in the sense you mean. Such advertising as benefits me most is done for me by the snappiest copywriters in the business." "I suppose you refer to Whitewash and Gilt?" said Mr. Gilbert wistfully. "Not at all. The people who are doing my advertising are Stevenson, Browning, Conrad and Company." "Dear me," said the Grey-Matter solicitor. "I don't know that agency at all. Still, I doubt if their copy has more pep than ours." "I don't think you get me. I mean that my advertising is done by the books I sell. If I sell a man a book by Stevenson or Conrad, a book that delights or terrifies him, that man and that book become my living advertisements." "But that word-of-mouth advertising is exploded," said Gilbert. "You can't get Distribution that way. You've got to keep your trademark before the public." "By the bones of Tauchnitz!" cried Mifflin. "Look here, you wouldn't go to a doctor, a medical specialist, and tell him he ought to advertise in papers and magazines? A doctor is advertised by the bodies he cures. My business is advertised by the minds I stimulate. And let me tell you that the book business is different from other trades. People don't know they want books. I can see just by looking at you that your mind is ill for lack of books but you are blissfully unaware of it! People don't go to a bookseller until some serious mental accident or disease makes them aware of their danger. Then they come here. For me to advertise would be about as useful as telling people who feel perfectly well that they ought to go to the doctor. Do you know why people are reading more books now than ever before? Because the terrific catastrophe of the war has made them realize that their minds are ill. The world was suffering from all sorts of mental fevers and aches and disorders, and never knew it. Now our mental pangs are only too manifest. We are all reading, hungrily, hastily, trying to find out--after the trouble is over--what was the matter with our minds." The little bookseller was standing up now, and his visitor watched him with mingled amusement and alarm. "You know," said Mifflin, "I am interested that you should have thought it worth while to come in here. It reinforces my conviction of the amazing future ahead of the book business. But I tell you that future lies not merely in systematizing it as a trade. It lies in dignifying it as a profession. It is small use to jeer at the public for craving shoddy books, quack books, untrue books. Physician, cure thyself! Let the bookseller learn to know and revere good books, he will teach the customer. The hunger for good books is more general and more insistent than you would dream. But it is still in a way subconscious. People need books, but they don't know they need them. Generally they are not aware that the books they need are in existence." "Why wouldn't advertising be the way to let them know?" asked the young man, rather acutely. "My dear chap, I understand the value of advertising. But in my own case it would be futile. I am not a dealer in merchandise but a specialist in adjusting the book to the human need. Between ourselves, there is no such thing, abstractly, as a 'good' book. A book is 'good' only when it meets some human hunger or refutes some human error. A book that is good for me would very likely be punk for you. My pleasure is to prescribe books for such patients as drop in here and are willing to tell me their symptoms. Some people have let their reading faculties decay so that all I can do is hold a post mortem on them. But most are still open to treatment. There is no one so grateful as the man to whom you have given just the book his soul needed and he never knew it. No advertisement on earth is as potent as a grateful customer. "I will tell you another reason why I don't advertise," he continued. "In these days when everyone keeps his trademark before the public, as you call it, not to advertise is the most original and startling thing one can do to attract attention. It was the fact that I do NOT advertise that drew you here. And everyone who comes here thinks he has discovered the place himself. He goes and tells his friends about the book asylum run by a crank and a lunatic, and they come here in turn to see what it is like." "I should like to come here again myself and browse about," said the advertising agent. "I should like to have you prescribe for me." "The first thing needed is to acquire a sense of pity. The world has been printing books for 450 years, and yet gunpowder still has a wider circulation. Never mind! Printer's ink is the greater explosive: it will win. Yes, I have a few of the good books here. There are only about 30,000 really important books in the world. I suppose about 5,000 of them were written in the English language, and 5,000 more have been translated." "You are open in the evenings?" "Until ten o'clock. A great many of my best customers are those who are at work all day and can only visit bookshops at night. The real book-lovers, you know, are generally among the humbler classes. A man who is impassioned with books has little time or patience to grow rich by concocting schemes for cozening his fellows." The little bookseller's bald pate shone in the light of the bulb hanging over the wrapping table. His eyes were bright and earnest, his short red beard bristled like wire. He wore a ragged brown Norfolk jacket from which two buttons were missing. A bit of a fanatic himself, thought the customer, but a very entertaining one. "Well, sir," he said, "I am ever so grateful to you. I'll come again. Good-night." And he started down the aisle for the door. As he neared the front of the shop, Mr. Mifflin switched on a cluster of lights that hung high up, and the young man found himself beside a large bulletin board covered with clippings, announcements, circulars, and little notices written on cards in a small neat script. The following caught his eye: RX If your mind needs phosphorus, try "Trivia," by Logan Pearsall Smith. If your mind needs a whiff of strong air, blue and cleansing, from hilltops and primrose valleys, try "The Story of My Heart," by Richard Jefferies. If your mind needs a tonic of iron and wine, and a thorough rough-and-tumbling, try Samuel Butler's "Notebooks" or "The Man Who Was Thursday," by Chesterton. If you need "all manner of Irish," and a relapse into irresponsible freakishness, try "The Demi-Gods," by James Stephens. It is a better book than one deserves or expects. It's a good thing to turn your mind upside down now and then, like an hour-glass, to let the particles run the other way. One who loves the English tongue can have a lot of fun with a Latin dictionary. ROGER MIFFLIN. Human beings pay very little attention to what is told them unless they know something about it already. The young man had heard of none of these books prescribed by the practitioner of bibliotherapy. He was about to open the door when Mifflin appeared at his side. "Look here," he said, with a quaint touch of embarrassment. "I was very much interested by our talk. I'm all alone this evening--my wife is away on a holiday. Won't you stay and have supper with me? I was just looking up some new recipes when you came in." The other was equally surprised and pleased by this unusual invitation. "Why--that's very good of you," he said. "Are you sure I won't be intruding?" "Not at all!" cried the bookseller. "I detest eating alone: I was hoping someone would drop in. I always try to have a guest for supper when my wife is away. I have to stay at home, you see, to keep an eye on the shop. We have no servant, and I do the cooking myself. It's great fun. Now you light your pipe and make yourself comfortable for a few minutes while I get things ready. Suppose you come back to my den." On a table of books at the front of the shop Mifflin laid a large card lettered: PROPRIETOR AT SUPPER IF YOU WANT ANYTHING RING THIS BELL Beside the card he placed a large old-fashioned dinner bell, and then led the way to the rear of the shop. Behind the little office in which this unusual merchant had been studying his cook-book a narrow stairway rose on each side, running up to the gallery. Behind these stairs a short flight of steps led to the domestic recesses. The visitor found himself ushered into a small room on the left, where a grate of coals glowed under a dingy mantelpiece of yellowish marble. On the mantel stood a row of blackened corn-cob pipes and a canister of tobacco. Above was a startling canvas in emphatic oils, representing a large blue wagon drawn by a stout white animal--evidently a horse. A background of lush scenery enhanced the forceful technique of the limner. The walls were stuffed with books. Two shabby, comfortable chairs were drawn up to the iron fender, and a mustard-coloured terrier was lying so close to the glow that a smell of singed hair was sensible. "There," said the host; "this is my cabinet, my chapel of ease. Take off your coat and sit down." "Really," began Gilbert, "I'm afraid this is----" "Nonsense! Now you sit down and commend your soul to Providence and the kitchen stove. I'll bustle round and get supper." Gilbert pulled out his pipe, and with a sense of elation prepared to enjoy an unusual evening. He was a young man of agreeable parts, amiable and sensitive. He knew his disadvantages in literary conversation, for he had gone to an excellent college where glee clubs and theatricals had left him little time for reading. But still he was a lover of good books, though he knew them chiefly by hearsay. He was twenty-five years old, employed as a copywriter by the Grey-Matter Advertising Agency. The little room in which he found himself was plainly the bookseller's sanctum, and contained his own private library. Gilbert browsed along the shelves curiously. The volumes were mostly shabby and bruised; they had evidently been picked up one by one in the humble mangers of the second-hand vendor. They all showed marks of use and meditation. Mr. Gilbert had the earnest mania for self-improvement which has blighted the lives of so many young men--a passion which, however, is commendable in those who feel themselves handicapped by a college career and a jewelled fraternity emblem. It suddenly struck him that it would be valuable to make a list of some of the titles in Mifflin's collection, as a suggestion for his own reading. He took out a memorandum book and began jotting down the books that intrigued him: The Works of Francis Thompson (3 vols.) Social History of Smoking: Apperson The Path to Rome: Hilaire Belloc The Book of Tea: Kakuzo Happy Thoughts: F. C. Burnand Dr. Johnson's Prayers and Meditations Margaret Ogilvy: J. M. Barrie Confessions of a Thug: Taylor General Catalogue of the Oxford University Press The Morning's War: C. E. Montague The Spirit of Man: edited by Robert Bridges The Romany Rye: Borrow Poems: Emily Dickinson Poems: George Herbert The House of Cobwebs: George Gissing So far had he got, and was beginning to say to himself that in the interests of Advertising (who is a jealous mistress) he had best call a halt, when his host entered the room, his small face eager, his eyes blue points of light. "Come, Mr. Aubrey Gilbert!" he cried. "The meal is set. You want to wash your hands? Make haste then, this way: the eggs are hot and waiting." The dining-room into which the guest was conducted betrayed a feminine touch not visible in the smoke-dimmed quarters of shop and cabinet. At the windows were curtains of laughing chintz and pots of pink geranium. The table, under a drop-light in a flame-coloured silk screen, was brightly set with silver and blue china. In a cut-glass decanter sparkled a ruddy brown wine. The edged tool of Advertising felt his spirits undergo an unmistakable upward pressure. "Sit down, sir," said Mifflin, lifting the roof of a platter. "These are eggs Samuel Butler, an invention of my own, the apotheosis of hen fruit." Gilbert greeted the invention with applause. An Egg Samuel Butler, for the notebook of housewives, may be summarized as a pyramid, based upon toast, whereof the chief masonries are a flake of bacon, an egg poached to firmness, a wreath of mushrooms, a cap-sheaf of red peppers; the whole dribbled with a warm pink sauce of which the inventor retains the secret. To this the bookseller chef added fried potatoes from another dish, and poured for his guest a glass of wine. "This is California catawba," said Mifflin, "in which the grape and the sunshine very pleasantly (and cheaply) fulfil their allotted destiny. I pledge you prosperity to the black art of Advertising!" The psychology of the art and mystery of Advertising rests upon tact, an instinctive perception of the tone and accent which will be en rapport with the mood of the hearer. Mr. Gilbert was aware of this, and felt that quite possibly his host was prouder of his whimsical avocation as gourmet than of his sacred profession as a bookman. "Is it possible, sir," he began, in lucid Johnsonian, "that you can concoct so delicious an entree in so few minutes? You are not hoaxing me? There is no secret passage between Gissing Street and the laboratories of the Ritz?" "Ah, you should taste Mrs. Mifflin's cooking!" said the bookseller. "I am only an amateur, who dabbles in the craft during her absence. She is on a visit to her cousin in Boston. She becomes, quite justifiably, weary of the tobacco of this establishment, and once or twice a year it does her good to breathe the pure serene of Beacon Hill. During her absence it is my privilege to inquire into the ritual of housekeeping. I find it very sedative after the incessant excitement and speculation of the shop." "I should have thought," said Gilbert, "that life in a bookshop would be delightfully tranquil." "Far from it. Living in a bookshop is like living in a warehouse of explosives. Those shelves are ranked with the most furious combustibles in the world--the brains of men. I can spend a rainy afternoon reading, and my mind works itself up to such a passion and anxiety over mortal problems as almost unmans me. It is terribly nerve-racking. Surround a man with Carlyle, Emerson, Thoreau, Chesterton, Shaw, Nietzsche, and George Ade--would you wonder at his getting excited? What would happen to a cat if she had to live in a room tapestried with catnip? She would go crazy!" "Truly, I had never thought of that phase of bookselling," said the young man. "How is it, though, that libraries are shrines of such austere calm? If books are as provocative as you suggest, one would expect every librarian to utter the shrill screams of a hierophant, to clash ecstatic castanets in his silent alcoves!" "Ah, my boy, you forget the card index! Librarians invented that soothing device for the febrifuge of their souls, just as I fall back upon the rites of the kitchen. Librarians would all go mad, those capable of concentrated thought, if they did not have the cool and healing card index as medicament! Some more of the eggs?" "Thank you," said Gilbert. "Who was the butler whose name was associated with the dish?" "What?" cried Mifflin, in agitation, "you have not heard of Samuel Butler, the author of The Way of All Flesh? My dear young man, whoever permits himself to die before he has read that book, and also Erewhon, has deliberately forfeited his chances of paradise. For paradise in the world to come is uncertain, but there is indeed a heaven on this earth, a heaven which we inhabit when we read a good book. Pour yourself another glass of wine, and permit me----" (Here followed an enthusiastic development of the perverse philosophy of Samuel Butler, which, in deference to my readers, I omit. Mr. Gilbert took notes of the conversation in his pocketbook, and I am pleased to say that his heart was moved to a realization of his iniquity, for he was observed at the Public Library a few days later asking for a copy of The Way of All Flesh. After inquiring at four libraries, and finding all copies of the book in circulation, he was compelled to buy one. He never regretted doing so.) "But I am forgetting my duties as host," said Mifflin. "Our dessert consists of apple sauce, gingerbread, and coffee." He rapidly cleared the empty dishes from the table and brought on the second course. "I have been noticing the warning over the sideboard," said Gilbert. "I hope you will let me help you this evening?" He pointed to a card hanging near the kitchen door. It read: ALWAYS WASH DISHES IMMEDIATELY AFTER MEALS IT SAVES TROUBLE "I'm afraid I don't always obey that precept," said the bookseller as he poured the coffee. "Mrs. Mifflin hangs it there whenever she goes away, to remind me. But, as our friend Samuel Butler says, he that is stupid in little will also be stupid in much. I have a different theory about dish-washing, and I please myself by indulging it. "I used to regard dish-washing merely as an ignoble chore, a kind of hateful discipline which had to be undergone with knitted brow and brazen fortitude. When my wife went away the first time, I erected a reading stand and an electric light over the sink, and used to read while my hands went automatically through base gestures of purification. I made the great spirits of literature partners of my sorrow, and learned by heart a good deal of Paradise Lost and of Walt Mason, while I soused and wallowed among pots and pans. I used to comfort myself with two lines of Keats: 'The moving waters at their priest-like task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores----' Then a new conception of the matter struck me. It is intolerable for a human being to go on doing any task as a penance, under duress. No matter what the work is, one must spiritualize it in some way, shatter the old idea of it into bits and rebuild it nearer to the heart's desire. How was I to do this with dish-washing? "I broke a good many plates while I was pondering over the matter. Then it occurred to me that here was just the relaxation I needed. I had been worrying over the mental strain of being surrounded all day long by vociferous books, crying out at me their conflicting views as to the glories and agonies of life. Why not make dish-washing my balm and poultice? "When one views a stubborn fact from a new angle, it is amazing how all its contours and edges change shape! Immediately my dishpan began to glow with a kind of philosophic halo! The warm, soapy water became a sovereign medicine to retract hot blood from the head; the homely act of washing and drying cups and saucers became a symbol of the order and cleanliness that man imposes on the unruly world about him. I tore down my book rack and reading lamp from over the sink. "Mr. Gilbert," he went on, "do not laugh at me when I tell you that I have evolved a whole kitchen philosophy of my own. I find the kitchen the shrine of our civilization, the focus of all that is comely in life. The ruddy shine of the stove is as beautiful as any sunset. A well-polished jug or spoon is as fair, as complete and beautiful, as any sonnet. The dish mop, properly rinsed and wrung and hung outside the back door to dry, is a whole sermon in itself. The stars never look so bright as they do from the kitchen door after the ice-box pan is emptied and the whole place is 'redd up,' as the Scotch say." "A very delightful philosophy indeed," said Gilbert. "And now that we have finished our meal, I insist upon your letting me give you a hand with the washing up. I am eager to test this dish-pantheism of yours!" "My dear fellow," said Mifflin, laying a restraining hand on his impetuous guest, "it is a poor philosophy that will not abide denial now and then. No, no--I did not ask you to spend the evening with me to wash dishes." And he led the way back to his sitting room. "When I saw you come in," said Mifflin, "I was afraid you might be a newspaper man, looking for an interview. A young journalist came to see us once, with very unhappy results. He wheedled himself into Mrs. Mifflin's good graces, and ended by putting us both into a book, called Parnassus on Wheels, which has been rather a trial to me. In that book he attributes to me a number of shallow and sugary observations upon bookselling that have been an annoyance to the trade. I am happy to say, though, that his book had only a trifling sale." "I have never heard of it," said Gilbert. "If you are really interested in bookselling you should come here some evening to a meeting of the Corn Cob Club. Once a month a number of booksellers gather here and we discuss matters of bookish concern over corn-cobs and cider. We have all sorts and conditions of booksellers: one is a fanatic on the subject of libraries. He thinks that every public library should be dynamited. Another thinks that moving pictures will destroy the book trade. What rot! Surely everything that arouses people's minds, that makes them alert and questioning, increases their appetite for books." "The life of a bookseller is very demoralizing to the intellect," he went on after a pause. "He is surrounded by innumerable books; he cannot possibly read them all; he dips into one and picks up a scrap from another. His mind gradually fills itself with miscellaneous flotsam, with superficial opinions, with a thousand half-knowledges. Almost unconsciously he begins to rate literature according to what people ask for. He begins to wonder whether Ralph Waldo Trine isn't really greater than Ralph Waldo Emerson, whether J. M. Chapple isn't as big a man as J. M. Barrie. That way lies intellectual suicide. "One thing, however, you must grant the good bookseller. He is tolerant. He is patient of all ideas and theories. Surrounded, engulfed by the torrent of men's words, he is willing to listen to them all. Even to the publisher's salesman he turns an indulgent ear. He is willing to be humbugged for the weal of humanity. He hopes unceasingly for good books to be born. "My business, you see, is different from most. I only deal in second-hand books; I only buy books that I consider have some honest reason for existence. In so far as human judgment can discern, I try to keep trash out of my shelves. A doctor doesn't traffic in quack remedies. I don't traffic in bogus books. "A comical thing happened the other day. There is a certain wealthy man, a Mr. Chapman, who has long frequented this shop----" "I wonder if that could be Mr. Chapman of the Chapman Daintybits Company?" said Gilbert, feeling his feet touch familiar soil. "The same, I believe," said Mifflin. "Do you know him?" "Ah," cried the young man with reverence. "There is a man who can tell you the virtues of advertising. If he is interested in books, it is advertising that made it possible. We handle all his copy--I've written a lot of it myself. We have made the Chapman prunes a staple of civilization and culture. I myself devised that slogan 'We preen ourselves on our prunes' which you see in every big magazine. Chapman prunes are known the world over. The Mikado eats them once a week. The Pope eats them. Why, we have just heard that thirteen cases of them are to be put on board the George Washington for the President's voyage to the peace Conference. The Czecho-Slovak armies were fed largely on prunes. It is our conviction in the office that our campaign for the Chapman prunes did much to win the war." "I read in an ad the other day--perhaps you wrote that, too?" said the bookseller, "that the Elgin watch had won the war. However, Mr. Chapman has long been one of my best customers. He heard about the Corn Cob Club, and though of course he is not a bookseller he begged to come to our meetings. We were glad to have him do so, and he has entered into our discussions with great zeal. Often he has offered many a shrewd comment. He has grown so enthusiastic about the bookseller's way of life that the other day he wrote to me about his daughter (he is a widower). She has been attending a fashionable girls' school where, he says, they have filled her head with absurd, wasteful, snobbish notions. He says she has no more idea of the usefulness and beauty of life than a Pomeranian dog. Instead of sending her to college, he has asked me if Mrs. Mifflin and I will take her in here to learn to sell books. He wants her to think she is earning her keep, and is going to pay me privately for the privilege of having her live here. He thinks that being surrounded by books will put some sense in her head. I am rather nervous about the experiment, but it is a compliment to the shop, isn't it?" "Ye gods," cried Gilbert, "what advertising copy that would make!" At this point the bell in the shop rang, and Mifflin jumped up. "This part of the evening is often rather busy," he said. "I'm afraid I'll have to go down on the floor. Some of my habitues rather expect me to be on hand to gossip about books." "I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed myself," said Gilbert. "I'm going to come again and study your shelves." "Well, keep it dark about the young lady," said the bookseller. "I don't want all you young blades dropping in here to unsettle her mind. If she falls in love with anybody in this shop, it'll have to be Joseph Conrad or John Keats!" As he passed out, Gilbert saw Roger Mifflin engaged in argument with a bearded man who looked like a college professor. "Carlyle's Oliver Cromwell?" he was saying. "Yes, indeed! Right over here! Hullo, that's odd! It WAS here." Chapter II The Corn Cob Club[1] [1] The latter half of this chapter may be omitted by all readers who are not booksellers. The Haunted Bookshop was a delightful place, especially of an evening, when its drowsy alcoves were kindled with the brightness of lamps shining on the rows of volumes. Many a passer-by would stumble down the steps from the street in sheer curiosity; others, familiar visitors, dropped in with the same comfortable emotion that a man feels on entering his club. Roger's custom was to sit at his desk in the rear, puffing his pipe and reading; though if any customer started a conversation, the little man was quick and eager to carry it on. The lion of talk lay only sleeping in him; it was not hard to goad it up. It may be remarked that all bookshops that are open in the evening are busy in the after-supper hours. Is it that the true book-lovers are nocturnal gentry, only venturing forth when darkness and silence and the gleam of hooded lights irresistibly suggest reading? Certainly night-time has a mystic affinity for literature, and it is strange that the Esquimaux have created no great books. Surely, for most of us, an arctic night would be insupportable without O. Henry and Stevenson. Or, as Roger Mifflin remarked during a passing enthusiasm for Ambrose Bierce, the true noctes ambrosianae are the noctes ambrose bierceianae. But Roger was prompt in closing Parnassus at ten o'clock. At that hour he and Bock (the mustard-coloured terrier, named for Boccaccio) would make the round of the shop, see that everything was shipshape, empty the ash trays provided for customers, lock the front door, and turn off the lights. Then they would retire to the den, where Mrs. Mifflin was generally knitting or reading. She would brew a pot of cocoa and they would read or talk for half an hour or so before bed. Sometimes Roger would take a stroll along Gissing Street before turning in. All day spent with books has a rather exhausting effect on the mind, and he used to enjoy the fresh air sweeping up the dark Brooklyn streets, meditating some thought that had sprung from his reading, while Bock sniffed and padded along in the manner of an elderly dog at night. While Mrs. Mifflin was away, however, Roger's routine was somewhat different. After closing the shop he would return to his desk and with a furtive, shamefaced air take out from a bottom drawer an untidy folder of notes and manuscript. This was the skeleton in his closet, his secret sin. It was the scaffolding of his book, which he had been compiling for at least ten years, and to which he had tentatively assigned such different titles as "Notes on Literature," "The Muse on Crutches," "Books and I," and "What a Young Bookseller Ought to Know." It had begun long ago, in the days of his odyssey as a rural book huckster, under the title of "Literature Among the Farmers," but it had branched out until it began to appear that (in bulk at least) Ridpath would have to look to his linoleum laurels. The manuscript in its present state had neither beginning nor end, but it was growing strenuously in the middle, and hundreds of pages were covered with Roger's minute script. The chapter on "Ars Bibliopolae," or the art of bookselling, would be, he hoped, a classic among generations of book vendors still unborn. Seated at his disorderly desk, caressed by a counterpane of drifting tobacco haze, he would pore over the manuscript, crossing out, interpolating, re-arguing, and then referring to volumes on his shelves. Bock would snore under the chair, and soon Roger's brain would begin to waver. In the end he would fall asleep over his papers, wake with a cramp about two o'clock, and creak irritably to a lonely bed. All this we mention only to explain how it was that Roger was dozing at his desk about midnight, the evening after the call paid by Aubrey Gilbert. He was awakened by a draught of chill air passing like a mountain brook over his bald pate. Stiffly he sat up and looked about. The shop was in darkness save for the bright electric over his head. Bock, of more regular habit than his master, had gone back to his couch in the kitchen, made of a packing case that had once coffined a set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. "That's funny," said Roger to himself. "Surely I locked the door?" He walked to the front of the shop, switching on the cluster of lights that hung from the ceiling. The door was ajar, but everything else seemed as usual. Bock, hearing his footsteps, came trotting out from the kitchen, his claws rattling on the bare wooden floor. He looked up with the patient inquiry of a dog accustomed to the eccentricities of his patron. "I guess I'm getting absent-minded," said Roger. "I must have left the door open." He closed and locked it. Then he noticed that the terrier was sniffing in the History alcove, which was at the front of the shop on the left-hand side. "What is it, old man?" said Roger. "Want something to read in bed?" He turned on the light in that alcove. Everything appeared normal. Then he noticed a book that projected an inch or so beyond the even line of bindings. It was a fad of Roger's to keep all his books in a flat row on the shelves, and almost every evening at closing time he used to run his palm along the backs of the volumes to level any irregularities left by careless browsers. He put out a hand to push the book into place. Then he stopped. "Queer again," he thought. "Carlyle's Oliver Cromwell! I looked for that book last night and couldn't find it. When that professor fellow was here. Maybe I'm tired and can't see straight. I'll go to bed." The next day was a date of some moment. Not only was it Thanksgiving Day, with the November meeting of the Corn Cob Club scheduled for that evening, but Mrs. Mifflin had promised to get home from Boston in time to bake a chocolate cake for the booksellers. It was said that some of the members of the club were faithful in attendance more by reason of Mrs. Mifflin's chocolate cake, and the cask of cider that her brother Andrew McGill sent down from the Sabine Farm every autumn, than on account of the bookish conversation. Roger spent the morning in doing a little housecleaning, in preparation for his wife's return. He was a trifle abashed to find how many mingled crumbs and tobacco cinders had accumulated on the dining-room rug. He cooked himself a modest lunch of lamb chops and baked potatoes, and was pleased by an epigram concerning food that came into his mind. "It's not the food you dream about that matters," he said to himself; "it's the vittles that walk right in and become a member of the family." He felt that this needed a little polishing and rephrasing, but that there was a germ of wit in it. He had a habit of encountering ideas at his solitary meals. After this, he was busy at the sink scrubbing the dishes, when he was surprised by feeling two very competent arms surround him, and a pink gingham apron was thrown over his head. "Mifflin," said his wife, "how many times have I told you to put on an apron when you wash up!" They greeted each other with the hearty, affectionate simplicity of those congenially wedded in middle age. Helen Mifflin was a buxom, healthy creature, rich in good sense and good humour, well nourished both in mind and body. She kissed Roger's bald head, tied the apron around his shrimpish person, and sat down on a kitchen chair to watch him finish wiping the china. Her cheeks were cool and ruddy from the keen air, her face lit with the tranquil satisfaction of those who have sojourned in the comfortable city of Boston. "Well, my dear," said Roger, "this makes it a real Thanksgiving. You look as plump and full of matter as The Home Book of Verse." "I've had a stunning time," she said, patting Bock who stood at her knee, imbibing the familiar and mysterious fragrance by which dogs identify their human friends. "I haven't even heard of a book for three weeks. I did stop in at the Old Angle Book Shop yesterday, just to say hullo to Joe Jillings. He says all booksellers are crazy, but that you are the craziest of the lot. He wants to know if you're bankrupt yet." Roger's slate-blue eyes twinkled. He hung up a cup in the china closet and lit his pipe before replying. "What did you say?" "I said that our shop was haunted, and mustn't be supposed to come under the usual conditions of the trade." "Bully for you! And what did Joe say to that?" "'Haunted by the nuts!'" "Well," said Roger, "when literature goes bankrupt I'm willing to go with it. Not till then. But by the way, we're going to be haunted by a beauteous damsel pretty soon. You remember my telling you that Mr. Chapman wants to send his daughter to work in the shop? Well, here's a letter I had from him this morning." He rummaged in his pocket, and produced the following, which Mrs. Mifflin read: DEAR MR. MIFFLIN, I am so delighted that you and Mrs. Mifflin are willing to try the experiment of taking my daughter as an apprentice. Titania is really a very charming girl, and if only we can get some of the "finishing school" nonsense out of her head she will make a fine woman. She has had (it was my fault, not hers) the disadvantage of being brought up, or rather brought down, by having every possible want and whim gratified. Out of kindness for herself and her future husband, if she should have one, I want her to learn a little about earning a living. She is nearly nineteen, and I told her if she would try the bookshop job for a while I would take her to Europe for a year afterward. As I explained to you, I want her to think she is really earning her way. Of course I don't want the routine to be too hard for her, but I do want her to get some idea of what it means to face life on one's own. If you will pay her ten dollars a week as a beginner, and deduct her board from that, I will pay you twenty dollars a week, privately, for your responsibility in caring for her and keeping your and Mrs. Mifflin's friendly eyes on her. I'm coming round to the Corn Cob meeting to-morrow night, and we can make the final arrangements. Luckily, she is very fond of books, and I really think she is looking forward to the adventure with much anticipation. I overheard her saying to one of her friends yesterday that she was going to do some "literary work" this winter. That's the kind of nonsense I want her to outgrow. When I hear her say that she's got a job in a bookstore, I'll know she's cured. Cordially yours, GEORGE CHAPMAN. "Well?" said Roger, as Mrs. Mifflin made no comment. "Don't you think it will be rather interesting to get a naive young girl's reactions toward the problems of our tranquil existence?" "Roger, you blessed innocent!" cried his wife. "Life will no longer be tranquil with a girl of nineteen round the place. You may fool yourself, but you can't fool me. A girl of nineteen doesn't REACT toward things. She explodes. Things don't 'react' anywhere but in Boston and in chemical laboratories. I suppose you know you're taking a human bombshell into the arsenal?" Roger looked dubious. "I remember something in Weir of Hermiston about a girl being 'an explosive engine,'" he said. "But I don't see that she can do any very great harm round here. We're both pretty well proof against shell shock. The worst that could happen would be if she got hold of my private copy of Fireside Conversation in the Age of Queen Elizabeth. Remind me to lock it up somewhere, will you?" This secret masterpiece by Mark Twain was one of the bookseller's treasures. Not even Helen had ever been permitted to read it; and she had shrewdly judged that it was not in her line, for though she knew perfectly well where he kept it (together with his life insurance policy, some Liberty Bonds, an autograph letter from Charles Spencer Chaplin, and a snapshot of herself taken on their honeymoon) she had never made any attempt to examine it. "Well," said Helen; "Titania or no Titania, if the Corn Cobs want their chocolate cake to-night, I must get busy. Take my suitcase upstairs like a good fellow." A gathering of booksellers is a pleasant sanhedrim to attend. The members of this ancient craft bear mannerisms and earmarks just as definitely recognizable as those of the cloak and suit business or any other trade. They are likely to be a little--shall we say--worn at the bindings, as becomes men who have forsaken worldly profit to pursue a noble calling ill rewarded in cash. They are possibly a trifle embittered, which is an excellent demeanour for mankind in the face of inscrutable heaven. Long experience with publishers' salesmen makes them suspicious of books praised between the courses of a heavy meal. When a publisher's salesman takes you out to dinner, it is not surprising if the conversation turns toward literature about the time the last of the peas are being harried about the plate. But, as Jerry Gladfist says (he runs a shop up on Thirty-Eighth Street) the publishers' salesmen supply a long-felt want, for they do now and then buy one a dinner the like of which no bookseller would otherwise be likely to commit. "Well, gentlemen," said Roger as his guests assembled in his little cabinet, "it's a cold evening. Pull up toward the fire. Make free with the cider. The cake's on the table. My wife came back from Boston specially to make it." "Here's Mrs. Mifflin's health!" said Mr. Chapman, a quiet little man who had a habit of listening to what he heard. "I hope she doesn't mind keeping the shop while we celebrate?" "Not a bit," said Roger. "She enjoys it." "I see Tarzan of the Apes is running at the Gissing Street movie palace," said Gladfist. "Great stuff. Have you seen it?" "Not while I can still read The Jungle Book," said Roger. "You make me tired with that talk about literature," cried Jerry. "A book's a book, even if Harold Bell Wright wrote it." "A book's a book if you enjoy reading it," amended Meredith, from a big Fifth Avenue bookstore. "Lots of people enjoy Harold Bell Wright just as lots of people enjoy tripe. Either of them would kill me. But let's be tolerant." "Your argument is a whole succession of non sequiturs," said Jerry, stimulated by the cider to unusual brilliance. "That's a long putt," chuckled Benson, the dealer in rare books and first editions. "What I mean is this," said Jerry. "We aren't literary critics. It's none of our business to say what's good and what isn't. Our job is simply to supply the public with the books it wants when it wants them. How it comes to want the books it does is no concern of ours." "You're the guy that calls bookselling the worst business in the world," said Roger warmly, "and you're the kind of guy that makes it so. I suppose you would say that it is no concern of the bookseller to try to increase the public appetite for books?" "Appetite is too strong a word," said Jerry. "As far as books are concerned the public is barely able to sit up and take a little liquid nourishment. Solid foods don't interest it. If you try to cram roast beef down the gullet of an invalid you'll kill him. Let the public alone, and thank God when it comes round to amputate any of its hard-earned cash." "Well, take it on the lowest basis," said Roger. "I haven't any facts to go upon----" "You never have," interjected Jerry. "But I'd like to bet that the Trade has made more money out of Bryce's American Commonwealth than it ever did out of all Parson Wright's books put together." "What of it? Why shouldn't they make both?" This preliminary tilt was interrupted by the arrival of two more visitors, and Roger handed round mugs of cider, pointed to the cake and the basket of pretzels, and lit his corn-cob pipe. The new arrivals were Quincy and Fruehling; the former a clerk in the book department of a vast drygoods store, the latter the owner of a bookshop in the Hebrew quarter of Grand Street--one of the best-stocked shops in the city, though little known to uptown book-lovers. "Well," said Fruehling, his bright dark eyes sparkling above richly tinted cheek-bones and bushy beard, "what's the argument?" "The usual one," said Gladfist, grinning, "Mifflin confusing merchandise with metaphysics." MIFFLIN--Not at all. I am simply saying that it is good business to sell only the best. GLADFIST--Wrong again. You must select your stock according to your customers. Ask Quincy here. Would there be any sense in his loading up his shelves with Maeterlinck and Shaw when the department-store trade wants Eleanor Porter and the Tarzan stuff? Does a country grocer carry the same cigars that are listed on the wine card of a Fifth Avenue hotel? Of course not. He gets in the cigars that his trade enjoys and is accustomed to. Bookselling must obey the ordinary rules of commerce. MIFFLIN--A fig for the ordinary rules of commerce! I came over here to Gissing Street to get away from them. My mind would blow out its fuses if I had to abide by the dirty little considerations of supply and demand. As far as I am concerned, supply CREATES demand. GLADFIST--Still, old chap, you have to abide by the dirty little consideration of earning a living, unless someone has endowed you? BENSON--Of course my line of business isn't strictly the same as you fellows'. But a thought that has often occurred to me in selling rare editions may interest you. The customer's willingness to part with his money is usually in inverse ratio to the permanent benefit he expects to derive from what he purchases. MEREDITH--Sounds a bit like John Stuart Mill. BENSON--Even so, it may be true. Folks will pay a darned sight more to be amused than they will to be exalted. Look at the way a man shells out five bones for a couple of theatre seats, or spends a couple of dollars a week on cigars without thinking of it. Yet two dollars or five dollars for a book costs him positive anguish. The mistake you fellows in the retail trade have made is in trying to persuade your customers that books are necessities. Tell them they're luxuries. That'll get them! People have to work so hard in this life they're shy of necessities. A man will go on wearing a suit until it's threadbare, much sooner than smoke a threadbare cigar. GLADFIST--Not a bad thought. You know, Mifflin here calls me a material-minded cynic, but by thunder, I think I'm more idealistic than he is. I'm no propagandist incessantly trying to cajole poor innocent customers into buying the kind of book _I_ think they ought to buy. When I see the helpless pathos of most of them, who drift into a bookstore without the slightest idea of what they want or what is worth reading, I would disdain to take advantage of their frailty. They are absolutely at the mercy of the salesman. They will buy whatever he tells them to. Now the honourable man, the high-minded man (by which I mean myself) is too proud to ram some shimmering stuff at them just because he thinks they ought to read it. Let the boobs blunder around and grab what they can. Let natural selection operate. I think it is fascinating to watch them, to see their helpless groping, and to study the weird ways in which they make their choice. Usually they will buy a book either because they think the jacket is attractive, or because it costs a dollar and a quarter instead of a dollar and a half, or because they say they saw a review of it. The "review" usually turns out to be an ad. I don't think one book-buyer in a thousand knows the difference. MIFFLIN--Your doctrine is pitiless, base, and false! What would you think of a physician who saw men suffering from a curable disease and did nothing to alleviate their sufferings? GLADFIST--Their sufferings (as you call them) are nothing to what mine would be if I stocked up with a lot of books that no one but highbrows would buy. What would you think of a base public that would go past my shop day after day and let the high-minded occupant die of starvation? MIFFLIN--Your ailment, Jerry, is that you conceive yourself as merely a tradesman. What I'm telling you is that the bookseller is a public servant. He ought to be pensioned by the state. The honour of his profession should compel him to do all he can to spread the distribution of good stuff. QUINCY--I think you forget how much we who deal chiefly in new books are at the mercy of the publishers. We have to stock the new stuff, a large proportion of which is always punk. Why it is punk, goodness knows, because most of the bum books don't sell. MIFFLIN--Ah, that is a mystery indeed! But I can give you a fair reason. First, because there isn't enough good stuff to go round. Second, because of the ignorance of the publishers, many of whom honestly don't know a good book when they see it. It is a matter of sheer heedlessness in the selection of what they intend to publish. A big drug factory or a manufacturer of a well-known jam spends vast sums of money on chemically assaying and analyzing the ingredients that are to go into his medicines or in gathering and selecting the fruit that is to be stewed into jam. And yet they tell me that the most important department of a publishing business, which is the gathering and sampling of manuscripts, is the least considered and the least remunerated. I knew a reader for one publishing house: he was a babe recently out of college who didn't know a book from a frat pin. If a jam factory employs a trained chemist, why isn't it worth a publisher's while to employ an expert book analyzer? There are some of them. Look at the fellow who runs the Pacific Monthly's book business for example! He knows a thing or two. CHAPMAN--I think perhaps you exaggerate the value of those trained experts. They are likely to be fourflushers. We had one once at our factory, and as far as I could make out he never thought we were doing good business except when we were losing money. MIFFLIN--As far as I have been able to observe, making money is the easiest thing in the world. All you have to do is to turn out an honest product, something that the public needs. Then you have to let them know that you have it, and teach them that they need it. They will batter down your front door in their eagerness to get it. But if you begin to hand them gold bricks, if you begin to sell them books built like an apartment house, all marble front and all brick behind, you're cutting your own throat, or rather cutting your own pocket, which is the same thing. MEREDITH--I think Mifflin's right. You know the kind of place our shop is: a regular Fifth Avenue store, all plate glass front and marble columns glowing in the indirect lighting like a birchwood at full moon. We sell hundreds of dollars' worth of bunkum every day because people ask for it; but I tell you we do it with reluctance. It's rather the custom in our shop to scoff at the book-buying public and call them boobs, but they really want good books--the poor souls don't know how to get them. Still, Jerry has a certain grain of truth to his credit. I get ten times more satisfaction in selling a copy of Newton's The Amenities of Book-Collecting than I do in selling a copy of--well, Tarzan; but it's poor business to impose your own private tastes on your customers. All you can do is to hint them along tactfully, when you get a chance, toward the stuff that counts. QUINCY--You remind me of something that happened in our book department the other day. A flapper came in and said she had forgotten the name of the book she wanted, but it was something about a young man who had been brought up by the monks. I was stumped. I tried her with The Cloister and the Hearth and Monastery Bells and Legends of the Monastic Orders and so on, but her face was blank. Then one of the salesgirls overheard us talking, and she guessed it right off the bat. Of course it was Tarzan. MIFFLIN--You poor simp, there was your chance to introduce her to Mowgli and the bandar-log. QUINCY--True--I didn't think of it. MIFFLIN--I'd like to get you fellows' ideas about advertising. There was a young chap in here the other day from an advertising agency, trying to get me to put some copy in the papers. Have you found that it pays? FRUEHLING--It always pays--somebody. The only question is, does it pay the man who pays for the ad? MEREDITH--What do you mean? FRUEHLING--Did you ever consider the problem of what I call tangential advertising? By that I mean advertising that benefits your rival rather than yourself? Take an example. On Sixth Avenue there is a lovely delicatessen shop, but rather expensive. Every conceivable kind of sweetmeat and relish is displayed in the brightly lit window. When you look at that window it simply makes your mouth water. You decide to have something to eat. But do you get it there? Not much! You go a little farther down the street and get it at the Automat or the Crystal Lunch. The delicatessen fellow pays the overhead expense of that beautiful food exhibit, and the other man gets the benefit of it. It's the same way in my business. I'm in a factory district, where people can't afford to have any but the best books. (Meredith will bear me out in saying that only the wealthy can afford the poor ones.) They read the book ads in the papers and magazines, the ads of Meredith's shop and others, and then they come to me to buy them. I believe in advertising, but I believe in letting someone else pay for it. MIFFLIN--I guess perhaps I can afford to go on riding on Meredith's ads. I hadn't thought of that. But I think I shall put a little notice in one of the papers some day, just a little card saying PARNASSUS AT HOME GOOD BOOKS BOUGHT AND SOLD THIS SHOP IS HAUNTED It will be fun to see what come-back I get. QUINCY--The book section of a department store doesn't get much chance to enjoy that tangential advertising, as Fruehling calls it. Why, when our interior decorating shark puts a few volumes of a pirated Kipling bound in crushed oilcloth or a copy of "Knock-kneed Stories," into the window to show off a Louis XVIII boudoir suite, display space is charged up against my department! Last summer he asked me for "something by that Ring fellow, I forget the name," to put a punchy finish on a layout of porch furniture. I thought perhaps he meant Wagner's Nibelungen operas, and began to dig them out. Then I found he meant Ring Lardner. GLADFIST--There you are. I keep telling you bookselling is an impossible job for a man who loves literature. When did a bookseller ever make any real contribution to the world's happiness? MIFFLIN--Dr. Johnson's father was a bookseller. GLADFIST--Yes, and couldn't afford to pay for Sam's education. FRUEHLING--There's another kind of tangential advertising that interests me. Take, for instance, a Coles Phillips painting for some brand of silk stockings. Of course the high lights of the picture are cunningly focussed on the stockings of the eminently beautiful lady; but there is always something else in the picture--an automobile or a country house or a Morris chair or a parasol--which makes it just as effective an ad for those goods as it is for the stockings. Every now and then Phillips sticks a book into his paintings, and I expect the Fifth Avenue book trade benefits by it. A book that fits the mind as well as a silk stocking does the ankle will be sure to sell. MIFFLIN--You are all crass materialists. I tell you, books are the depositories of the human spirit, which is the only thing in this world that endures. What was it Shakespeare said-- Not marble nor the gilded monuments Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme-- By the bones of the Hohenzollerns, he was right! And wait a minute! There's something in Carlyle's Cromwell that comes back to me. He ran excitedly out of the room, and the members of the Corn Cob fraternity grinned at each other. Gladfist cleaned his pipe and poured out some more cider. "He's off on his hobby," he chuckled. "I love baiting him." "Speaking of Carlyle's Cromwell," said Fruehling, "that's a book I don't often hear asked for. But a fellow came in the other day hunting for a copy, and to my chagrin I didn't have one. I rather pride myself on keeping that sort of thing in stock. So I called up Brentano's to see if I could pick one up, and they told me they had just sold the only copy they had. Somebody must have been boosting Thomas! Maybe he's quoted in Tarzan, or somebody has bought up the film rights." Mifflin came in, looking rather annoyed. "Here's an odd thing," he said. "I know damn well that copy of Cromwell was on the shelf because I saw it there last night. It's not there now." "That's nothing," said Quincy. "You know how people come into a second-hand store, see a book they take a fancy to but don't feel like buying just then, and tuck it away out of sight or on some other shelf where they think no one else will spot it, but they'll be able to find it when they can afford it. Probably someone's done that with your Cromwell." "Maybe, but I doubt it," said Mifflin. "Mrs. Mifflin says she didn't sell it this evening. I woke her up to ask her. She was dozing over her knitting at the desk. I guess she's tired after her trip." "I'm sorry to miss the Carlyle quotation," said Benson. "What was the gist?" "I think I've got it jotted down in a notebook," said Roger, hunting along a shelf. "Yes, here it is." He read aloud: "The works of a man, bury them under what guano-mountains and obscene owl-droppings you will, do not perish, cannot perish. What of Heroism, what of Eternal Light was in a Man and his Life, is with very great exactness added to the Eternities, remains forever a new divine portion of the Sum of Things. "Now, my friends, the bookseller is one of the keys in that universal adding machine, because he aids in the cross-fertilization of men and books. His delight in his calling doesn't need to be stimulated even by the bright shanks of a Coles Phillips picture. "Roger, my boy," said Gladfist, "your innocent enthusiasm makes me think of Tom Daly's favourite story about the Irish priest who was rebuking his flock for their love of whisky. 'Whisky,' he said, 'is the bane of this congregation. Whisky, that steals away a man's brains. Whisky, that makes you shoot at landlords--and not hit them!' Even so, my dear Roger, your enthusiasm makes you shoot at truth and never come anywhere near it." "Jerry," said Roger, "you are a upas tree. Your shadow is poisonous!" "Well, gentlemen," said Mr. Chapman, "I know Mrs. Mifflin wants to be relieved of her post. I vote we adjourn early. Your conversation is always delightful, though I am sometimes a bit uncertain as to the conclusions. My daughter is going to be a bookseller, and I shall look forward to hearing her views on the business." As the guests made their way out through the shop, Mr. Chapman drew Roger aside. "It's perfectly all right about sending Titania?" he asked. "Absolutely," said Roger. "When does she want to come?" "Is to-morrow too soon?" "The sooner the better. We've got a little spare room upstairs that she can have. I've got some ideas of my own about furnishing it for her. Send her round to-morrow afternoon." Chapter III Titania Arrives The first pipe after breakfast is a rite of some importance to seasoned smokers, and Roger applied the flame to the bowl as he stood at the bottom of the stairs. He blew a great gush of strong blue reek that eddied behind him as he ran up the flight, his mind eagerly meditating the congenial task of arranging the little spare room for the coming employee. Then, at the top of the steps, he found that his pipe had already gone out. "What with filling my pipe and emptying it, lighting it and relighting it," he thought, "I don't seem to get much time for the serious concerns of life. Come to think of it, smoking, soiling dishes and washing them, talking and listening to other people talk, take up most of life anyway." This theory rather pleased him, so he ran downstairs again to tell it to Mrs. Mifflin. "Go along and get that room fixed up," she said, "and don't try to palm off any bogus doctrines on me so early in the morning. Housewives have no time for philosophy after breakfast." Roger thoroughly enjoyed himself in the task of preparing the guest-room for the new assistant. It was a small chamber at the back of the second storey, opening on to a narrow passage that connected through a door with the gallery of the bookshop. Two small windows commanded a view of the modest roofs of that quarter of Brooklyn, roofs that conceal so many brave hearts, so many baby carriages, so many cups of bad coffee, and so many cartons of the Chapman prunes. "By the way," he called downstairs, "better have some of the prunes for supper to-night, just as a compliment to Miss Chapman." Mrs. Mifflin preserved a humorous silence. Over these noncommittal summits the bright eye of the bookseller, as he tacked up the freshly ironed muslin curtains Mrs. Mifflin had allotted, could discern a glimpse of the bay and the leviathan ferries that link Staten Island with civilization. "Just a touch of romance in the outlook," he thought to himself. "It will suffice to keep a blasee young girl aware of the excitements of existence." The room, as might be expected in a house presided over by Helen Mifflin, was in perfect order to receive any occupant, but Roger had volunteered to psychologize it in such a fashion as (he thought) would convey favourable influences to the misguided young spirit that was to be its tenant. Incurable idealist, he had taken quite gravely his responsibility as landlord and employer of Mr. Chapman's daughter. No chambered nautilus was to have better opportunity to expand the tender mansions of its soul. Beside the bed was a bookshelf with a reading lamp. The problem Roger was discussing was what books and pictures might be the best preachers to this congregation of one. To Mrs. Mifflin's secret amusement he had taken down the picture of Sir Galahad which he had once hung there, because (as he had said) if Sir Galahad were living to-day he would be a bookseller. "We don't want her feasting her imagination on young Galahads," he had remarked at breakfast. "That way lies premature matrimony. What I want to do is put up in her room one or two good prints representing actual men who were so delightful in their day that all the young men she is likely to see now will seem tepid and prehensile. Thus she will become disgusted with the present generation of youths and there will be some chance of her really putting her mind on the book business." Accordingly he had spent some time in going through a bin where he kept photos and drawings of authors that the publishers' "publicity men" were always showering upon him. After some thought he discarded promising engravings of Harold Bell Wright and Stephen Leacock, and chose pictures of Shelley, Anthony Trollope, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Robert Burns. Then, after further meditation, he decided that neither Shelley nor Burns would quite do for a young girl's room, and set them aside in favour of a portrait of Samuel Butler. To these he added a framed text that he was very fond of and had hung over his own desk. He had once clipped it from a copy of Life and found much pleasure in it. It runs thus: ON THE RETURN OF A BOOK LENT TO A FRIEND I GIVE humble and hearty thanks for the safe return of this book which having endured the perils of my friend's bookcase, and the bookcases of my friend's friends, now returns to me in reasonably good condition. I GIVE humble and hearty thanks that my friend did not see fit to give this book to his infant as a plaything, nor use it as an ash-tray for his burning cigar, nor as a teething-ring for his mastiff. WHEN I lent this book I deemed it as lost: I was resigned to the bitterness of the long parting: I never thought to look upon its pages again. BUT NOW that my book is come back to me, I rejoice and am exceeding glad! Bring hither the fatted morocco and let us rebind the volume and set it on the shelf of honour: for this my book was lent, and is returned again. PRESENTLY, therefore, I may return some of the books that I myself have borrowed. "There!" he thought. "That will convey to her the first element of book morality." These decorations having been displayed on the walls, he bethought himself of the books that should stand on the bedside shelf. This is a question that admits of the utmost nicety of discussion. Some authorities hold that the proper books for a guest-room are of a soporific quality that will induce swift and painless repose. This school advises The Wealth of Nations, Rome under the Caesars, The Statesman's Year Book, certain novels of Henry James, and The Letters of Queen Victoria (in three volumes). It is plausibly contended that books of this kind cannot be read (late at night) for more than a few minutes at a time, and that they afford useful scraps of information. Another branch of opinion recommends for bedtime reading short stories, volumes of pithy anecdote, swift and sparkling stuff that may keep one awake for a space, yet will advantage all the sweeter slumber in the end. Even ghost stories and harrowing matter are maintained seasonable by these pundits. This class of reading comprises O. Henry, Bret Harte, Leonard Merrick, Ambrose Bierce, W. W. Jacobs, Daudet, de Maupassant, and possibly even On a Slow Train Through Arkansaw, that grievous classic of the railway bookstalls whereof its author, Mr. Thomas W. Jackson, has said "It will sell forever, and a thousand years afterward." To this might be added another of Mr. Jackson's onslaughts on the human intelligence, I'm From Texas, You Can't Steer Me, whereof is said (by the author) "It is like a hard-boiled egg, you can't beat it." There are other of Mr. Jackson's books, whose titles escape memory, whereof he has said "They are a dynamite for sorrow." Nothing used to annoy Mifflin more than to have someone come in and ask for copies of these works. His brother-in-law, Andrew McGill, the writer, once gave him for Christmas (just to annoy him) a copy of On a Slow Train Through Arkansaw sumptuously bound and gilded in what is known to the trade as "dove-coloured ooze." Roger retorted by sending Andrew (for his next birthday) two volumes of Brann the Iconoclast bound in what Robert Cortes Holliday calls "embossed toadskin." But that is apart from the story. To the consideration of what to put on Miss Titania's bookshelf Roger devoted the delighted hours of the morning. Several times Helen called him to come down and attend to the shop, but he was sitting on the floor, unaware of numbed shins, poring over the volumes he had carted upstairs for a final culling. "It will be a great privilege," he said to himself, "to have a young mind to experiment with. Now my wife, delightful creature though she is, was--well, distinctly mature when I had the good fortune to meet her; I have never been able properly to supervise her mental processes. But this Chapman girl will come to us wholly unlettered. Her father said she had been to a fashionable school: that surely is a guarantee that the delicate tendrils of her mind have never begun to sprout. I will test her (without her knowing it) by the books I put here for her. By noting which of them she responds to, I will know how to proceed. It might be worth while to shut up the shop one day a week in order to give her some brief talks on literature. Delightful! Let me see, a little series of talks on the development of the English novel, beginning with Tom Jones--hum, that would hardly do! Well, I have always longed to be a teacher, this looks like a chance to begin. We might invite some of the neighbours to send in their children once a week, and start a little school. Causeries du lundi, in fact! Who knows I may yet be the Sainte Beuve of Brooklyn." Across his mind flashed a vision of newspaper clippings--"This remarkable student of letters, who hides his brilliant parts under the unassuming existence of a second-hand bookseller, is now recognized as the----" "Roger!" called Mrs. Mifflin from downstairs: "Front! someone wants to know if you keep back numbers of Foamy Stories." After he had thrown out the intruder, Roger returned to his meditation. "This selection," he mused, "is of course only tentative. It is to act as a preliminary test, to see what sort of thing interests her. First of all, her name naturally suggests Shakespeare and the Elizabethans. It's a remarkable name, Titania Chapman: there must be great virtue in prunes! Let's begin with a volume of Christopher Marlowe. Then Keats, I guess: every young person ought to shiver over St. Agnes' Eve on a bright cold winter evening. Over Bemerton's, certainly, because it's a bookshop story. Eugene Field's Tribune Primer to try out her sense of humour. And Archy, by all means, for the same reason. I'll go down and get the Archy scrapbook." It should be explained that Roger was a keen admirer of Don Marquis, the humourist of the New York Evening Sun. Mr. Marquis once lived in Brooklyn, and the bookseller was never tired of saying that he was the most eminent author who had graced the borough since the days of Walt Whitman. Archy, the imaginary cockroach whom Mr. Marquis uses as a vehicle for so much excellent fun, was a constant delight to Roger, and he had kept a scrapbook of all Archy's clippings. This bulky tome he now brought out from the grotto by his desk where his particular treasures were kept. He ran his eye over it, and Mrs. Mifflin heard him utter shrill screams of laughter. "What on earth is it?" she asked. "Only Archy," he said, and began to read aloud-- down in a wine vault underneath the city two old men were sitting they were drinking booze torn were their garments hair and beards were gritty one had an overcoat but hardly any shoes overhead the street cars through the streets were running filled with happy people going home to christmas in the adirondacks the hunters all were gunning big ships were sailing down by the isthmus in came a little tot for to kiss her granny such a little totty she could scarcely tottle saying kiss me grandpa kiss your little nanny but the old man beaned her with a whisky bottle. outside the snowflakes began for to flutter far at sea the ships were sailing with the seamen not another word did angel nanny utter her grandsire chuckled and pledged the whisky demon up spake the second man he was worn and weary tears washed his face which otherwise was pasty she loved her parents who commuted on the erie brother im afraid you struck a trifle hasty she came to see you all her pretty duds on bringing christmas posies from her mothers garden riding in the tunnel underneath the hudson brother was it rum caused your heart to harden---- "What on earth is there funny in that?" said Mrs. Mifflin. "Poor little lamb, I think it was terrible." "There's more of it," cried Roger, and opened his mouth to continue. "No more, thank you," said Helen. "There ought to be a fine for using the meter of Love in the Valley that way. I'm going out to market so if the bell rings you'll have to answer it." Roger added the Archy scrapbook to Miss Titania's shelf, and went on browsing over the volumes he had collected. "The Nigger of the Narcissus," he said to himself, "for even if she doesn't read the story perhaps she'll read the preface, which not marble nor the monuments of princes will outlive. Dickens' Christmas Stories to introduce her to Mrs. Lirriper, the queen of landladies. Publishers tell me that Norfolk Street, Strand, is best known for the famous literary agent that has his office there, but I wonder how many of them know that that was where Mrs. Lirriper had her immortal lodgings? The Notebooks of Samuel Butler, just to give her a little intellectual jazz. The Wrong Box, because it's the best farce in the language. Travels with a Donkey, to show her what good writing is like. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to give her a sense of pity for human woes--wait a minute, though: that's a pretty broad book for young ladies. I guess we'll put it aside and see what else there is. Some of Mr. Mosher's catalogues: fine! they'll show her the true spirit of what one book-lover calls biblio-bliss. Walking-Stick Papers--yes, there are still good essayists running around. A bound file of The Publishers' Weekly to give her a smack of trade matters. Jo's Boys in case she needs a little relaxation. The Lays of Ancient Rome and Austin Dobson to show her some good poetry. I wonder if they give them The Lays to read in school nowadays? I have a horrible fear they are brought up on the battle of Salamis and the brutal redcoats of '76. And now we'll be exceptionally subtle: we'll stick in a Robert Chambers to see if she falls for it." He viewed the shelf with pride. "Not bad," he said to himself. "I'll just add this Leonard Merrick, Whispers about Women, to amuse her. I bet that title will start her guessing. Helen will say I ought to have included the Bible, but I'll omit it on purpose, just to see whether the girl misses it." With typical male curiosity he pulled out the bureau drawers to see what disposition his wife had made of them, and was pleased to find a little muslin bag of lavender dispersing a quiet fragrance in each. "Very nice," he remarked. "Very nice indeed! About the only thing missing is an ashtray. If Miss Titania is as modern as some of them, that'll be the first thing she'll call for. And maybe a copy of Ezra Pound's poems. I do hope she's not what Helen calls a bolshevixen." There was nothing bolshevik about a glittering limousine that drew up at the corner of Gissing and Swinburne streets early that afternoon. A chauffeur in green livery opened the door, lifted out a suitcase of beautiful brown leather, and gave a respectful hand to the vision that emerged from depths of lilac-coloured upholstery. "Where do you want me to carry the bag, miss?" "This is the bitter parting," replied Miss Titania. "I don't want you to know my address, Edwards. Some of my mad friends might worm it out of you, and I don't want them coming down and bothering me. I am going to be very busy with literature. I'll walk the rest of the way." Edwards saluted with a grin--he worshipped the original young heiress--and returned to his wheel. "There's one thing I want you to do for me," said Titania. "Call up my father and tell him I'm on the job." "Yes, miss," said Edwards, who would have run the limousine into a government motor truck if she had ordered it. Miss Chapman's small gloved hand descended into an interesting purse that was cuffed to her wrist with a bright little chain. She drew out a nickel--it was characteristic of her that it was a very bright and engaging looking nickel--and handed it gravely to her charioteer. Equally gravely he saluted, and the car, after moving through certain dignified arcs, swam swiftly away down Thackeray Boulevard. Titania, after making sure that Edwards was out of sight, turned up Gissing Street with a fluent pace and an observant eye. A small boy cried, "Carry your bag, lady?" and she was about to agree, but then remembered that she was now engaged at ten dollars a week and waved him away. Our readers would feel a justifiable grudge if we did not attempt a description of the young lady, and we will employ the few blocks of her course along Gissing Street for this purpose. Walking behind her, the observer, by the time she had reached Clemens Place, would have seen that she was faultlessly tailored in genial tweeds; that her small brown boots were sheltered by spats of that pale tan complexion exhibited by Pullman porters on the Pennsylvania Railroad; that her person was both slender and vigorous; that her shoulders were carrying a sumptuous fur of the colour described by the trade as nutria, or possibly opal smoke. The word chinchilla would have occurred irresistibly to this observer from behind; he might also, if he were the father of a family, have had a fleeting vision of many autographed stubs in a check book. The general impression that he would have retained, had he turned aside at Clemens Place, would be "expensive, but worth the expense." It is more likely, however, that the student of phenomena would have continued along Gissing Street to the next corner, being that of Hazlitt Street. Taking advantage of opportunity, he would overtake the lady on the pavement, with a secret, sidelong glance. If he were wise, he would pass her on the right side where her tilted bonnet permitted a wider angle of vision. He would catch a glimpse of cheek and chin belonging to the category known (and rightly) as adorable; hair that held sunlight through the dullest day; even a small platinum wrist watch that might pardonably be excused, in its exhilarating career, for beating a trifle fast. Among the greyish furs he would note a bunch of such violets as never bloom in the crude springtime, but reserve themselves for November and the plate glass windows of Fifth Avenue. It is probable that whatever the errand of this spectator he would have continued along Gissing Street a few paces farther. Then, with calculated innocence, he would have halted halfway up the block that leads to the Wordsworth Avenue "L," and looked backward with carefully simulated irresolution, as though considering some forgotten matter. With apparently unseeing eyes he would have scanned the bright pedestrian, and caught the full impact of her rich blue gaze. He would have seen a small resolute face rather vivacious in effect, yet with a quaint pathos of youth and eagerness. He would have noted the cheeks lit with excitement and rapid movement in the bracing air. He would certainly have noted the delicate contrast of the fur of the wild nutria with the soft V of her bare throat. Then, to his surprise, he would have seen this attractive person stop, examine her surroundings, and run down some steps into a rather dingy-looking second-hand bookshop. He would have gone about his affairs with a new and surprised conviction that the Almighty had the borough of Brooklyn under His especial care. Roger, who had conceived a notion of some rather peevish foundling of the Ritz-Carlton lobbies and Central Park riding academies, was agreeably amazed by the sweet simplicity of the young lady. "Is this Mr. Mifflin?" she said, as he advanced all agog from his smoky corner. "Miss Chapman?" he replied, taking her bag. "Helen!" he called. "Miss Titania is here." She looked about the sombre alcoves of the shop. "I do think it's adorable of you to take me in," she said. "Dad has told me so much about you. He says I'm impossible. I suppose this is the literature he talks about. I want to know all about it." "And here's Bock!" she cried. "Dad says he's the greatest dog in the world, named after Botticelli or somebody. I've brought him a present. It's in my bag. Nice old Bocky!" Bock, who was unaccustomed to spats, was examining them after his own fashion. "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Mifflin. "We are delighted to see you. I hope you'll be happy with us, but I rather doubt it. Mr. Mifflin is a hard man to get along with." "Oh, I'm sure of it!" cried Titania. "I mean, I'm sure I shall be happy! You mustn't believe a word of what Dad says about me. I'm crazy about books. I don't see how you can bear to sell them. I brought these violets for you, Mrs. Mifflin." "How perfectly sweet of you," said Helen, captivated already. "Come along, we'll put them right in water. I'll show you your room." Roger heard them moving about overhead. It suddenly occurred to him that the shop was rather a dingy place for a young girl. "I wish I had thought to get in a cash register," he mused. "She'll think I'm terribly unbusiness-like." "Now," said Mrs. Mifflin, as she and Titania came downstairs again, "I'm making some pastry, so I'm going to turn you over to your employer. He can show you round the shop and tell you where all the books are." "Before we begin," said Titania, "just let me give Bock his present." She showed a large package of tissue paper and, unwinding innumerable layers, finally disclosed a stalwart bone. "I was lunching at Sherry's, and I made the head waiter give me this. He was awfully amused." "Come along into the kitchen and give it to him," said Helen. "He'll be your friend for life." "What an adorable kennel!" cried Titania, when she saw the remodelled packing-case that served Bock as a retreat. The bookseller's ingenious carpentry had built it into the similitude of a Carnegie library, with the sign READING-ROOM over the door; and he had painted imitation book-shelves along the interior. "You'll get used to Mr. Mifflin after a while," said Helen amusedly. "He spent all one winter getting that kennel fixed to his liking. You might have thought he was going to live in it instead of Bock. All the titles that he painted in there are books that have dogs in them, and a lot of them he made up." Titania insisted on getting down to peer inside. Bock was much flattered at this attention from the new planet that had swum into his kennel. "Gracious!" she said, "here's 'The Rubaiyat of Omar Canine.' I do think that's clever!" "Oh, there are a lot more," said Helen. "The works of Bonar Law, and Bohn's 'Classics,' and 'Catechisms on Dogma' and goodness knows what. If Roger paid half as much attention to business as he does to jokes of that sort, we'd be rich. Now, you run along and have a look at the shop." Titania found the bookseller at his desk. "Here I am, Mr. Mifflin," she said. "See, I brought a nice sharp pencil along with me to make out sales slips. I've been practicing sticking it in my hair. I can do it quite nicely now. I hope you have some of those big red books with all the carbon paper in them and everything. I've been watching the girls up at Lord and Taylor's make them out, and I think they're fascinating. And you must teach me to run the elevator. I'm awfully keen about elevators." "Bless me," said Roger, "You'll find this very different from Lord and Taylor's! We haven't any elevators, or any sales slips, or even a cash register. We don't wait on customers unless they ask us to. They come in and browse round, and if they find anything they want they come back here to my desk and ask about it. The price is marked in every book in red pencil. The cash-box is here on this shelf. This is the key hanging on this little hook. I enter each sale in this ledger. When you sell a book you must write it down here, and the price paid for it." "But suppose it's charged?" said Titania. "No charge accounts. Everything is cash. If someone comes in to sell books, you must refer him to me. You mustn't be surprised to see people drop in here and spend several hours reading. Lots of them look on this as a kind of club. I hope you don't mind the smell of tobacco, for almost all the men that come here smoke in the shop. You see, I put ash trays around for them." "I love tobacco smell," said Titania. "Daddy's library at home smells something like this, but not quite so strong. And I want to see the worms, bookworms you know. Daddy said you had lots of them." "You'll see them, all right," said Roger, chuckling. "They come in and out. To-morrow I'll show you how my stock is arranged. It'll take you quite a while to get familiar with it. Until then I just want you to poke around and see what there is, until you know the shelves so well you could put your hand on any given book in the dark. That's a game my wife and I used to play. We would turn off all the lights at night, and I would call out the title of a book and see how near she could come to finding it. Then I would take a turn. When we came more than six inches away from it we would have to pay a forfeit. It's great fun." "What larks we'll have," cried Titania. "I do think this is a cunning place!" "This is the bulletin board, where I put up notices about books that interest me. Here's a card I've just been writing." Roger drew from his pocket a square of cardboard and affixed it to the board with a thumbtack. Titania read: THE BOOK THAT SHOULD HAVE PREVENTED THE WAR Now that the fighting is over is a good time to read Thomas Hardy's The Dynasts. I don't want to sell it, because it is one of the greatest treasures I own. But if any one will guarantee to read all three volumes, and let them sink into his mind, I'm willing to lend them. If enough thoughtful Germans had read The Dynasts before July, 1914, there would have been no war. If every delegate to the Peace Conference could be made to read it before the sessions begin, there will be no more wars. R. MIFFLIN. "Dear me," said Titania, "Is it so good as all that? Perhaps I'd better read it." "It is so good that if I knew any way of doing so I'd insist on Mr. Wilson reading it on his voyage to France. I wish I could get it onto his ship. My, what a book! It makes one positively ill with pity and terror. Sometimes I wake up at night and look out of the window and imagine I hear Hardy laughing. I get him a little mixed up with the Deity, I fear. But he's a bit too hard for you to tackle." Titania was puzzled, and said nothing. But her busy mind made a note of its own: Hardy, hard to read, makes one ill, try it. "What did you think of the books I put in your room?" said Roger. He had vowed to wait until she made some comment unsolicited, but he could not restrain himself. "In my room?" she said. "Why, I'm sorry, I never noticed them!" Chapter IV The Disappearing Volume "Well, my dear," said Roger after supper that evening, "I think perhaps we had better introduce Miss Titania to our custom of reading aloud." "Perhaps it would bore her?" said Helen. "You know it isn't everybody that likes being read to." "Oh, I should love it!" exclaimed Titania. "I don't think anybody ever read to me, that is not since I was a child." "Suppose we leave you to look after the shop," said Helen to Roger, in a teasing mood, "and I'll take Titania out to the movies. I think Tarzan is still running." Whatever private impulses Miss Chapman may have felt, she saw by the bookseller's downcast face that a visit to Tarzan would break his heart, and she was prompt to disclaim any taste for the screen classic. "Dear me," she said; "Tarzan--that's all that nature stuff by John Burroughs; isn't it? Oh, Mrs. Mifflin, I think it would be very tedious. Let's have Mr. Mifflin read to us. I'll get down my knitting bag." "You mustn't mind being interrupted," said Helen. "When anybody rings the bell Roger has to run out and tend the shop." "You must let me do it," said Titania. "I want to earn my wages, you know." "All right," said Mrs. Mifflin; "Roger, you settle Miss Chapman in the den and give her something to look at while we do the dishes." But Roger was all on fire to begin the reading. "Why don't we postpone the dishes," he said, "just to celebrate?" "Let me help," insisted Titania. "I should think washing up would be great fun." "No, no, not on your first evening," said Helen. "Mr. Mifflin and I will finish them in a jiffy." So Roger poked up the coal fire in the den, disposed the chairs, and gave Titania a copy of Sartor Resartus to look at. He then vanished into the kitchen with his wife, whence Titania heard the cheerful clank of crockery in a dishpan and the splashing of hot water. "The best thing about washing up," she heard Roger say, "is that it makes one's hands so clean, a novel sensation for a second-hand bookseller." She gave Sartor Resartus what is graphically described as a "once over," and then seeing the morning Times lying on the table, picked it up, as she had not read it. Her eye fell upon the column headed LOST AND FOUND Fifty cents an agate line and as she had recently lost a little pearl brooch, she ran hastily through it. She chuckled a little over LOST--Hotel Imperial lavatory, set of teeth. Call or communicate Steel, 134 East 43 St. Reward, no questions asked. Then she saw this: LOST--Copy of Thomas Carlyle's "Oliver Cromwell," between Gissing Street, Brooklyn, and the Octagon Hotel. If found before midnight, Tuesday, Dec. 3, return to assistant chef, Octagon Hotel. "Why" she exclaimed, "Gissing Street--that's here! And what a funny kind of book for an assistant chef to read. No wonder their lunches have been so bad lately!" When Roger and Helen rejoined her in the den a few minutes later she showed the bookseller the advertisement. He was very much excited. "That's a funny thing," he said. "There's something queer about that book. Did I tell you about it? Last Tuesday--I know it was then because it was the evening young Gilbert was here--a man with a beard came in asking for it, and it wasn't on the shelf. Then the next night, Wednesday, I was up very late writing, and fell asleep at my desk. I must have left the front door ajar, because I was waked up by the draught, and when I went to close the door I saw the book sticking out a little beyond the others, in its usual place. And last night, when the Corn Cobs were here, I went out to look up a quotation in it, and it was gone again." "Perhaps the assistant chef stole it?" said Titania. "But if so, why the deuce would he advertise having done so?" asked Roger. "Well, if he did steal it," said Helen, "I wish him joy of it. I tried to read it once, you talked so much about it, and I found it dreadfully dull." "If he did steal it," cried the bookseller, "I'm perfectly delighted. It shows that my contention is right: people DO really care for good books. If an assistant chef is so fond of good books that he has to steal them, the world is safe for democracy. Usually the only books any one wants to steal are sheer piffle, like Making Life Worth While by Douglas Fairbanks or Mother Shipton's Book of Oracles. I don't mind a man stealing books if he steals good ones!" "You see the remarkable principles that govern this business," said Helen to Titania. They sat down by the fire and took up their knitting while the bookseller ran out to see if the volume had by any chance returned to his shelves. "Is it there?" said Helen, when he came back. "No," said Roger, and picked up the advertisement again. "I wonder why he wants it returned before midnight on Tuesday?" "So he can read it in bed, I guess," said Helen. "Perhaps he suffers from insomnia." "It's a darn shame he lost it before he had a chance to read it. I'd like to have known what he thought of it. I've got a great mind to go up and call on him." "Charge it off to profit and loss and forget about it," said Helen. "How about that reading aloud?" Roger ran his eye along his private shelves, and pulled down a well-worn volume. "Now that Thanksgiving is past," he said, "my mind always turns to Christmas, and Christmas means Charles Dickens. My dear, would it bore you if we had a go at the old Christmas Stories?" Mrs. Mifflin held up her hands in mock dismay. "He reads them to me every year at this time," she said to Titania. "Still, they're worth it. I know good old Mrs. Lirriper better than I do most of my friends." "What is it, the Christmas Carol?" said Titania. "We had to read that in school." "No," said Roger; "the other stories, infinitely better. Everybody gets the Carol dinned into them until they're weary of it, but no one nowadays seems to read the others. I tell you, Christmas wouldn't be Christmas to me if I didn't read these tales over again every year. How homesick they make one for the good old days of real inns and real beefsteak and real ale drawn in pewter. My dears, sometimes when I am reading Dickens I get a vision of rare sirloin with floury boiled potatoes and plenty of horse-radish, set on a shining cloth not far from a blaze of English coal----" "He's an incorrigible visionary," said Mrs. Mifflin. "To hear him talk you might think no one had had a square meal since Dickens died. You might think that all landladies died with Mrs. Lirriper." "Very ungrateful of him," said Titania. "I'm sure I couldn't ask for better potatoes, or a nicer hostess, than I've found in Brooklyn." "Well, well," said Roger. "You are right, of course. And yet something went out of the world when Victorian England vanished, something that will never come again. Take the stagecoach drivers, for instance. What a racy, human type they were! And what have we now to compare with them? Subway guards? Taxicab drivers? I have hung around many an all-night lunchroom to hear the chauffeurs talk. But they are too much on the move, you can't get the picture of them the way Dickens could of his types. You can't catch that sort of thing in a snapshot, you know: you have to have a time exposure. I'll grant you, though, that lunchroom food is mighty good. The best place to eat is always a counter where the chauffeurs congregate. They get awfully hungry, you see, driving round in the cold, and when they want food they want it hot and tasty. There's a little hash-alley called Frank's, up on Broadway near 77th, where I guess the ham and eggs and French fried is as good as any Mr. Pickwick ever ate." "I must get Edwards to take me there," said Titania. "Edwards is our chauffeur. I've been to the Ansonia for tea, that's near there." "Better keep away," said Helen. "When Roger comes home from those places he smells so strong of onions it brings tears to my eyes." "We've just been talking about an assistant chef," said Roger; "that suggests that I read you Somebody's Luggage, which is all about a head waiter. I have often wished I could get a job as a waiter or a bus boy, just to learn if there really are any such head waiters nowadays. You know there are all sorts of jobs I'd like to have, just to fructify my knowledge of human nature and find out whether life is really as good as literature. I'd love to be a waiter, a barber, a floorwalker----" "Roger, my dear," said Helen, "why don't you get on with the reading?" Roger knocked out his pipe, turned Bock out of his chair, and sat down with infinite relish to read the memorable character sketch of Christopher, the head waiter, which is dear to every lover of taverns. "The writer of these humble lines being a Waiter," he began. The knitting needles flashed with diligence, and the dog by the fender stretched himself out in the luxuriant vacancy of mind only known to dogs surrounded by a happy group of their friends. And Roger, enjoying himself enormously, and particularly pleased by the chuckles of his audience, was approaching the ever-delightful items of the coffee-room bill which is to be found about ten pages on in the first chapter--how sad it is that hotel bills are not so rendered in these times--when the bell in the shop clanged. Picking up his pipe and matchbox, and grumbling "It's always the way," he hurried out of the room. He was agreeably surprised to find that his caller was the young advertising man, Aubrey Gilbert. "Hullo!" he said. "I've been saving something for you. It's a quotation from Joseph Conrad about advertising." "Good enough," said Aubrey. "And I've got something for you. You were so nice to me the other evening I took the liberty of bringing you round some tobacco. Here's a tin of Blue-Eyed Mixture, it's my favourite. I hope you'll like it." "Bully for you. Perhaps I ought to let you off the Conrad quotation since you're so kind." "Not a bit. I suppose it's a knock. Shoot!" The bookseller led the way back to his desk, where he rummaged among the litter and finally found a scrap of paper on which he had written: Being myself animated by feelings of affection toward my fellowmen, I am saddened by the modern system of advertising. Whatever evidence it offers of enterprise, ingenuity, impudence, and resource in certain individuals, it proves to my mind the wide prevalence of that form of mental degradation which is called gullibility. JOSEPH CONRAD. "What do you think of that?" said Roger. "You'll find that in the story called The Anarchist." "I think less than nothing of it," said Aubrey. "As your friend Don Marquis observed the other evening, an idea isn't always to be blamed for the people who believe in it. Mr. Conrad has been reading some quack ads, that's all. Because there are fake ads, that doesn't condemn the principle of Publicity. But look here, what I really came round to see you for is to show you this. It was in the Times this morning." He pulled out of his pocket a clipping of the LOST insertion to which Roger's attention had already been drawn. "Yes, I've just seen it," said Roger. "I missed the book from my shelves, and I believe someone must have stolen it." "Well, now, I want to tell you something," said Aubrey. "To-night I had dinner at the Octagon with Mr. Chapman." "Is that so?" said Roger. "You know his daughter's here now." "So he told me. It's rather interesting how it all works out. You see, after you told me the other day that Miss Chapman was coming to work for you, that gave me an idea. I knew her father would be specially interested in Brooklyn, on that account, and it suggested to me an idea for a window-display campaign here in Brooklyn for the Daintybits Products. You know we handle all his sales promotion campaigns. Of course I didn't let on that I knew about his daughter coming over here, but he told me about it himself in the course of our talk. Well, here's what I'm getting at. We had dinner in the Czecho-Slovak Grill, up on the fourteenth floor, and going up in the elevator I saw a man in a chef's uniform carrying a book. I looked over his shoulder to see what it was. I thought of course it would be a cook-book. It was a copy of Oliver Cromwell." "So he found it again, eh? I must go and have a talk with that chap. If he's a Carlyle fan I'd like to know him." "Wait a minute. I had seen the LOST ad in the paper this morning, because I always look over that column. Often it gives me ideas for advertising stunts. If you keep an eye on the things people are anxious to get back, you know what they really prize, and if you know what they prize you can get a line on what goods ought to be advertised more extensively. This was the first time I had ever noticed a LOST ad for a book, so I thought to myself "the book business is coming up." Well, when I saw the chef with the book in his hand, I said to him jokingly, "I see you found it again." He was a foreign-looking fellow, with a big beard, which is unusual for a chef, because I suppose it's likely to get in the soup. He looked at me as though I'd run a carving knife into him, almost scared me the way he looked. "Yes, yes," he said, and shoved the book out of sight under his arm. He seemed half angry and half frightened, so I thought maybe he had no right to be riding in the passenger elevator and was scared someone would report him to the manager. Just as we were getting to the fourteenth floor I said to him in a whisper, "It's all right, old chap, I'm not going to report you." I give you my word he looked more scared than before. He went quite white. I got off at the fourteenth, and he followed me out. I thought he was going to speak to me, but Mr. Chapman was there in the lobby, and he didn't have a chance. But I noticed that he watched me into the grill room as though I was his last chance of salvation." "I guess the poor devil was scared you'd report him to the police for stealing the book," said Roger. "Never mind, let him have it." "Did he steal it?" "I haven't a notion. But somebody did, because it disappeared from here." "Well, now, wait a minute. Here's the queer part of it. I didn't think anything more about it, except that it was a funny coincidence my seeing him after having noticed that ad in the paper. I had a long talk with Mr. Chapman, and we discussed some plans for a prune and Saratoga chip campaign, and I showed him some suggested copy I had prepared. Then he told me about his daughter, and I let on that I knew you. I left the Octagon about eight o'clock, and I thought I'd run over here on the subway just to show you the LOST notice and give you this tobacco. And when I got off the subway at Atlantic Avenue, who should I see but friend chef again. He got off the same train I did. He had on civilian clothes then, of course, and when he was out of his white uniform and pancake hat I recognized him right off. Who do you suppose it was?" "Can't imagine," said Roger, highly interested by this time. "Why, the professor-looking guy who came in to ask for the book the first night I was here." "Humph! Well, he must be keen about Carlyle, because he was horribly disappointed that evening when he asked for the book and I couldn't find it. I remember how he insisted that I MUST have it, and I hunted all through the History shelves to make sure it hadn't got misplaced. He said that some friend of his had seen it here, and he had come right round to buy it. I told him he could certainly get a copy at the Public Library, and he said that wouldn't do at all." "Well, I think he's nuts," said Aubrey, "because I'm damn sure he followed me down the street after I left the subway. I stopped in at the drug store on the corner to get some matches, and when I came out, there he was underneath the lamp-post." "If it was a modern author, instead of Carlyle," said Roger, "I'd say it was some publicity stunt pulled off by the publishers. You know they go to all manner of queer dodges to get an author's name in print. But Carlyle's copyrights expired long ago, so I don't see the game." "I guess he's picketing your place to try and steal the formula for eggs Samuel Butler," said Aubrey, and they both laughed. "You'd better come in and meet my wife and Miss Chapman," said Roger. The young man made some feeble demur, but it was obvious to the bookseller that he was vastly elated at the idea of making Miss Chapman's acquaintance. "Here's a friend of mine," said Roger, ushering Aubrey into the little room where Helen and Titania were still sitting by the fire. "Mrs. Mifflin, Mr. Aubrey Gilbert, Miss Chapman, Mr. Gilbert." Aubrey was vaguely aware of the rows of books, of the shining coals, of the buxom hostess and the friendly terrier; but with the intense focus of an intelligent young male mind these were all merely appurtenances to the congenial spectacle of the employee. How quickly a young man's senses assemble and assimilate the data that are really relevant! Without seeming even to look in that direction he had performed the most amazing feat of lightning calculation known to the human faculties. He had added up all the young ladies of his acquaintance, and found the sum total less than the girl before him. He had subtracted the new phenomenon from the universe as he knew it, including the solar system and the advertising business, and found the remainder a minus quantity. He had multiplied the contents of his intellect by a factor he had no reason to assume "constant," and was startled at what teachers call (I believe) the "product." And he had divided what was in the left-hand armchair into his own career, and found no room for a quotient. All of which transpired in the length of time necessary for Roger to push forward another chair. With the politeness desirable in a well-bred youth, Aubrey's first instinct was to make himself square with the hostess. Resolutely he occluded blue eyes, silk shirtwaist, and admirable chin from his mental vision. "It's awfully good of you to let me come in," he said to Mrs. Mifflin. "I was here the other evening and Mr. Mifflin insisted on my staying to supper with him." "I'm very glad to see you," said Helen. "Roger told me about you. I hope he didn't poison you with any of his outlandish dishes. Wait till he tries you with brandied peaches a la Harold Bell Wright." Aubrey uttered some genial reassurance, still making the supreme sacrifice of keeping his eyes away from where (he felt) they belonged. "Mr. Gilbert has just had a queer experience," said Roger. "Tell them about it." In the most reckless way, Aubrey permitted himself to be impaled upon a direct and interested flash of blue lightning. "I was having dinner with your father at the Octagon." The high tension voltage of that bright blue current felt like ohm sweet ohm, but Aubrey dared not risk too much of it at once. Fearing to blow out a fuse, he turned in panic to Mrs. Mifflin. "You see," he explained, "I write a good deal of Mr. Chapman's advertising for him. We had an appointment to discuss some business matters. We're planning a big barrage on prunes." "Dad works much too hard, don't you think?" said Titania. Aubrey welcomed this as a pleasant avenue of discussion leading into the parkland of Miss Chapman's family affairs; but Roger insisted on his telling the story of the chef and the copy of Cromwell. "And he followed you here?" exclaimed Titania. "What fun! I had no idea the book business was so exciting." "Better lock the door to-night, Roger," said Mrs. Mifflin, "or he may walk off with a set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica." "Why, my dear," said Roger, "I think this is grand news. Here's a man, in a humble walk of life, so keen about good books that he even pickets a bookstore on the chance of swiping some. It's the most encouraging thing I've ever heard of. I must write to the Publishers' Weekly about it." "Well," said Aubrey, "you mustn't let me interrupt your little party." "You're not interrupting," said Roger. "We were only reading aloud. Do you know Dickens' Christmas Stories?" "I'm afraid I don't." "Suppose we go on reading, shall we?" "Please do." "Yes, do go on," said Titania. "Mr. Mifflin was just reading about a most adorable head waiter in a London chop house." Aubrey begged permission to light his pipe, and Roger picked up the book. "But before we read the items of the coffee-room bill," he said, "I think it only right that we should have a little refreshment. This passage should never be read without something to accompany it. My dear, what do you say to a glass of sherry all round?" "It is sad to have to confess it," said Mrs. Mifflin to Titania, "Mr. Mifflin can never read Dickens without having something to drink. I think the sale of Dickens will fall off terribly when prohibition comes in." "I once took the trouble to compile a list of the amount of liquor drunk in Dickens' works," said Roger, "and I assure you the total was astounding: 7,000 hogsheads, I believe it was. Calculations of that sort are great fun. I have always intended to write a little essay on the rainstorms in the stories of Robert Louis Stevenson. You see R. L. S. was a Scot, and well acquainted with wet weather. Excuse me a moment, I'll just run down cellar and get up a bottle." Roger left the room, and they heard his steps passing down into the cellar. Bock, after the manner of dogs, followed him. The smells of cellars are a rare treat to dogs, especially ancient Brooklyn cellars which have a cachet all their own. The cellar of the Haunted Bookshop was, to Bock, a fascinating place, illuminated by a warm glow from the furnace, and piled high with split packing-cases which Roger used as kindling. From below came the rasp of a shovel among coal, and the clear, musical slither as the lumps were thrown from the iron scoop onto the fire. Just then the bell rang in the shop. "Let me go," said Titania, jumping up. "Can't I?" said Aubrey. "Nonsense!" said Mrs. Mifflin, laying down her knitting. "Neither of you knows anything about the stock. Sit down and be comfortable. I'll be right back." Aubrey and Titania looked at each other with a touch of embarrassment. "Your father sent you his--his kind regards," said Aubrey. That was not what he had intended to say, but somehow he could not utter the word. "He said not to read all the books at once." Titania laughed. "How funny that you should run into him just when you were coming here. He's a duck, isn't he?" "Well, you see I only know him in a business way, but he certainly is a corker. He believes in advertising, too." "Are you crazy about books?" "Why, I never really had very much to do with them. I'm afraid you'll think I'm terribly ignorant----" "Not at all. I'm awfully glad to meet someone who doesn't think it's a crime not to have read all the books there are." "This is a queer kind of place, isn't it?" "Yes, it's a funny idea to call it the Haunted Bookshop. I wonder what it means." "Mr. Mifflin told me it meant haunted by the ghosts of great literature. I hope they won't annoy you. The ghost of Thomas Carlyle seems to be pretty active." "I'm not afraid of ghosts," said Titania. Aubrey gazed at the fire. He wanted to say that he intended from now on to do a little haunting on his own account but he did not know just how to break it gently. And then Roger returned from the cellar with the bottle of sherry. As he was uncorking it, they heard the shop door close, and Mrs. Mifflin came in. "Well, Roger," she said; "if you think so much of your old Cromwell, you'd better keep it in here. Here it is." She laid the book on the table. "For the love of Mike!" exclaimed Roger. "Who brought it back?" "I guess it was your friend the assistant chef," said Mrs. Mifflin. "Anyway, he had a beard like a Christmas tree. He was mighty polite. He said he was terribly absent minded, and that the other day he was in here looking at some books and just walked off with it without knowing what he was doing. He offered to pay for the trouble he had caused, but of course I wouldn't let him. I asked if he wanted to see you, but he said he was in a hurry." "I'm almost disappointed," said Roger. "I thought that I had turned up a real booklover. Here we are, all hands drink the health of Mr. Thomas Carlyle." The toast was drunk, and they settled themselves in their chairs. "And here's to the new employee," said Helen. This also was dispatched, Aubrey draining his glass with a zeal which did not escape Miss Chapman's discerning eye. Roger then put out his hand for the Dickens. But first he picked up his beloved Cromwell. He looked at it carefully, and then held the volume close to the light. "The mystery's not over yet," he said. "It's been rebound. This isn't the original binding." "Are you sure?" said Helen in surprise. "It looks the same." "The binding has been cleverly imitated, but it can't fool me. In the first place, there was a rubbed corner at the top; and there was an ink stain on one of the end papers." "There's still a stain there," said Aubrey, looking over his shoulder. "Yes, but not the same stain. I've had that book long enough to know it by heart. Now what the deuce would that lunatic want to have it rebound for?" "Goodness gracious," said Helen, "put it away and forget about it. We'll all be dreaming about Carlyle if you're not careful." Chapter V Aubrey Walks Part Way Home--and Rides The Rest of the Way It was a cold, clear night as Mr. Aubrey Gilbert left the Haunted Bookshop that evening, and set out to walk homeward. Without making a very conscious choice, he felt instinctively that it would be agreeable to walk back to Manhattan rather than permit the roaring disillusion of the subway to break in upon his meditations. It is to be feared that Aubrey would have badly flunked any quizzing on the chapters of Somebody's Luggage which the bookseller had read aloud. His mind was swimming rapidly in the agreeable, unfettered fashion of a stream rippling downhill. As O. Henry puts it in one of his most delightful stories: "He was outwardly decent and managed to preserve his aquarium, but inside he was impromptu and full of unexpectedness." To say that he was thinking of Miss Chapman would imply too much power of ratiocination and abstract scrutiny on his part. He was not thinking: he was being thought. Down the accustomed channels of his intellect he felt his mind ebbing with the irresistible movement of tides drawn by the blandishing moon. And across these shimmering estuaries of impulse his will, a lost and naked athlete, was painfully attempting to swim, but making much leeway and already almost resigned to being carried out to sea. He stopped a moment at Weintraub's drug store, on the corner of Gissing Street and Wordsworth Avenue, to buy some cigarettes, unfailing solace of an agitated bosom. It was the usual old-fashioned pharmacy of those parts of Brooklyn: tall red, green, and blue vases of liquid in the windows threw blotches of coloured light onto the pavement; on the panes was affixed white china lettering: H. WE TRAUB, DEUT CHE APOTHEKER. Inside, the customary shelves of labelled jars, glass cases holding cigars, nostrums and toilet knick-knacks, and in one corner an ancient revolving bookcase deposited long ago by the Tabard Inn Library. The shop was empty, but as he opened the door a bell buzzed sharply. In a back chamber he could hear voices. As he waited idly for the druggist to appear, Aubrey cast a tolerant eye over the dusty volumes in the twirling case. There were the usual copies of Harold MacGrath's The Man on the Box, A Girl of the Limberlost, and The Houseboat on the Styx. The Divine Fire, much grimed, leaned against Joe Chapple's Heart Throbs. Those familiar with the Tabard Inn bookcases still to be found in outlying drug-shops know that the stock has not been "turned" for many a year. Aubrey was the more surprised, on spinning the the case round, to find wedged in between two other volumes the empty cover of a book that had been torn loose from the pages to which it belonged. He glanced at the lettering on the back. It ran thus: CARLYLE ---- OLIVER CROMWELL'S LETTERS AND SPEECHES Obeying a sudden impulse, he slipped the book cover in his overcoat pocket. Mr. Weintraub entered the shop, a solid Teutonic person with discoloured pouches under his eyes and a face that was a potent argument for prohibition. His manner, however, was that of one anxious to please. Aubrey indicated the brand of cigarettes he wanted. Having himself coined the advertising catchword for them--They're mild--but they satisfy--he felt a certain loyal compulsion always to smoke this kind. The druggist held out the packet, and Aubrey noticed that his fingers were stained a deep saffron colour. "I see you're a cigarette smoker, too," said Aubrey pleasantly, as he opened the packet and lit one of the paper tubes at a little alcohol flame burning in a globe of blue glass on the counter. "Me? I never smoke," said Mr. Weintraub, with a smile which somehow did not seem to fit his surly face. "I must have steady nerves in my profession. Apothecaries who smoke make up bad prescriptions." "Well, how do you get your hands stained that way?" Mr. Weintraub removed his hands from the counter. "Chemicals," he grunted. "Prescriptions--all that sort of thing." "Well," said Aubrey, "smoking's a bad habit. I guess I do too much of it." He could not resist the impression that someone was listening to their talk. The doorway at the back of the shop was veiled by a portiere of beads and thin bamboo sections threaded on strings. He heard them clicking as though they had been momentarily pulled aside. Turning, just as he opened the door to leave, he noticed the bamboo curtain swaying. "Well, good-night," he said, and stepped out onto the street. As he walked down Wordsworth Avenue, under the thunder of the L, past lighted lunchrooms, oyster saloons, and pawnshops, Miss Chapman resumed her sway. With the delightful velocity of thought his mind whirled in a narrowing spiral round the experience of the evening. The small book-crammed sitting room of the Mifflins, the sparkling fire, the lively chirrup of the bookseller reading aloud--and there, in the old easy chair whose horsehair stuffing was bulging out, that blue-eyed vision of careless girlhood! Happily he had been so seated that he could study her without seeming to do so. The line of her ankle where the firelight danced upon it put Coles Phillips to shame, he averred. Extraordinary, how these creatures are made to torment us with their intolerable comeliness! Against the background of dusky bindings her head shone with a soft haze of gold. Her face, that had an air of naive and provoking independence, made him angry with its unnecessary surplus of enchantment. An unaccountable gust of rage drove him rapidly along the frozen street. "Damn it," he cried, "what right has any girl to be as pretty as that? Why--why, I'd like to beat her!" he muttered, amazed at himself. "What the devil right has a girl got to look so innocently adorable?" It would be unseemly to follow poor Aubrey in his vacillations of rage and worship as he thrashed along Wordsworth Avenue, hearing and seeing no more than was necessary for the preservation of his life at street crossings. Half-smoked cigarette stubs glowed in his wake;[2] his burly bosom echoed with incoherent oratory. In the darker stretches of Fulton Street that lead up to the Brooklyn Bridge he fiercely exclaimed: "By God, it's not such a bad world." As he ascended the slope of that vast airy span, a black midget against a froth of stars, he was gravely planning such vehemence of exploit in the advertising profession as would make it seem less absurd to approach the President of the Daintybits Corporation with a question for which no progenitor of loveliness is ever quite prepared. [2] NOTE WHILE PROOFREADING: Surely this phrase was unconsciously lifted from R. L. S. But where does the original occur? C. D. M. In the exact centre of the bridge something diluted his mood; he halted, leaning against the railing, to consider the splendour of the scene. The hour was late--moving on toward midnight--but in the tall black precipices of Manhattan scattered lights gleamed, in an odd, irregular pattern like the sparse punctures on the raffle-board--"take a chance on a Milk-Fed Turkey"--the East Indian elevator-boy presents to apartment-house tenants about Hallowe'en. A fume of golden light eddied over uptown merriment: he could see the ruby beacon on the Metropolitan Tower signal three quarters. Underneath the airy decking of the bridge a tug went puffing by, her port and starboard lamps trailing red and green threads over the tideway. Some great argosy of the Staten Island fleet swept serenely down to St. George, past Liberty in her soft robe of light, carrying theatred commuters, dazed with weariness and blinking at the raw fury of the electric bulbs. Overhead the night was a superb arch of clear frost, sifted with stars. Blue sparks crackled stickily along the trolley wires as the cars groaned over the bridge. Aubrey surveyed all this splendid scene without exact observation. He was of a philosophic turn, and was attempting to console his discomfiture in the overwhelming lustre of Miss Titania by the thought that she was, after all, the creature and offspring of the science he worshipped--that of Advertising. Was not the fragrance of her presence, the soft compulsion of her gaze, even the delirious frill of muslin at her wrist, to be set down to the credit of his chosen art? Had he not, pondering obscurely upon "attention-compelling" copy and lay-out and type-face, in a corner of the Grey-Matter office, contributed to the triumphant prosperity and grace of this unconscious beneficiary? Indeed she seemed to him, fiercely tormenting himself with her loveliness, a symbol of the mysterious and subtle power of publicity. It was Advertising that had done this--that had enabled Mr. Chapman, a shy and droll little person, to surround this girl with all the fructifying glories of civilization--to foster and cherish her until she shone upon the earth like a morning star! Advertising had clothed her, Advertising had fed her, schooled, roofed, and sheltered her. In a sense she was the crowning advertisement of her father's career, and her innocent perfection taunted him just as much as the bright sky-sign he knew was flashing the words CHAPMAN PRUNES above the teeming pavements of Times Square. He groaned to think that he himself, by his conscientious labours, had helped to put this girl in such a position that he could hardly dare approach her. He would never have approached her again, on any pretext, if the intensity of his thoughts had not caused him, unconsciously, to grip the railing of the bridge with strong and angry hands. For at that moment a sack was thrown over his head from behind and he was violently seized by the legs, with the obvious intent of hoisting him over the parapet. His unexpected grip on the railing delayed this attempt just long enough to save him. Swept off his feet by the fury of the assault, he fell sideways against the barrier and had the good fortune to seize his enemy by the leg. Muffled in the sacking, it was vain to cry out; but he held furiously to the limb he had grasped and he and his attacker rolled together on the footway. Aubrey was a powerful man, and even despite the surprise could probably have got the better of the situation; but as he wrestled desperately and tried to rid himself of his hood, a crashing blow fell upon his head, half stunning him. He lay sprawled out, momentarily incapable of struggle, yet conscious enough to expect, rather curiously, the dizzying sensation of a drop through insupportable air into the icy water of the East River. Hands seized him--and then, passively, he heard a shout, the sound of footsteps running on the planks, and other footsteps hurrying away at top speed. In a moment the sacking was torn from his head and a friendly pedestrian was kneeling beside him. "Say, are you all right?" said the latter anxiously. "Gee, those guys nearly got you." Aubrey was too faint and dizzy to speak for a moment. His head was numb and he felt certain that several inches of it had been caved in. Putting up his hand, feebly, he was surprised to find the contours of his skull much the same as usual. The stranger propped him against his knee and wiped away a trickle of blood with his handkerchief. "Say, old man, I thought you was a goner," he said sympathetically. "I seen those fellows jump you. Too bad they got away. Dirty work, I'll say so." Aubrey gulped the night air, and sat up. The bridge rocked under him; against the star-speckled sky he could see the Woolworth Building bending and jazzing like a poplar tree in a gale. He felt very sick. "Ever so much obliged to you," he stammered. "I'll be all right in a minute." "D'you want me to go and ring up a nambulance?" said his assistant. "No, no," said Aubrey; "I'll be all right." He staggered to his feet and clung to the rail of the bridge, trying to collect his wits. One phrase ran over and over in his mind with damnable iteration--"Mild, but they satisfy!" "Where were you going?" said the other, supporting him. "Madison Avenue and Thirty-Second----" "Maybe I can flag a jitney for you. Here," he cried, as another citizen approached afoot, "Give this fellow a hand. Someone beat him over the bean with a club. I'm going to get him a lift." The newcomer readily undertook the friendly task, and tied Aubrey's handkerchief round his head, which was bleeding freely. After a few moments the first Samaritan succeeded in stopping a touring car which was speeding over from Brooklyn. The driver willingly agreed to take Aubrey home, and the other two helped him in. Barring a nasty gash on his scalp he was none the worse. "A fellow needs a tin hat if he's going to wander round Long Island at night," said the motorist genially. "Two fellows tried to hold me up coming in from Rockville Centre the other evening. Maybe they were the same two that picked on you. Did you get a look at them?" "No," said Aubrey. "That piece of sacking might have helped me trace them, but I forgot it." "Want to run back for it?" "Never mind," said Aubrey. "I've got a hunch about this." "Think you know who it is? Maybe you're in politics, hey?" The car ran swiftly up the dark channel of the Bowery, into Fourth Avenue, and turned off at Thirty-Second Street to deposit Aubrey in front of his boarding house. He thanked his convoy heartily, and refused further assistance. After several false shots he got his latch key in the lock, climbed four creaking flights, and stumbled into his room. Groping his way to the wash-basin, he bathed his throbbing head, tied a towel round it, and fell into bed. Chapter VI Titania Learns the Business Although he kept late hours, Roger Mifflin was a prompt riser. It is only the very young who find satisfaction in lying abed in the morning. Those who approach the term of the fifth decade are sensitively aware of the fluency of life, and have no taste to squander it among the blankets. The bookseller's morning routine was brisk and habitual. He was generally awakened about half-past seven by the jangling bell that balanced on a coiled spring at the foot of the stairs. This ringing announced the arrival of Becky, the old scrubwoman who came each morning to sweep out the shop and clean the floors for the day's traffic. Roger, in his old dressing gown of vermilion flannel, would scuffle down to let her in, picking up the milk bottles and the paper bag of baker's rolls at the same time. As Becky propped the front door wide, opened window transoms, and set about buffeting dust and tobacco smoke, Roger would take the milk and rolls back to the kitchen and give Bock a morning greeting. Bock would emerge from his literary kennel, and thrust out his forelegs in a genial obeisance. This was partly politeness, and partly to straighten out his spine after its all-night curvature. Then Roger would let him out into the back yard for a run, himself standing on the kitchen steps to inhale the bright freshness of the morning air. This Saturday morning was clear and crisp. The plain backs of the homes along Whittier Street, irregular in profile as the margins of a free verse poem, offered Roger an agreeable human panorama. Thin strands of smoke were rising from chimneys; a belated baker's wagon was joggling down the alley; in bedroom bay-windows sheets and pillows were already set to sun and air. Brooklyn, admirable borough of homes and hearty breakfasts, attacks the morning hours in cheery, smiling spirit. Bock sniffed and rooted about the small back yard as though the earth (every cubic inch of which he already knew by rote) held some new entrancing flavour. Roger watched him with the amused and tender condescension one always feels toward a happy dog--perhaps the same mood of tolerant paternalism that Gott is said to have felt in watching his boisterous Hohenzollerns. The nipping air began to infiltrate his dressing gown, and Roger returned to the kitchen, his small, lively face alight with zest. He opened the draughts in the range, set a kettle on to boil, and went down to resuscitate the furnace. As he came upstairs for his bath, Mrs. Mifflin was descending, fresh and hearty in a starchy morning apron. Roger hummed a tune as he picked up the hairpins on the bedroom floor, and wondered to himself why women are always supposed to be more tidy than men. Titania was awake early. She smiled at the enigmatic portrait of Samuel Butler, glanced at the row of books over her bed, and dressed rapidly. She ran downstairs, eager to begin her experience as a bookseller. The first impression the Haunted Bookshop had made on her was one of superfluous dinginess, and as Mrs. Mifflin refused to let her help get breakfast--except set out the salt cellars--she ran down Gissing Street to a little florist's shop she had noticed the previous afternoon. Here she spent at least a week's salary in buying chrysanthemums and a large pot of white heather. She was distributing these about the shop when Roger found her. "Bless my soul!" he said. "How are you going to live on your wages if you do that sort of thing? Pay-day doesn't come until next Friday!" "Just one blow-out," she said cheerfully. "I thought it would be fun to brighten the place up a bit. Think how pleased your floorwalker will be when he comes in!" "Dear me," said Roger. "I hope you don't really think we have floorwalkers in the second-hand book business." After breakfast he set about initiating his new employee into the routine of the shop. As he moved about, explaining the arrangement of his shelves, he kept up a running commentary. "Of course all the miscellaneous information that a bookseller has to have will only come to you gradually," he said. "Such tags of bookshop lore as the difference between Philo Gubb and Philip Gibbs, Mrs. Wilson Woodrow and Mrs. Woodrow Wilson, and all that sort of thing. Don't be frightened by all the ads you see for a book called "Bell and Wing," because no one was ever heard to ask for a copy. That's one of the reasons why I tell Mr. Gilbert I don't believe in advertising. Someone may ask you who wrote The Winning of the Best, and you'll have to know it wasn't Colonel Roosevelt but Mr. Ralph Waldo Trine. The beauty of being a bookseller is that you don't have to be a literary critic: all you have to do to books is enjoy them. A literary critic is the kind of fellow who will tell you that Wordsworth's Happy Warrior is a poem of 85 lines composed entirely of two sentences, one of 26 lines and one of 59. What does it matter if Wordsworth wrote sentences almost as long as those of Walt Whitman or Mr. Will H. Hays, if only he wrote a great poem? Literary critics are queer birds. There's Professor Phelps of Yale, for instance. He publishes a book in 1918 and calls it The Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Century. To my way of thinking a book of that title oughtn't to be published until 2018. Then somebody will come along and ask you for a book of poems about a typewriter, and by and by you'll learn that what they want is Stevenson's Underwoods. Yes, it's a complicated life. Never argue with customers. Just give them the book they ought to have even if they don't know they want it." They went outside the front door, and Roger lit his pipe. In the little area in front of the shop windows stood large empty boxes supported on trestles. "The first thing I always do----," he said. "The first thing you'll both do is catch your death of cold," said Helen over his shoulder. "Titania, you run and get your fur. Roger, go and find your cap. With your bald head, you ought to know better!" When they returned to the front door, Titania's blue eyes were sparkling above her soft tippet. "I applaud your taste in furs," said Roger. "That is just the colour of tobacco smoke." He blew a whiff against it to prove the likeness. He felt very talkative, as most older men do when a young girl looks as delightfully listenable as Titania. "What an adorable little place," said Titania, looking round at the bookshop's space of private pavement, which was sunk below the street level. "You could put tables out here and serve tea in summer time." "The first thing every morning," continued Roger, "I set out the ten-cent stuff in these boxes. I take it in at night and stow it in these bins. When it rains, I shove out an awning, which is mighty good business. Someone is sure to take shelter, and spend the time in looking over the books. A really heavy shower is often worth fifty or sixty cents. Once a week I change my pavement stock. This week I've got mostly fiction out here. That's the sort of thing that comes in in unlimited numbers. A good deal of it's tripe, but it serves its purpose." "Aren't they rather dirty?" said Titania doubtfully, looking at some little blue Rollo books, on which the siftings of generations had accumulated. "Would you mind if I dusted them off a bit?" "It's almost unheard of in the second-hand trade," said Roger; "but it might make them look better." Titania ran inside, borrowed a duster from Helen, and began housecleaning the grimy boxes, while Roger chatted away in high spirits. Bock already noticing the new order of things, squatted on the doorstep with an air of being a party to the conversation. Morning pedestrians on Gissing Street passed by, wondering who the bookseller's engaging assistant might be. "I wish _I_ could find a maid like that," thought a prosperous Brooklyn housewife on her way to market. "I must ring her up some day and find out how much she gets." Roger brought out armfuls of books while Titania dusted. "One of the reasons I'm awfully glad you've come here to help me," he said, "is that I'll be able to get out more. I've been so tied down by the shop, I haven't had a chance to scout round, buy up libraries, make bids on collections that are being sold, and all that sort of thing. My stock is running a bit low. If you just wait for what comes in, you don't get much of the really good stuff." Titania was polishing a copy of The Late Mrs. Null. "It must be wonderful to have read so many books," she said. "I'm afraid I'm not a very deep reader, but at any rate Dad has taught me a respect for good books. He gets so mad because when my friends come to the house, and he asks them what they've been reading, the only thing they seem to know about is Dere Mable." Roger chuckled. "I hope you don't think I'm a mere highbrow," he said. "As a customer said to me once, without meaning to be funny, 'I like both the Iliad and the Argosy.' The only thing I can't stand is literature that is unfairly and intentionally flavoured with vanilla. Confectionery soon disgusts the palate, whether you find it in Marcus Aurelius or Doctor Crane. There's an odd aspect of the matter that sometimes strikes me: Doc Crane's remarks are just as true as Lord Bacon's, so how is it that the Doctor puts me to sleep in a paragraph, while my Lord's essays keep me awake all night?" Titania, being unacquainted with these philosophers, pursued the characteristic feminine course of clinging to the subject on which she was informed. The undiscerning have called this habit of mind irrelevant, but wrongly. The feminine intellect leaps like a grasshopper; the masculine plods as the ant. "I see there's a new Mable book coming," she said. "It's called That's Me All Over Mable, and the newsstand clerk at the Octagon says he expects to sell a thousand copies." "Well, there's a meaning in that," said Roger. "People have a craving to be amused, and I'm sure I don't blame 'em. I'm afraid I haven't read Dere Mable. If it's really amusing, I'm glad they read it. I suspect it isn't a very great book, because a Philadelphia schoolgirl has written a reply to it called Dere Bill, which is said to be as good as the original. Now you can hardly imagine a Philadelphia flapper writing an effective companion to Bacon's Essays. But never mind, if the stuff's amusing, it has its place. The human yearning for innocent pastime is a pathetic thing, come to think about it. It shows what a desperately grim thing life has become. One of the most significant things I know is that breathless, expectant, adoring hush that falls over a theatre at a Saturday matinee, when the house goes dark and the footlights set the bottom of the curtain in a glow, and the latecomers tank over your feet climbing into their seats----" "Isn't it an adorable moment!" cried Titania. "Yes, it is," said Roger; "but it makes me sad to see what tosh is handed out to that eager, expectant audience, most of the time. There they all are, ready to be thrilled, eager to be worked upon, deliberately putting themselves into that glorious, rare, receptive mood when they are clay in the artist's hand--and Lord! what miserable substitutes for joy and sorrow are put over on them! Day after day I see people streaming into theatres and movies, and I know that more than half the time they are on a blind quest, thinking they are satisfied when in truth they are fed on paltry husks. And the sad part about it is that if you let yourself think you are satisfied with husks, you'll have no appetite left for the real grain." Titania wondered, a little panic-stricken, whether she had been permitting herself to be satisfied with husks. She remembered how greatly she had enjoyed a Dorothy Gish film a few evenings before. "But," she ventured, "you said people want to be amused. And if they laugh and look happy, surely they're amused?" "They only think they are!" cried Mifflin. "They think they're amused because they don't know what real amusement is! Laughter and prayer are the two noblest habits of man; they mark us off from the brutes. To laugh at cheap jests is as base as to pray to cheap gods. To laugh at Fatty Arbuckle is to degrade the human spirit." Titania thought she was getting in rather deep, but she had the tenacious logic of every healthy girl. She said: "But a joke that seems cheap to you doesn't seem cheap to the person who laughs at it, or he wouldn't laugh." Her face brightened as a fresh idea flooded her mind: "The wooden image a savage prays to may seem cheap to you, but it's the best god he knows, and it's all right for him to pray to it." "Bully for you," said Roger. "Perfectly true. But I've got away from the point I had in mind. Humanity is yearning now as it never did before for truth, for beauty, for the things that comfort and console and make life seem worth while. I feel this all round me, every day. We've been through a frightful ordeal, and every decent spirit is asking itself what we can do to pick up the fragments and remould the world nearer to our heart's desire. Look here, here's something I found the other day in John Masefield's preface to one of his plays: 'The truth and rapture of man are holy things, not lightly to be scorned. A carelessness of life and beauty marks the glutton, the idler, and the fool in their deadly path across history.' I tell you, I've done some pretty sober thinking as I've sat here in my bookshop during the past horrible years. Walt Whitman wrote a little poem during the Civil War--Year that trembled and reeled beneath me, said Walt, Must I learn to chant the cold dirges of the baffled, and sullen hymns of defeat?--I've sat here in my shop at night, and looked round at my shelves, looked at all the brave books that house the hopes and gentlenesses and dreams of men and women, and wondered if they were all wrong, discredited, defeated. Wondered if the world were still merely a jungle of fury. I think I'd have gone balmy if it weren't for Walt Whitman. Talk about Mr. Britling--Walt was the man who 'saw it through.' "The glutton, the idler, and the fool in their deadly path across history. . . . Aye, a deadly path indeed. The German military men weren't idlers, but they were gluttons and fools to the nth power. Look at their deadly path! And look at other deadly paths, too. Look at our slums, jails, insane asylums. . . . "I used to wonder what I could do to justify my comfortable existence here during such a time of horror. What right had I to shirk in a quiet bookshop when so many men were suffering and dying through no fault of their own? I tried to get into an ambulance unit, but I've had no medical training and they said they didn't want men of my age unless they were experienced doctors." "I know how you felt," said Titania, with a surprising look of comprehension. "Don't you suppose that a great many girls, who couldn't do anything real to help, got tired of wearing neat little uniforms with Sam Browne belts?" "Well," said Roger, "it was a bad time. The war contradicted and denied everything I had ever lived for. Oh, I can't tell you how I felt about it. I can't even express it to myself. Sometimes I used to feel as I think that truly noble simpleton Henry Ford may have felt when he organized his peace voyage--that I would do anything, however stupid, to stop it all. In a world where everyone was so wise and cynical and cruel, it was admirable to find a man so utterly simple and hopeful as Henry. A boob, they called him. Well, I say bravo for boobs! I daresay most of the apostles were boobs--or maybe they called them bolsheviks." Titania had only the vaguest notion about bolsheviks, but she had seen a good many newspaper cartoons. "I guess Judas was a bolshevik," she said innocently. "Yes, and probably George the Third called Ben Franklin a bolshevik," retorted Roger. "The trouble is, truth and falsehood don't come laid out in black and white--Truth and Huntruth, as the wartime joke had it. Sometimes I thought Truth had vanished from the earth," he cried bitterly. "Like everything else, it was rationed by the governments. I taught myself to disbelieve half of what I read in the papers. I saw the world clawing itself to shreds in blind rage. I saw hardly any one brave enough to face the brutalizing absurdity as it really was, and describe it. I saw the glutton, the idler, and the fool applauding, while brave and simple men walked in the horrors of hell. The stay-at-home poets turned it to pretty lyrics of glory and sacrifice. Perhaps half a dozen of them have told the truth. Have you read Sassoon? Or Latzko's Men in War, which was so damned true that the government suppressed it? Humph! Putting Truth on rations!" He knocked out his pipe against his heel, and his blue eyes shone with a kind of desperate earnestness. "But I tell you, the world is going to have the truth about War. We're going to put an end to this madness. It's not going to be easy. Just now, in the intoxication of the German collapse, we're all rejoicing in our new happiness. I tell you, the real Peace will be a long time coming. When you tear up all the fibres of civilization it's a slow job to knit things together again. You see those children going down the street to school? Peace lies in their hands. When they are taught in school that war is the most loathsome scourge humanity is subject to, that it smirches and fouls every lovely occupation of the mortal spirit, then there may be some hope for the future. But I'd like to bet they are having it drilled into them that war is a glorious and noble sacrifice. "The people who write poems about the divine frenzy of going over the top are usually those who dipped their pens a long, long way from the slimy duckboards of the trenches. It's funny how we hate to face realities. I knew a commuter once who rode in town every day on the 8.13. But he used to call it the 7.73. He said it made him feel more virtuous." There was a pause, while Roger watched some belated urchins hurrying toward school. "I think any man would be a traitor to humanity who didn't pledge every effort of his waking life to an attempt to make war impossible in future." "Surely no one would deny that," said Titania. "But I do think the war was very glorious as well as very terrible. I've known lots of men who went over, knowing well what they were to face, and yet went gladly and humbly in the thought they were going for a true cause." "A cause which is so true shouldn't need the sacrifice of millions of fine lives," said Roger gravely. "Don't imagine I don't see the dreadful nobility of it. But poor humanity shouldn't be asked to be noble at such a cost. That's the most pitiful tragedy of it all. Don't you suppose the Germans thought they too were marching off for a noble cause when they began it and forced this misery on the world? They had been educated to believe so, for a generation. That's the terrible hypnotism of war, the brute mass-impulse, the pride and national spirit, the instinctive simplicity of men that makes them worship what is their own above everything else. I've thrilled and shouted with patriotic pride, like everyone. Music and flags and men marching in step have bewitched me, as they do all of us. And then I've gone home and sworn to root this evil instinct out of my soul. God help us--let's love the world, love humanity--not just our own country! That's why I'm so keen about the part we're going to play at the Peace Conference. Our motto over there will be America Last! Hurrah for us, I say, for we shall be the only nation over there with absolutely no axe to grind. Nothing but a pax to grind!" It argued well for Titania's breadth of mind that she was not dismayed nor alarmed at the poor bookseller's anguished harangue. She surmised sagely that he was cleansing his bosom of much perilous stuff. In some mysterious way she had learned the greatest and rarest of the spirit's gifts--toleration. "You can't help loving your country," she said. "Let's go indoors," he answered. "You'll catch cold out here. I want to show you my alcove of books on the war." "Of course one can't help loving one's country," he added. "I love mine so much that I want to see her take the lead in making a new era possible. She has sacrificed least for war, she should be ready to sacrifice most for peace. As for me," he said, smiling, "I'd be willing to sacrifice the whole Republican party!" "I don't see why you call the war an absurdity," said Titania. "We HAD to beat Germany, or where would civilization have been?" "We had to beat Germany, yes, but the absurdity lies in the fact that we had to beat ourselves in doing it. The first thing you'll find, when the Peace Conference gets to work, will be that we shall have to help Germany onto her feet again so that she can be punished in an orderly way. We shall have to feed her and admit her to commerce so that she can pay her indemnities--we shall have to police her cities to prevent revolution from burning her up--and the upshot of it all will be that men will have fought the most terrible war in history, and endured nameless horrors, for the privilege of nursing their enemy back to health. If that isn't an absurdity, what is? That's what happens when a great nation like Germany goes insane. "Well, we're up against some terribly complicated problems. My only consolation is that I think the bookseller can play as useful a part as any man in rebuilding the world's sanity. When I was fretting over what I could do to help things along, I came across two lines in my favourite poet that encouraged me. Good old George Herbert says: A grain of glory mixed with humblenesse Cures both a fever and lethargicknesse. "Certainly running a second-hand bookstore is a pretty humble calling, but I've mixed a grain of glory with it, in my own imagination at any rate. You see, books contain the thoughts and dreams of men, their hopes and strivings and all their immortal parts. It's in books that most of us learn how splendidly worth-while life is. I never realized the greatness of the human spirit, the indomitable grandeur of man's mind, until I read Milton's Areopagitica. To read that great outburst of splendid anger ennobles the meanest of us simply because we belong to the same species of animal as Milton. Books are the immortality of the race, the father and mother of most that is worth while cherishing in our hearts. To spread good books about, to sow them on fertile minds, to propagate understanding and a carefulness of life and beauty, isn't that high enough mission for a man? The bookseller is the real Mr. Valiant-For-Truth. "Here's my War-alcove," he went on. "I've stacked up here most of the really good books the War has brought out. If humanity has sense enough to take these books to heart, it will never get itself into this mess again. Printer's ink has been running a race against gunpowder these many, many years. Ink is handicapped, in a way, because you can blow up a man with gunpowder in half a second, while it may take twenty years to blow him up with a book. But the gunpowder destroys itself along with its victim, while a book can keep on exploding for centuries. There's Hardy's Dynasts for example. When you read that book you can feel it blowing up your mind. It leaves you gasping, ill, nauseated--oh, it's not pleasant to feel some really pure intellect filtered into one's brain! It hurts! There's enough T. N. T. in that book to blast war from the face of the globe. But there's a slow fuse attached to it. It hasn't really exploded yet. Maybe it won't for another fifty years. "In regard to the War, think what books have accomplished. What was the first thing all the governments started to do--publish books! Blue Books, Yellow Books, White Books, Red Books--everything but Black Books, which would have been appropriate in Berlin. They knew that guns and troops were helpless unless they could get the books on their side, too. Books did as much as anything else to bring America into the war. Some German books helped to wipe the Kaiser off his throne--I Accuse, and Dr. Muehlon's magnificent outburst The Vandal of Europe, and Lichnowsky's private memorandum, that shook Germany to her foundations, simply because he told the truth. Here's that book Men in War, written I believe by a Hungarian officer, with its noble dedication "To Friend and Foe." Here are some of the French books--books in which the clear, passionate intellect of that race, with its savage irony, burns like a flame. Romain Rolland's Au-Dessus de la Melee, written in exile in Switzerland; Barbusse's terrible Le Feu; Duhamel's bitter Civilization; Bourget's strangely fascinating novel The Meaning of Death. And the noble books that have come out of England: A Student in Arms; The Tree of Heaven; Why Men Fight, by Bertrand Russell--I'm hoping he'll write one on Why Men Are Imprisoned: you know he was locked up for his sentiments! And here's one of the most moving of all--The Letters of Arthur Heath, a gentle, sensitive young Oxford tutor who was killed on the Western front. You ought to read that book. It shows the entire lack of hatred on the part of the English. Heath and his friends, the night before they enlisted, sat up singing the German music they had loved, as a kind of farewell to the old, friendly joyous life. Yes, that's the kind of thing War does--wipes out spirits like Arthur Heath. Please read it. Then you'll have to read Philip Gibbs, and Lowes Dickinson and all the young poets. Of course you've read Wells already. Everybody has." "How about the Americans?" said Titania. "Haven't they written anything about the war that's worth while?" "Here's one that I found a lot of meat in, streaked with philosophical gristle," said Roger, relighting his pipe. He pulled out a copy of Professor Latimer's Progress. "There was one passage that I remember marking--let's see now, what was it?--Yes, here! "It is true that, if you made a poll of newspaper editors, you might find a great many who think that war is evil. But if you were to take a census among pastors of fashionable metropolitan churches--" "That's a bullseye hit! The church has done for itself with most thinking men. . . . There's another good passage in Professor Latimer, where he points out the philosophical value of dishwashing. Some of Latimer's talk is so much in common with my ideas that I've been rather hoping he'd drop in here some day. I'd like to meet him. As for American poets, get wise to Edwin Robinson----" There is no knowing how long the bookseller's monologue might have continued, but at this moment Helen appeared from the kitchen. "Good gracious, Roger!" she exclaimed, "I've heard your voice piping away for I don't know how long. What are you doing, giving the poor child a Chautauqua lecture? You must want to frighten her out of the book business." Roger looked a little sheepish. "My dear," he said, "I was only laying down a few of the principles underlying the art of bookselling----" "It was very interesting, honestly it was," said Titania brightly. Mrs. Mifflin, in a blue check apron and with plump arms floury to the elbow, gave her a wink--or as near a wink as a woman ever achieves (ask the man who owns one). "Whenever Mr. Mifflin feels very low in his mind about the business," she said, "he falls back on those highly idealized sentiments. He knows that next to being a parson, he's got into the worst line there is, and he tries bravely to conceal it from himself." "I think it's too bad to give me away before Miss Titania," said Roger, smiling, so Titania saw this was merely a family joke. "Really truly," she protested, "I'm having a lovely time. I've been learning all about Professor Latimer who wrote The Handle of Europe, and all sorts of things. I've been afraid every minute that some customer would come in and interrupt us." "No fear of that," said Helen. "They're scarce in the early morning." She went back to her kitchen. "Well, Miss Titania," resumed Roger. "You see what I'm driving at. I want to give people an entirely new idea about bookshops. The grain of glory that I hope will cure both my fever and my lethargicness is my conception of the bookstore as a power-house, a radiating place for truth and beauty. I insist books are not absolutely dead things: they are as lively as those fabulous dragons' teeth, and being sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men. How about Bernhardi? Some of my Corn Cob friends tell me books are just merchandise. Pshaw!" "I haven't read much of Bernard Shaw" said Titania. "Did you ever notice how books track you down and hunt you out? They follow you like the hound in Francis Thompson's poem. They know their quarry! Look at that book The Education of Henry Adams! Just watch the way it's hounding out thinking people this winter. And The Four Horsemen--you can see it racing in the veins of the reading people. It's one of the uncanniest things I know to watch a real book on its career--it follows you and follows you and drives you into a corner and MAKES you read it. There's a queer old book that's been chasing me for years: The Life and Opinions of John Buncle, Esq., it's called. I've tried to escape it, but every now and then it sticks up its head somewhere. It'll get me some day, and I'll be compelled to read it. Ten Thousand a Year trailed me the same way until I surrendered. Words can't describe the cunning of some books. You'll think you've shaken them off your trail, and then one day some innocent-looking customer will pop in and begin to talk, and you'll know he's an unconscious agent of book-destiny. There's an old sea-captain who drops in here now and then. He's simply the novels of Captain Marryat put into flesh. He has me under a kind of spell; I know I shall have to read Peter Simple before I die, just because the old fellow loves it so. That's why I call this place the Haunted Bookshop. Haunted by the ghosts of the books I haven't read. Poor uneasy spirits, they walk and walk around me. There's only one way to lay the ghost of a book, and that is to read it." "I know what you mean," said Titania. "I haven't read much Bernard Shaw, but I feel I shall have to. He meets me at every turn, bullying me. And I know lots of people who are simply terrorized by H. G. Wells. Every time one of his books comes out, and that's pretty often, they're in a perfect panic until they've read it." Roger chuckled. "Some have even been stampeded into subscribing to the New Republic for that very purpose." "But speaking of the Haunted Bookshop, what's your special interest in that Oliver Cromwell book?" "Oh, I'm glad you mentioned it," said Roger. "I must put it back in its place on the shelf." He ran back to the den to get it, and just then the bell clanged at the door. A customer came in, and the one-sided gossip was over for the time being. Chapter VII Aubrey Takes Lodgings I am sensible that Mr. Aubrey Gilbert is by no means ideal as the leading juvenile of our piece. The time still demands some explanation why the leading juvenile wears no gold chevrons on his left sleeve. As a matter of fact, our young servant of the Grey-Matter Agency had been declined by a recruiting station and a draft board on account of flat feet; although I must protest that their flatness detracts not at all from his outward bearing nor from his physical capacity in the ordinary concerns of amiable youth. When the army "turned him down flat," as he put it, he had entered the service of the Committee on Public Information, and had carried on mysterious activities in their behalf for over a year, up to the time when the armistice was signed by the United Press. Owing to a small error of judgment on his part, now completely forgotten, but due to the regrettable delay of the German envoys to synchronize with over-exuberant press correspondents, the last three days of the war had been carried on without his active assistance. After the natural recuperation necessary on the 12th of November, he had been re-absorbed by the Grey-Matter Advertising Agency, with whom he had been connected for several years, and where his sound and vivacious qualities were highly esteemed. It was in the course of drumming up post-war business that he had swung so far out of his ordinary orbit as to call on Roger Mifflin. Perhaps these explanations should have been made earlier. At any rate, Aubrey woke that Saturday morning, about the time Titania began to dust the pavement-boxes, in no very world-conquering humour. As it was a half-holiday, he felt no compunction in staying away from the office. The landlady, a motherly soul, sent him up some coffee and scrambled eggs, and insisted on having a doctor in to look at his damage. Several stitches were taken, after which he had a nap. He woke up at noon, feeling better, though his head still ached abominably. Putting on a dressing gown, he sat down in his modest chamber, which was furnished chiefly with a pipe-rack, ash trays, and a set of O. Henry, and picked up one of his favourite volumes for a bit of solace. We have hinted that Mr. Gilbert was not what is called "literary." His reading was mostly of the newsstand sort, and Printer's Ink, that naive journal of the publicity professions. His favourite diversion was luncheon at the Advertising Club where he would pore, fascinated, over displays of advertising booklets, posters, and pamphlets with such titles as Tell Your Story in Bold-Face. He was accustomed to remark that "the fellow who writes the Packard ads has Ralph Waldo Emerson skinned three ways from the Jack." Yet much must be forgiven this young man for his love of O. Henry. He knew, what many other happy souls have found, that O. Henry is one of those rare and gifted tellers of tales who can be read at all times. No matter how weary, how depressed, how shaken in morale, one can always find enjoyment in that master romancer of the Cabarabian Nights. "Don't talk to me of Dickens' Christmas Stories," Aubrey said to himself, recalling his adventure in Brooklyn. "I'll bet O. Henry's Gift of the Magi beats anything Dick ever laid pen to. What a shame he died without finishing that Christmas story in Rolling Stones! I wish some boss writer like Irvin Cobb or Edna Ferber would take a hand at finishing it. If I were an editor I'd hire someone to wind up that yarn. It's a crime to have a good story like that lying around half written." He was sitting in a soft wreath of cigarette smoke when his landlady came in with the morning paper. "Thought you might like to see the Times, Mr. Gilbert," she said. "I knew you'd been too sick to go out and buy one. I see the President's going to sail on Wednesday." Aubrey threaded his way through the news with the practiced eye of one who knows what interests him. Then, by force of habit, he carefully scanned the advertising pages. A notice in the HELP WANTED columns leaped out at him. WANTED--For temporary employment at Hotel Octagon, 3 chefs, 5 experienced cooks, 20 waiters. Apply chef's office, 11 P.M. Tuesday. "Hum," he thought. "I suppose, to take the place of those fellows who are going to sail on the George Washington to cook for Mr. Wilson. That's a grand ad for the Octagon, having their kitchen staff chosen for the President's trip. Gee, I wonder why they don't play that up in some real space? Maybe I can place some copy for them along that line." An idea suddenly occurred to him, and he went over to the chair where he had thrown his overcoat the night before. From the pocket he took out the cover of Carlyle's Cromwell, and looked at it carefully. "I wonder what the jinx is on this book?" he thought. "It's a queer thing the way that fellow trailed me last night--then my finding this in the drug store, and getting that crack on the bean. I wonder if that neighbourhood is a safe place for a girl to work in?" He paced up and down the room, forgetting the pain in his head. "Maybe I ought to tip the police off about this business," he thought. "It looks wrong to me. But I have a hankering to work the thing out on my own. I'd have a wonderful stand-in with old man Chapman if I saved that girl from anything. . . . I've heard of gangs of kidnappers. . . . No, I don't like the looks of things a little bit. I think that bookseller is half cracked, anyway. He doesn't believe in advertising! The idea of Chapman trusting his daughter in a place like that----" The thought of playing knight errant to something more personal and romantic than an advertising account was irresistible. "I'll slip over to Brooklyn as soon as it gets dark this evening," he said to himself. "I ought to be able to get a room somewhere along that street, where I can watch that bookshop without being seen, and find out what's haunting it. I've got that old .22 popgun of mine that I used to use up at camp. I'll take it along. I'd like to know more about Weintraub's drug store, too. I didn't fancy the map of Herr Weintraub, not at all. To tell the truth, I had no idea old man Carlyle would get mixed up in anything as interesting as this." He found a romantic exhilaration in packing a handbag. Pyjamas, hairbrushes, toothbrush, toothpaste--("What an ad it would be for the Chinese Paste people," he thought, "if they knew I was taking a tube of their stuff on this adventure!")--his .22 revolver, a small green box of cartridges of the size commonly used for squirrel-shooting, a volume of O. Henry, a safety razor and adjuncts, a pad of writing paper. . . . At least six nationally advertised articles, he said to himself, enumerating his kit. He locked his bag, dressed, and went downstairs for lunch. After lunch he lay down for a rest, as his head was still very painful. But he was not able to sleep. The thought of Titania Chapman's blue eyes and gallant little figure came between him and slumber. He could not shake off the conviction that some peril was hanging over her. Again and again he looked at his watch, rebuking the lagging dusk. At half-past four he set off for the subway. Half-way down Thirty-third Street a thought struck him. He returned to his room, got out a pair of opera glasses from his trunk, and put them in his bag. It was blue twilight when he reached Gissing Street. The block between Wordsworth Avenue and Hazlitt Street is peculiar in that on one side--the side where the Haunted Bookshop stands--the old brownstone dwellings have mostly been replaced by small shops of a bright, lively character. At the Wordsworth Avenue corner, where the L swings round in a lofty roaring curve, stands Weintraub's drug store; below it, on the western side, a succession of shining windows beacon through the evening. Delicatessen shops with their appetizing medley of cooked and pickled meats, dried fruits, cheeses, and bright coloured jars of preserves; small modistes with generously contoured wax busts of coiffured ladies; lunch rooms with the day's menu typed and pasted on the outer pane; a French rotisserie where chickens turn hissing on the spits before a tall oven of rosy coals; florists, tobacconists, fruit-dealers, and a Greek candy-shop with a long soda fountain shining with onyx marble and coloured glass lamps and nickel tanks of hot chocolate; a stationery shop, now stuffed for the holiday trade with Christmas cards, toys, calendars, and those queer little suede-bound volumes of Kipling, Service, Oscar Wilde, and Omar Khayyam that appear every year toward Christmas time--such modest and cheerful merchandising makes the western pavement of Gissing Street a jolly place when the lights are lit. All the shops were decorated for the Christmas trade; the Christmas issues of the magazines were just out and brightened the newsstands with their glowing covers. This section of Brooklyn has a tone and atmosphere peculiarly French in some parts: one can quite imagine oneself in some smaller Parisian boulevard frequented by the petit bourgeois. Midway in this engaging and animated block stands the Haunted Bookshop. Aubrey could see its windows lit, and the shelved masses of books within. He felt a severe temptation to enter, but a certain bashfulness added itself to his desire to act in secret. There was a privy exhilaration in his plan of putting the bookshop under an unsuspected surveillance, and he had the emotion of one walking on the frontiers of adventure. So he kept on the opposite side of the street, which still maintains an unbroken row of quiet brown fronts, save for the movie theatre at the upper corner, opposite Weintraub's. Some of the basements on this side are occupied now by small tailors, laundries, and lace-curtain cleaners (lace curtains are still a fetish in Brooklyn), but most of the houses are still merely dwellings. Carrying his bag, Aubrey passed the bright halo of the movie theatre. Posters announcing THE RETURN OF TARZAN showed a kind of third chapter of Genesis scene with an Eve in a sports suit. ADDED ATTRACTION, Mr. AND Mrs. SIDNEY DREW, he read. A little way down the block he saw a sign VACANCIES in a parlour window. The house was nearly opposite the bookshop, and he at once mounted the tall steps to the front door and rang. A fawn-tinted coloured girl, of the kind generally called "Addie," arrived presently. "Can I get a room here?" he asked. "I don't know, you'd better see Miz' Schiller," she said, without rancour. Adopting the customary compromise of untrained domestics, she did not invite him inside, but departed, leaving the door open to show that there was no ill will. Aubrey stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him. In an immense mirror the pale cheese-coloured flutter of a gas jet was remotely reflected. He noticed the Landseer engraving hung against wallpaper designed in facsimile of large rectangles of gray stone, and the usual telephone memorandum for the usual Mrs. J. F. Smith (who abides in all lodging houses) tucked into the frame of the mirror. Will Mrs. Smith please call Stockton 6771, it said. A carpeted stair with a fine old mahogany balustrade rose into the dimness. Aubrey, who was thoroughly familiar with lodgings, knew instinctively that the fourth, ninth, tenth, and fourteenth steps would be creakers. A soft musk sweetened the warm, torpid air: he divined that someone was toasting marshmallows over a gas jet. He knew perfectly well that somewhere in the house would be a placard over a bathtub with the legend: Please leave this tub as you would wish to find it. Roger Mifflin would have said, after studying the hall, that someone in the house was sure to be reading the poems of Rabbi Tagore; but Aubrey was not so caustic. Mrs. Schiller came up the basement stairs, followed by a small pug dog. She was warm and stout, with a tendency to burst just under the armpits. She was friendly. The pug made merry over Aubrey's ankles. "Stop it, Treasure!" said Mrs. Schiller. "Can I get a room here?" asked Aubrey, with great politeness. "Third floor front's the only thing I've got," she said. "You don't smoke in bed, do you? The last young man I had burned holes in three of my sheets----" Aubrey reassured her. "I don't give meals." "That's all right," said Aubrey. "Suits me." "Five dollars a week," she said. "May I see it?" Mrs. Schiller brightened the gas and led the way upstairs. Treasure skipped up the treads beside her. The sight of the six feet ascending together amused Aubrey. The fourth, ninth, tenth, and fourteenth steps creaked, as he had guessed they would. On the landing of the second storey a transom gushed orange light. Mrs. Schiller was secretly pleased at not having to augment the gas on that landing. Under the transom and behind a door Aubrey could hear someone having a bath, with a great sloshing of water. He wondered irreverently whether it was Mrs. J. F. Smith. At any rate (he felt sure), it was some experienced habitue of lodgings, who knew that about five-thirty in the afternoon is the best time for a bath--before cooking supper and the homecoming ablutions of other tenants have exhausted the hot water boiler. They climbed one more flight. The room was small, occupying half the third-floor frontage. A large window opened onto the street, giving a plain view of the bookshop and the other houses across the way. A wash-stand stood modestly inside a large cupboard. Over the mantel was the familiar picture--usually, however, reserved for the fourth floor back--of a young lady having her shoes shined by a ribald small boy. Aubrey was delighted. "This is fine," he said. "Here's a week in advance." Mrs. Schiller was almost disconcerted by the rapidity of the transaction. She preferred to solemnize the reception of a new lodger by a little more talk--remarks about the weather, the difficulty of getting "help," the young women guests who empty tea-leaves down wash-basin pipes, and so on. All this sort of gossip, apparently aimless, has a very real purpose: it enables the defenceless landlady to size up the stranger who comes to prey upon her. She had hardly had a good look at this gentleman, nor even knew his name, and here he had paid a week's rent and was already installed. Aubrey divined the cause of her hesitation, and gave her his business card. "All right, Mr. Gilbert," she said. "I'll send up the girl with some clean towels and a latchkey." Aubrey sat down in a rocking chair by the window, tucked the muslin curtain to one side, and looked out upon the bright channel of Gissing Street. He was full of the exhilaration that springs from any change of abode, but his romantic satisfaction in being so close to the adorable Titania was somewhat marred by a sense of absurdity, which is feared by young men more than wounds and death. He could see the lighted windows of the Haunted Bookshop quite plainly, but he could not think of any adequate excuse for going over there. And already he realized that to be near Miss Chapman was not at all the consolation he had expected it would be. He had a powerful desire to see her. He turned off the gas, lit his pipe, opened the window, and focussed the opera glasses on the door of the bookshop. It brought the place tantalizingly near. He could see the table at the front of the shop, Roger's bulletin board under the electric light, and one or two nondescript customers gleaning along the shelves. Then something bounded violently under the third button of his shirt. There she was! In the bright, prismatic little circle of the lenses he could see Titania. Heavenly creature, in her white V-necked blouse and brown skirt, there she was looking at a book. He saw her put out one arm and caught the twinkle of her wrist-watch. In the startling familiarity of the magnifying glass he could see her bright, unconscious face, the merry profile of her cheek and chin. . . . "The idea of that girl working in a second-hand bookstore!" he exclaimed. "It's positive sacrilege! Old man Chapman must be crazy." He took out his pyjamas and threw them on the bed; put his toothbrush and razor on the wash-basin, laid hairbrushes and O. Henry on the bureau. Feeling rather serio-comic he loaded his small revolver and hipped it. It was six o'clock, and he wound his watch. He was a little uncertain what to do: whether to keep a vigil at the window with the opera glasses, or go down in the street where he could watch the bookshop more nearly. In the excitement of the adventure he had forgotten all about the cut on his scalp, and felt quite chipper. In leaving Madison Avenue he had attempted to excuse the preposterousness of his excursion by thinking that a quiet week-end in Brooklyn would give him an opportunity to jot down some tentative ideas for Daintybits advertising copy which he planned to submit to his chief on Monday. But now that he was here he felt the impossibility of attacking any such humdrum task. How could he sit down in cold blood to devise any "attention-compelling" lay-outs for Daintybits Tapioca and Chapman's Cherished Saratoga Chips, when the daintiest bit of all was only a few yards away? For the first time was made plain to him the amazing power of young women to interfere with the legitimate commerce of the world. He did get so far as to take out his pad of writing paper and jot down CHAPMAN'S CHERISHED CHIPS These delicate wafers, crisped by a secret process, cherish in their unique tang and flavour all the life-giving nutriment that has made the potato the King of Vegetables---- But the face of Miss Titania kept coming between his hand and brain. Of what avail to flood the world with Chapman Chips if the girl herself should come to any harm? "Was this the face that launched a thousand chips?" he murmured, and for an instant wished he had brought The Oxford Book of English Verse instead of O. Henry. A tap sounded at his door, and Mrs. Schiller appeared. "Telephone for you, Mr. Gilbert," she said. "For ME?" said Aubrey in amazement. How could it be for him, he thought, for no one knew he was there. "The party on the wire asked to speak to the gentleman who arrived about half an hour ago, and I guess you must be the one he means." "Did he say who he is?" asked Aubrey. "No, sir." For a moment Aubrey thought of refusing to answer the call. Then it occurred to him that this would arouse Mrs. Schiller's suspicions. He ran down to the telephone, which stood under the stairs in the front hall. "Hello," he said. "Is this the new guest?" said a voice--a deep, gargling kind of voice. "Yes," said Aubrey. "Is this the gentleman that arrived half an hour ago with a handbag?" "Yes; who are you?" "I'm a friend," said the voice; "I wish you well." "How do you do, friend and well-wisher," said Aubrey genially. "I schust want to warn you that Gissing Street is not healthy for you," said the voice. "Is that so?" said Aubrey sharply. "Who are you?" "I am a friend," buzzed the receiver. There was a harsh, bass note in the voice that made the diaphragm at Aubrey's ear vibrate tinnily. Aubrey grew angry. "Well, Herr Freund," he said, "if you're the well-wisher I met on the Bridge last night, watch your step. I've got your number." There was a pause. Then the other repeated, ponderously, "I am a friend. Gissing Street is not healthy for you." There was a click, and he had rung off. Aubrey was a good deal perplexed. He returned to his room, and sat in the dark by the window, smoking a pipe and thinking, with his eyes on the bookshop. There was no longer any doubt in his mind that something sinister was afoot. He reviewed in memory the events of the past few days. It was on Monday that a bookloving friend had first told him of the existence of the shop on Gissing Street. On Tuesday evening he had gone round to visit the place, and had stayed to supper with Mr. Mifflin. On Wednesday and Thursday he had been busy at the office, and the idea of an intensive Daintybit campaign in Brooklyn had occurred to him. On Friday he had dined with Mr. Chapman, and had run into a curious string of coincidences. He tabulated them:-- (1) The Lost ad in the Times on Friday morning. (2) The chef in the elevator carrying the book that was supposed to be lost--he being the same man Aubrey had seen in the bookshop on Tuesday evening. (3) Seeing the chef again on Gissing Street. (4) The return of the book to the bookshop. (5) Mifflin had said that the book had been stolen from him. Then why should it be either advertised or returned? (6) The rebinding of the book. (7) Finding the original cover of the book in Weintraub's drug store. (8) The affair on the Bridge. (9) The telephone message from "a friend"--a friend with an obviously Teutonic voice. He remembered the face of anger and fear displayed by the Octagon chef when he had spoken to him in the elevator. Until this oddly menacing telephone message, he could have explained the attack on the Bridge as merely a haphazard foot-pad enterprise; but now he was forced to conclude that it was in some way connected with his visits to the bookshop. He felt, too, that in some unknown way Weintraub's drug store had something to do with it. Would he have been attacked if he had not taken the book cover from the drug store? He got the cover out of his bag and looked at it again. It was of plain blue cloth, with the title stamped in gold on the back, and at the bottom the lettering London: Chapman and Hall. From the width of the backstrap it was evident that the book had been a fat one. Inside the front cover the figure 60 was written in red pencil--this he took to be Roger Mifflin's price mark. Inside the back cover he found the following notations-- vol. 3--166, 174, 210, 329, 349 329 ff. cf. W. W. These references were written in black ink, in a small, neat hand. Below them, in quite a different script and in pale violet ink, was written 153 (3) 1, 2 "I suppose these are page numbers," Aubrey thought. "I think I'd better have a look at that book." He put the cover in his pocket and went out for a bite of supper. "It's a puzzle with three sides to it," he thought, as he descended the crepitant stairs, "The Bookshop, the Octagon, and Weintraub's; but that book seems to be the clue to the whole business." Chapter VIII Aubrey Goes to the Movies, and Wishes he Knew More German A few doors from the bookshop was a small lunchroom named after the great city of Milwaukee, one of those pleasant refectories where the diner buys his food at the counter and eats it sitting in a flat-armed chair. Aubrey got a bowl of soup, a cup of coffee, beef stew, and bran muffins, and took them to an empty seat by the window. He ate with one eye on the street. From his place in the corner he could command the strip of pavement in front of Mifflin's shop. Halfway through the stew he saw Roger come out onto the pavement and begin to remove the books from the boxes. After finishing his supper he lit one of his "mild but they satisfy" cigarettes and sat in the comfortable warmth of a near-by radiator. A large black cat lay sprawled on the next chair. Up at the service counter there was a pleasant clank of stout crockery as occasional customers came in and ordered their victuals. Aubrey began to feel a relaxation swim through his veins. Gissing Street was very bright and orderly in its Saturday evening bustle. Certainly it was grotesque to imagine melodrama hanging about a second-hand bookshop in Brooklyn. The revolver felt absurdly lumpy and uncomfortable in his hip pocket. What a different aspect a little hot supper gives to affairs! The most resolute idealist or assassin had better write his poems or plan his atrocities before the evening meal. After the narcosis of that repast the spirit falls into a softer mood, eager only to be amused. Even Milton would hardly have had the inhuman fortitude to sit down to the manuscript of Paradise Lost right after supper. Aubrey began to wonder if his unpleasant suspicions had not been overdrawn. He thought how delightful it would be to stop in at the bookshop and ask Titania to go to the movies with him. Curious magic of thought! The idea was still sparkling in his mind when he saw Titania and Mrs. Mifflin emerge from the bookshop and pass briskly in front of the lunchroom. They were talking and laughing merrily. Titania's face, shining with young vitality, seemed to him more "attention-compelling" than any ten-point Caslon type-arrangement he had ever seen. He admired the layout of her face from the standpoint of his cherished technique. "Just enough 'white space,'" he thought, "to set off her eyes as the 'centre of interest.' Her features aren't this modern bold-face stuff, set solid," he said to himself, thinking typographically. "They're rather French old-style italic, slightly leaded. Set on 22-point body, I guess. Old man Chapman's a pretty good typefounder, you have to hand it to him." He smiled at this conceit, seized hat and coat, and dashed out of the lunchroom. Mrs. Mifflin and Titania had halted a few yards up the street, and were looking at some pert little bonnets in a window. Aubrey hurried across the street, ran up to the next corner, recrossed, and walked down the eastern pavement. In this way he would meet them as though he were coming from the subway. He felt rather more excited than King Albert re-entering Brussels. He saw them coming, chattering together in the delightful fashion of women out on a spree. Helen seemed much younger in the company of her companion. "A lining of pussy-willow taffeta and an embroidered slip-on," she was saying. Aubrey steered onto them with an admirable gesture of surprise. "Well, I never!" said Mrs. Mifflin. "Here's Mr. Gilbert. Were you coming to see Roger?" she added, rather enjoying the young man's predicament. Titania shook hands cordially. Aubrey, searching the old-style italics with the desperate intensity of a proof-reader, saw no evidence of chagrin at seeing him again so soon. "Why," he said rather lamely, "I was coming to see you all. I--I wondered how you were getting along." Mrs. Mifflin had pity on him. "We've left Mr. Mifflin to look after the shop," she said. "He's busy with some of his old crony customers. Why don't you come with us to the movies?" "Yes, do," said Titania. "It's Mr. and Mrs. Sidney Drew, you know how adorable they are!" No one needs to be told how quickly Aubrey assented. Pleasure coincided with duty in that the outer wing of the party placed him next to Titania. "Well, how do you like bookselling?" he asked. "Oh, it's the greatest fun!" she cried. "But it'll take me ever and ever so long to learn about all the books. People ask such questions! A woman came in this afternoon looking for a copy of Blase Tales. How was I to know she wanted The Blazed Trail?" "You'll get used to that," said Mrs. Mifflin. "Just a minute, people, I want to stop in at the drug store." They went into Weintraub's pharmacy. Entranced as he was by the proximity of Miss Chapman, Aubrey noticed that the druggist eyed him rather queerly. And being of a noticing habit, he also observed that when Weintraub had occasion to write out a label for a box of powdered alum Mrs. Mifflin was buying, he did so with a pale violet ink. At the glass sentry-box in front of the theatre Aubrey insisted on buying the tickets. "We came out right after supper," said Titania as they entered, "so as to get in before the crowd." It is not so easy, however, to get ahead of Brooklyn movie fans. They had to stand for several minutes in a packed lobby while a stern young man held the waiting crowd in check with a velvet rope. Aubrey sustained delightful spasms of the protective instinct in trying to shelter Titania from buffets and pushings. Unknown to her, his arm extended behind her like an iron rod to absorb the onward impulses of the eager throng. A rustling groan ran through these enthusiasts as they saw the preliminary footage of the great Tarzan flash onto the screen, and realized they were missing something. At last, however, the trio got through the barrier and found three seats well in front, at one side. From this angle the flying pictures were strangely distorted, but Aubrey did not mind. "Isn't it lucky I got here when I did," whispered Titania. "Mr. Mifflin has just had a telephone call from Philadelphia asking him to go over on Monday to make an estimate on a library that's going to be sold so I'll be able to look after the shop for him while he's gone." "Is that so?" said Aubrey. "Well, now, I've got to be in Brooklyn on Monday, on business. Maybe Mrs. Mifflin would let me come in and buy some books from you." "Customers always welcome," said Mrs. Mifflin. "I've taken a fancy to that Cromwell book," said Aubrey. "What do you suppose Mr. Mifflin would sell it for?" "I think that book must be valuable," said Titania. "Somebody came in this afternoon and wanted to buy it, but Mr. Mifflin wouldn't part with it. He says it's one of his favourites. Gracious, what a weird film this is!" The fantastic absurdities of Tarzan proceeded on the screen, tearing celluloid passions to tatters, but Aubrey found the strong man of the jungle coming almost too close to his own imperious instincts. Was not he, too--he thought naively--a poor Tarzan of the advertising jungle, lost among the elephants and alligators of commerce, and sighing for this dainty and unattainable vision of girlhood that had burst upon his burning gaze! He stole a perilous side-glance at her profile, and saw the racing flicker of the screen reflected in tiny spangles of light that danced in her eyes. He was even so unknowing as to imagine that she was not aware of his contemplation. And then the lights went up. "What nonsense, wasn't it?" said Titania. "I'm so glad it's over! I was quite afraid one of those elephants would walk off the screen and tread on us." "I never can understand," said Helen, "why they don't film some of the really good books--think of Frank Stockton's stuff, how delightful that would be. Can't you imagine Mr. and Mrs. Drew playing in Rudder Grange!" "Thank goodness!" said Titania. "Since I entered the book business, that's the first time anybody's mentioned a book that I've read. Yes--do you remember when Pomona and Jonas visit an insane asylum on their honeymoon? Do you know, you and Mr. Mifflin remind me a little of Mr. and Mrs. Drew." Helen and Aubrey chuckled at this innocent correlation of ideas. Then the organ began to play "O How I Hate To Get Up in the Morning" and the ever-delightful Mr. and Mrs. Drew appeared on the screen in one of their domestic comedies. Lovers of the movies may well date a new screen era from the day those whimsical pantomimers set their wholesome and humane talent at the service of the arc light and the lens. Aubrey felt a serene and intimate pleasure in watching them from a seat beside Titania. He knew that the breakfast table scene shadowed before them was only a makeshift section of lath propped up in some barnlike motion picture studio; yet his rocketing fancy imagined it as some arcadian suburb where he and Titania, by a jugglery of benign fate, were bungalowed together. Young men have a pioneering imagination: it is doubtful whether any young Orlando ever found himself side by side with Rosalind without dreaming himself wedded to her. If men die a thousand deaths before this mortal coil is shuffled, even so surely do youths contract a thousand marriages before they go to the City Hall for a license. Aubrey remembered the opera glasses, which were still in his pocket, and brought them out. The trio amused themselves by watching Sidney Drew's face through the magnifying lenses. They were disappointed in the result, however, as the pictures, when so enlarged, revealed all the cobweb of fine cracks on the film. Mr. Drew's nose, the most amusing feature known to the movies, lost its quaintness when so augmented. "Why," cried Titania, "it makes his lovely nose look like the map of Florida." "How on earth did you happen to have these in your pocket?" asked Mrs. Mifflin, returning the glasses. Aubrey was hard pressed for a prompt and reasonable fib, but advertising men are resourceful. "Oh," he said, "I sometimes carry them with me at night to study the advertising sky-signs. I'm a little short sighted. You see, it's part of my business to study the technique of the electric signs." After some current event pictures the programme prepared to repeat itself, and they went out. "Will you come in and have some cocoa with us?" said Helen as they reached the door of the bookshop. Aubrey was eager enough to accept, but feared to overplay his hand. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I think I'd better not. I've got some work to do to-night. Perhaps I can drop in on Monday when Mr. Mifflin's away, and put coal on the furnace for you, or something of that sort?" Mrs. Mifflin laughed. "Surely!" she said. "You're welcome any time." The door closed behind them, and Aubrey fell into a profound melancholy. Deprived of the heavenly rhetoric of her eye, Gissing Street seemed flat and dull. It was still early--not quite ten o'clock--and it occurred to Aubrey that if he was going to patrol the neighbourhood he had better fix its details in his head. Hazlitt, the next street below the bookshop, proved to be a quiet little byway, cheerfully lit with modest dwellings. A few paces down Hazlitt Street a narrow cobbled alley ran through to Wordsworth Avenue, passing between the back yards of Gissing Street and Whittier Street. The alley was totally dark, but by counting off the correct number of houses Aubrey identified the rear entrance of the bookshop. He tried the yard gate cautiously, and found it unlocked. Glancing in he could see a light in the kitchen window and assumed that the cocoa was being brewed. Then a window glowed upstairs, and he was thrilled to see Titania shining in the lamplight. She moved to the window and pulled down the blind. For a moment he saw her head and shoulders silhouetted against the curtain; then the light went out. Aubrey stood briefly in sentimental thought. If he only had a couple of blankets, he mused, he could camp out here in Roger's back yard all night. Surely no harm could come to the girl while he kept watch beneath her casement! The idea was just fantastic enough to appeal to him. Then, as he stood in the open gateway, he heard distant footfalls coming down the alley, and a grumble of voices. Perhaps two policemen on their rounds, he thought: it would be awkward to be surprised skulking about back doors at this time of night. He slipped inside the gate and closed it gently behind him, taking the precaution to slip the bolt. The footsteps came nearer, stumbling down the uneven cobbles in the darkness. He stood still against the back fence. To his amazement the men halted outside Mifflin's gate, and he heard the latch quietly lifted. "It's no use," said a voice--"the gate is locked. We must find some other way, my friend." Aubrey tingled to hear the rolling, throaty "r" in the last word. There was no mistaking--this was the voice of his "friend and well-wisher" over the telephone. The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey caught only two words--Thur and Schlussel, which he knew meant door and key. "Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act to-night. The damned thing must be finished to-morrow. Your idiotic stupidity--" Again followed some gargling in German, in a rapid undertone too fluent for Aubrey's grasp. The latch of the alley gate clicked once more, and his hand was on his revolver; but in a moment the two had passed on down the alley. The young advertising agent stood against the fence in silent horror, his heart bumping heavily. His hands were clammy, his feet seemed to have grown larger and taken root. What damnable complot was this? A sultry wave of anger passed over him. This bland, slick, talkative bookseller, was he arranging some blackmailing scheme to kidnap the girl and wring blood-money out of her father? And in league with Germans, too, the scoundrel! What an asinine thing for old Chapman to send an unprotected girl over here into the wilds of Brooklyn . . . and in the meantime, what was he to do? Patrol the back yard all night? No, the friend and well-wisher had said "We must find some other way." Besides, Aubrey remembered something having been said about the old terrier sleeping in the kitchen. He felt sure Bock would not let any German in at night without raising the roof. Probably the best way would be to watch the front of the shop. In miserable perplexity he waited several minutes until the two Germans would be well out of earshot. Then he unbolted the gate and stole up the alley on tiptoe, in the opposite direction. It led into Wordsworth Avenue just behind Weintraub's drug store, over the rear of which hung the great girders and trestles of the "L" station, a kind of Swiss chalet straddling the street on stilts. He thought it prudent to make a detour, so he turned east on Wordsworth Avenue until he reached Whittier Street, then sauntered easily down Whittier for a block, spying sharply for evidences of pursuit. Brooklyn was putting out its lights for the night, and all was quiet. He turned into Hazlitt Street and so back onto Gissing, noticing now that the Haunted Bookshop lights were off. It was nearly eleven o'clock: the last audience was filing out of the movie theatre, where two workmen were already perched on ladders taking down the Tarzan electric light sign, to substitute the illuminated lettering for the next feature. After some debate he decided that the best thing to do was to return to his room at Mrs. Schiller's, from which he could keep a sharp watch on the front door of the bookshop. By good fortune there was a lamp post almost directly in front of Mifflin's house, which cast plenty of light on the little sunken area before the door. With his opera glasses he could see from his bedroom whatever went on. As he crossed the street he cast his eyes upward at the facade of Mrs. Schiller's house. Two windows in the fourth storey were lit, and the gas burned minutely in the downstairs hall, elsewhere all was dark. And then, as he glanced at the window of his own chamber, where the curtain was still tucked back behind the pane, he noticed a curious thing. A small point of rosy light glowed, faded, and glowed again by the window. Someone was smoking a cigar in his room. Aubrey continued walking in even stride, as though he had seen nothing. Returning down the street, on the opposite side, he verified his first glance. The light was still there, and he judged himself not far out in assuming the smoker to be the friend and well-wisher or one of his gang. He had suspected the other man in the alley of being Weintraub, but he could not be sure. A cautious glance through the window of the drug store revealed Weintraub at his prescription counter. Aubrey determined to get even with the guttural gentleman who was waiting for him, certainly with no affectionate intent. He thanked the good fortune that had led him to stick the book cover in his overcoat pocket when leaving Mrs. Schiller's. Evidently, for reasons unknown, someone was very anxious to get hold of it. An idea occurred to him as he passed the little florist's shop, which was just closing. He entered and bought a dozen white carnations, and then, as if by an afterthought, asked "Have you any wire?" The florist produced a spool of the slender, tough wire that is sometimes used to nip the buds of expensive roses, to prevent them from blossoming too quickly. "Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some to-night and I guess the hardware stores are all closed." With this he returned to Mrs. Schiller's, picking his way carefully and close to the houses so as to be out of sight from the upstairs windows. He climbed the steps and unlatched the door with bated breath. It was half-past eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the well-wisher to descend. He could not help chuckling as he made his preparations, remembering an occasion at college somewhat similar in setting though far less serious in purpose. First he took off his shoes, laying them carefully to one side where he could find them again in a hurry. Then, choosing a banister about six feet from the bottom of the stairs he attached one end of the wire tightly to its base and spread the slack in a large loop over two of the stair treads. The remaining end of the wire he passed out through the banisters, twisting it into a small loop so that he could pull it easily. Then he turned out the hall gas and sat down in the dark to wait events. He sat for a long time, in some nervousness lest the pug dog might come prowling and find him. He was startled by a lady in a dressing gown--perhaps Mrs. J. F. Smith--who emerged from a ground-floor room passed very close to him in the dark, and muttered upstairs. He twitched his noose out of the way just in time. Presently, however, his patience was rewarded. He heard a door squeak above, and then the groaning of the staircase as someone descended slowly. He relaid his trap and waited, smiling to himself. A clock somewhere in the house was chiming twelve as the man came groping down the last flight, feeling his way in the dark. Aubrey heard him swearing under his breath. At the precise moment, when both his victim's feet were within the loop, Aubrey gave the wire a gigantic tug. The man fell like a safe, crashing against the banisters and landing in a sprawl on the floor. It was a terrific fall, and shook the house. He lay there groaning and cursing. Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with his face twisted against one out-spread arm, but the beard was unmistakable. It was the assistant chef again, and he seemed partly unconscious. "Burnt hair is a grand restorative," said Aubrey to himself, and applied the match to the bush of beard. He singed off a couple of inches of it with intense delight, and laid his carnations on the head of the stricken one. Then, hearing stirrings in the basement, he gathered up his wire and shoes and fled upstairs. He gained his room roaring with inward mirth, but entered cautiously, fearing some trap. Save for a strong tincture of cigar smoke, everything seemed correct. Listening at his door he heard Mrs. Schiller exclaiming shrilly in the hall, assisted by yappings from the pug. Doors upstairs were opened, and questions were called out. He heard guttural groans from the bearded one, mingled with oaths and some angry remark about having fallen downstairs. The pug, frenzied with excitement, yelled insanely. A female voice--possibly Mrs. J. F. Smith--cried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're burning feathers under his nose to bring him to." "Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his opera glasses. Chapter IX Again the Narrative is Retarded Roger had spent a quiet evening in the bookshop. Sitting at his desk under a fog of tobacco, he had honestly intended to do some writing on the twelfth chapter of his great work on bookselling. This chapter was to be an (alas, entirely conjectural) "Address Delivered by a Bookseller on Being Conferred the Honorary Degree of Doctor of Letters by a Leading University," and it presented so many alluring possibilities that Roger's mind always wandered from the paper into entranced visions of his imagined scene. He loved to build up in fancy the flattering details of that fine ceremony when bookselling would at last be properly recognized as one of the learned professions. He could see the great auditorium, filled with cultivated people: men with Emersonian profiles, ladies whispering behind their fluttering programmes. He could see the academic beadle, proctor, dean (or whatever he is, Roger was a little doubtful) pronouncing the august words of presentation-- A man who, in season and out of season, forgetting private gain for public weal, has laboured with Promethean and sacrificial ardour to instil the love of reasonable letters into countless thousands; to whom, and to whose colleagues, amid the perishable caducity of human affairs, is largely due the pullulation of literary taste; in honouring whom we seek to honour the noble and self-effacing profession of which he is so representative a member---- Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortar-board, haled forward by ushers, and tottering rubescent before the chancellor, provost, president (or whoever it might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage, and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of. Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors, statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to booksellers?" Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself, sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock. His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and be much sought after by serious investors. These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill, the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley. The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white horse, had lodging there also. It occurred to Roger that he owed Andrew a letter, and putting aside his notes for the bookseller's collegiate oration, he began to write: THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP 163 Gissing Street, Brooklyn, November 30, 1918. MY DEAR ANDREW: It is scandalous not to have thanked you sooner for the annual cask of cider, which has given us even more than the customary pleasure. This has been an autumn when I have been hard put to it to keep up with my own thoughts, and I've written no letters at all. Like everyone else I am thinking constantly of this new peace that has marvellously come upon us. I trust we may have statesmen who will be able to turn it to the benefit of humanity. I wish there could be an international peace conference of booksellers, for (you will smile at this) my own conviction is that the future happiness of the world depends in no small measure on them and on the librarians. I wonder what a German bookseller is like? I've been reading The Education of Henry Adams and wish he might have lived long enough to give us his thoughts on the War. I fear it would have bowled him over. He thought that this is not a world "that sensitive and timid natures can regard without a shudder." What would he have said of the four-year shambles we have watched with sickened hearts? You remember my favourite poem--old George Herbert's Church Porch--where he says-- By all means use sometimes to be alone; Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; Dare to look in thy chest, for 'tis thine own, And tumble up and down what thou find'st there-- Well, I've been tumbling my thoughts up and down a good deal. Melancholy, I suppose, is the curse of the thinking classes; but I confess my soul wears a great uneasiness these days! The sudden and amazing turnover in human affairs, dramatic beyond anything in history, already seems to be taken as a matter of course. My great fear is that humanity will forget the atrocious sufferings of the war, which have never been told. I am hoping and praying that men like Philip Gibbs may tell us what they really saw. You will not agree with me on what I am about to say, for I know you as a stubborn Republican; but I thank fortune that Wilson is going to the Peace Conference. I've been mulling over one of my favourite books--it lies beside me as I write--Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, edited by Carlyle, with what Carlyle amusingly calls "Elucidations." (Carlyle is not very good at "elucidating" anything!) I have heard somewhere or other that this is one of Wilson's favourite books, and indeed, there is much of the Cromwell in him. With what a grim, covenanting zeal he took up the sword when at last it was forced into his hand! And I have been thinking that what he will say to the Peace Conference will smack strongly of what old Oliver used to say to Parliament in 1657 and 1658--"If we will have Peace without a worm in it, lay we foundations of Justice and Righteousness." What makes Wilson so irritating to the unthoughtful is that he operates exclusively upon reason, not upon passion. He contradicts Kipling's famous lines, which apply to most men-- Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. In this instance, I think, Reason is going to win. I feel the whole current of the world setting in that direction. It's quaint to think of old Woodrow, a kind of Cromwell-Wordsworth, going over to do his bit among the diplomatic shell-craters. What I'm waiting for is the day when he'll get back into private life and write a book about it. There's a job, if you like, for a man who might reasonably be supposed to be pretty tired in body and soul! When that book comes out I'll spend the rest of my life in selling it. I ask nothing better! Speaking of Wordsworth, I've often wondered whether Woodrow hasn't got some poems concealed somewhere among his papers! I've always imagined that he may have written poems on the sly. And by the way, you needn't make fun of me for being so devoted to George Herbert. Do you realize that two of the most familiar quotations in our language come from his pen, viz.: Wouldst thou both eat thy cake, and have it? and Dare to be true: nothing can need a ly; A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby. Forgive this tedious sermon! My mind has been so tumbled up and down this autumn that I am in a queer state of mingled melancholy and exaltation. You know how much I live in and for books. Well, I have a curious feeling, a kind of premonition that there are great books coming out of this welter of human hopes and anguishes, perhaps A book in which the tempest-shaken soul of the race will speak out as it never has before. The Bible, you know, is rather a disappointment: it has never done for humanity what it should have done. I wonder why? Walt Whitman is going to do a great deal, but he is not quite what I mean. There is something coming--I don't know just what! I thank God I am a bookseller, trafficking in the dreams and beauties and curiosities of humanity rather than some mere huckster of merchandise. But how helpless we all are when we try to tell what goes on within us! I found this in one of Lafcadio Hearn's letters the other day--I marked the passage for you Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would like--describing the poet's soul superb in its own free azure--but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth--or rather, on a deck, where sailors torment it with tobacco pipes, etc. You can imagine what evenings I have here among my shelves, now the long dark nights are come! Of course until ten o'clock, when I shut up shop, I am constantly interrupted--as I have been during this letter, once to sell a copy of Helen's Babies and once to sell The Ballad of Reading Gaol, so you can see how varied are my clients' tastes! But later on, after we have had our evening cocoa and Helen has gone to bed, I prowl about the place, dipping into this and that, fuddling myself with speculation. How clear and bright the stream of the mind flows in those late hours, after all the sediment and floating trash of the day has drained off! Sometimes I seem to coast the very shore of Beauty or Truth, and hear the surf breaking on those shining sands. Then some offshore wind of weariness or prejudice bears me away again. Have you ever come across Andreyev's Confessions of a Little Man During Great Days? One of the honest books of the War. The Little Man ends his confession thus-- My anger has left me, my sadness returned, and once more the tears flow. Whom can I curse, whom can I judge, when we are all alike unfortunate? Suffering is universal; hands are outstretched to each other, and when they touch . . . the great solution will come. My heart is aglow, and I stretch out my hand and cry, "Come, let us join hands! I love you, I love you!" And of course, as soon as one puts one's self in that frame of mind someone comes along and picks your pocket. . . . I suppose we must teach ourselves to be too proud to mind having our pockets picked! Did it ever occur to you that the world is really governed by BOOKS? The course of this country in the War, for instance, has been largely determined by the books Wilson has read since he first began to think! If we could have a list of the principal books he has read since the War began, how interesting it would be. Here's something I'm just copying out to put up on my bulletin board for my customers to ponder. It was written by Charles Sorley, a young Englishman who was killed in France in 1915. He was only twenty years old-- TO GERMANY You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind, And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain. Isn't that noble? You see what I am dumbly groping for--some way of thinking about the War that will make it seem (to future ages) a purification for humanity rather than a mere blackness of stinking cinders and tortured flesh and men shot to ribbons in marshes of blood and sewage. Out of such unspeakable desolation men MUST rise to some new conception of national neighbourhood. I hear so much apprehension that Germany won't be punished sufficiently for her crime. But how can any punishment be devised or imposed for such a huge panorama of sorrow? I think she has already punished herself horribly, and will continue to do so. My prayer is that what we have gone through will startle the world into some new realization of the sanctity of life--all life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound you with all that amazing and grotesque variety of living energy? What is it that we find in every form of life? Desire of some sort--some unexplained motive power that impels even the smallest insect on its queer travels. You must have watched some infinitesimal red spider on a fence rail, bustling along--why and whither? Who knows? And when you come to man, what a chaos of hungers and impulses keep thrusting him through his cycle of quaint tasks! And in every human heart you find some sorrow, some frustration, some lurking pang. I often think of Lafcadio Hearn's story of his Japanese cook. Hearn was talking of the Japanese habit of not showing their emotions on their faces. His cook was a smiling, healthy, agreeable-looking young fellow whose face was always cheerful. Then one day, by chance, Hearn happened to look through a hole in the wall and saw his cook alone. His face was not the same face. It was thin and drawn and showed strange lines worn by old hardships or sufferings. Hearn thought to himself, "He will look just like that when he is dead." He went into the kitchen to see him, and instantly the cook was all changed, young and happy again. Never again did Hearn see that face of trouble; but he knew the man wore it when he was alone. Don't you think there is a kind of parable there for the race as a whole? Have you ever met a man without wondering what shining sorrows he hides from the world, what contrast between vision and accomplishment torments him? Behind every smiling mask is there not some cryptic grimace of pain? Henry Adams puts it tersely. He says the human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages. After sixty years or so of growing astonishment the mind wakes to find itself looking blankly into the void of death. And, as Adams says, that it should profess itself pleased by this performance is all that the highest rules of good breeding can ask. That the mind should actually be satisfied would prove that it exists only as idiocy! I hope that you will write to tell me along what curves your mind is moving. For my own part I feel that we are on the verge of amazing things. Long ago I fell back on books as the only permanent consolers. They are the one stainless and unimpeachable achievement of the human race. It saddens me to think that I shall have to die with thousands of books unread that would have given me noble and unblemished happiness. I will tell you a secret. I have never read King Lear, and have purposely refrained from doing so. If I were ever very ill I would only need to say to myself "You can't die yet, you haven't read Lear." That would bring me round, I know it would. You see, books are the answer to all our perplexities! Henry Adams grinds his teeth at his inability to understand the universe. The best he can do is to suggest a "law of acceleration," which seems to mean that Nature is hustling man along at an ever-increasing rate so that he will either solve all her problems or else die of fever in the effort. But Adams' candid portrait of a mind grappling helplessly with its riddles is so triumphantly delightful that one forgets the futility of the struggle in the accuracy of the picture. Man is unconquerable because he can make even his helplessness so entertaining. His motto seems to be "Even though He slay me, yet will I make fun of Him!" Yes, books are man's supreme triumph, for they gather up and transmit all other triumphs. As Walter de la Mare writes, "How uncomprehendingly must an angel from heaven smile on a poor human sitting engrossed in a romance: angled upon his hams, motionless in his chair, spectacles on nose, his two feet as close together as the flukes of a merman's tail, only his strange eyes stirring in his time-worn face." Well, I've been scribbling away all this time and haven't given you any news whatever. Helen came back the other day from a visit to Boston where she enjoyed herself greatly. To-night she has gone out to the movies with a young protegee of ours, Miss Titania Chapman, an engaging damsel whom we have taken in as an apprentice bookseller. It's a quaint idea, done at the request of her father, Mr. Chapman, the proprietor of Chapman's Daintybits which you see advertised everywhere. He is a great booklover, and is very eager to have the zeal transmitted to his daughter. So you can imagine my glee to have a neophyte of my own to preach books at! Also it will enable me to get away from the shop a little more. I had a telephone call from Philadelphia this afternoon asking me to go over there on Monday evening to make an estimate of the value of a private collection that is to be sold. I was rather flattered because I can't imagine how they got hold of my name. Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say grace over the day's accounts. Yours ever, ROGER MIFFLIN. Chapter X Roger Raids the Ice-Box Roger had just put Carlyle's Cromwell back in its proper place in the History alcove when Helen and Titania returned from the movies. Bock, who had been dozing under his master's chair, rose politely and wagged a deferential tail. "I do think Bock has the darlingest manners," said Titania. "Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so." "Well," said Roger, "did you have a good time?" "An adorable time!" cried Titania, with a face and voice so sparkling that two musty habitues of the shop popped their heads out of the alcoves marked ESSAYS and THEOLOGY and peered in amazement. One of these even went so far as to purchase the copy of Leigh Hunt's Wishing Cap Papers he had been munching through, in order to have an excuse to approach the group and satisfy his bewildered eyes. When Miss Chapman took the book and wrapped it up for him, his astonishment was made complete. Unconscious that she was actually creating business, Titania resumed. "We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's coming in on Monday to fix the furnace while you're away." "Well," said Roger, "these advertising agencies are certainly enterprising, aren't they? Think of sending a man over to attend to my furnace, just on the slim chance of getting my advertising account." "Did you have a quiet evening?" said Helen. "I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually sold that copy of Philip Dru." "No!" cried Helen. "A fact," said Roger. "A man was looking at it, and I told him it was supposed to be written by Colonel House. He insisted on buying it. But what a sell when he tries to read it!" "Did Colonel House really write it?" asked Titania. "I don't know," said Roger. "I hope not, because I find in myself a secret tendency to believe that Mr. House is an able man. If he did write it, I devoutly hope none of the foreign statesmen in Paris will learn of that fact." While Helen and Titania took off their wraps, Roger was busy closing up the shop. He went down to the corner with Bock to mail his letter, and when he returned to the den Helen had prepared a large jug of cocoa. They sat down by the fire to enjoy it. "Chesterton has written a very savage poem against cocoa," said Roger, "which you will find in The Flying Inn; but for my part I find it the ideal evening drink. It lets the mind down gently, and paves the way for slumber. I have often noticed that the most terrific philosophical agonies can be allayed by three cups of Mrs. Mifflin's cocoa. A man can safely read Schopenhauer all evening if he has a tablespoonful of cocoa and a tin of condensed milk available. Of course it should be made with condensed milk, which is the only way." "I had no idea anything could be so good," said Titania. "Of course, Daddy makes condensed milk in one of his factories, but I never dreamed of trying it. I thought it was only used by explorers, people at the North Pole, you know." "How stupid of me!" exclaimed Roger. "I quite forgot to tell you! Your father called up just after you had gone out this evening, and wanted to know how you were getting on." "Oh, dear," said Titania. "He must have been delighted to hear I was at the movies, on the second day of my first job! He probably said it was just like me." "I explained that I had insisted on your going with Mrs. Mifflin, because I felt she needed the change." "I do hope," said Titania, "you won't let Daddy poison your mind about me. He thinks I'm dreadfully frivolous, just because I LOOK frivolous. But I'm so keen to make good in this job. I've been practicing doing up parcels all afternoon, so as to learn how to tie the string nicely and not cut it until after the knot's tied. I found that when you cut it beforehand either you get it too short and it won't go round, or else too long and you waste some. Also I've learned how to make wrapping paper cuffs to keep my sleeves clean." "Well, I haven't finished yet," continued Roger. "Your father wants us all to spend to-morrow out at your home. He wants to show us some books he has just bought, and besides he thinks maybe you're feeling homesick." "What, with all these lovely books to read? Nonsense! I don't want to go home for six months!" "He wouldn't take No for an answer. He's going to send Edwards round with the car the first thing to-morrow morning." "What fun!" said Helen. "It'll be delightful." "Goodness," said Titania. "Imagine leaving this adorable bookshop to spend Sunday in Larchmont. Well, I'll be able to get that georgette blouse I forgot." "What time will the car be here?" asked Helen. "Mr. Chapman said about nine o'clock. He begs us to get out there as early as possible, as he wants to spend the day showing us his books." As they sat round the fading bed of coals, Roger began hunting along his private shelves. "Have you ever read any Gissing?" he said. Titania made a pathetic gesture to Mrs. Mifflin. "It's awfully embarrassing to be asked these things! No, I never heard of him." "Well, as the street we live on is named after him, I think you ought to," he said. He pulled down his copy of The House of Cobwebs. "I'm going to read you one of the most delightful short stories I know. It's called 'A Charming Family.'" "No, Roger," said Mrs. Mifflin firmly. "Not to-night. It's eleven o'clock, and I can see Titania's tired. Even Bock has left us and gone in to his kennel. He's got more sense than you have." "All right," said the bookseller amiably. "Miss Chapman, you take the book up with you and read it in bed if you want to. Are you a librocubicularist?" Titania looked a little scandalized. "It's all right, my dear," said Helen. "He only means are you fond of reading in bed. I've been waiting to hear him work that word into the conversation. He made it up, and he's immensely proud of it." "Reading in bed?" said Titania. "What a quaint idea! Does any one do it? It never occurred to me. I'm sure when I go to bed I'm far too sleepy to think of such a thing." "Run along then, both of you," said Roger. "Get your beauty sleep. I shan't be very late." He meant it when he said it, but returning to his desk at the back of the shop his eye fell upon his private shelf of books which he kept there "to rectify perturbations" as Burton puts it. On this shelf there stood Pilgrim's Progress, Shakespeare, The Anatomy of Melancholy, The Home Book of Verse, George Herbert's Poems, The Notebooks of Samuel Butler, and Leaves of Grass. He took down The Anatomy of Melancholy, that most delightful of all books for midnight browsing. Turning to one of his favourite passages--"A Consolatory Digression, Containing the Remedies of All Manner of Discontents"--he was happily lost to all ticking of the clock, retaining only such bodily consciousness as was needful to dump, fill, and relight his pipe from time to time. Solitude is a dear jewel for men whose days are spent in the tedious this-and-that of trade. Roger was a glutton for his midnight musings. To such tried companions as Robert Burton and George Herbert he was wont to exonerate his spirit. It used to amuse him to think of Burton, the lonely Oxford scholar, writing that vast book to "rectify" his own melancholy. By and by, turning over the musty old pages, he came to the following, on Sleep-- The fittest time is two or three hours after supper, whenas the meat is now settled at the bottom of the stomach, and 'tis good to lie on the right side first, because at that site the liver doth rest under the stomach, not molesting any way, but heating him as a fire doth a kettle, that is put to it. After the first sleep 'tis not amiss to lie on the left side, that the meat may the better descend, and sometimes again on the belly, but never on the back. Seven or eight hours is a competent time for a melancholy man to rest---- In that case, thought Roger, it's time for me to be turning in. He looked at his watch, and found it was half-past twelve. He switched off his light and went back to the kitchen quarters to tend the furnace. I hesitate to touch upon a topic of domestic bitterness, but candor compels me to say that Roger's evening vigils invariably ended at the ice-box. There are two theories as to this subject of ice-box plundering, one of the husband and the other of the wife. Husbands are prone to think (in their simplicity) that if they take a little of everything palatable they find in the refrigerator, but thus distributing their forage over the viands the general effect of the depradation will be almost unnoticeable. Whereas wives say (and Mrs. Mifflin had often explained to Roger) that it is far better to take all of any one dish than a little of each; for the latter course is likely to diminish each item below the bulk at which it is still useful as a left-over. Roger, however, had the obstinate viciousness of all good husbands, and he knew the delights of cold provender by heart. Many a stewed prune, many a mess of string beans or naked cold boiled potato, many a chicken leg, half apple pie, or sector of rice pudding, had perished in these midnight festivals. He made it a point of honour never to eat quite all of the dish in question, but would pass with unabated zest from one to another. This habit he had sternly repressed during the War, but Mrs. Mifflin had noticed that since the armistice he had resumed it with hearty violence. This is a custom which causes the housewife to be confronted the next morning with a tragical vista of pathetic scraps. Two slices of beet in a little earthenware cup, a sliver of apple pie one inch wide, three prunes lowly nestling in a mere trickle of their own syrup, and a tablespoonful of stewed rhubarb where had been one of those yellow basins nearly full--what can the most resourceful kitcheneer do with these oddments? This atrocious practice cannot be too bitterly condemned. But we are what we are, and Roger was even more so. The Anatomy of Melancholy always made him hungry, and he dipped discreetly into various vessels of refreshment, sharing a few scraps with Bock whose pleading brown eye at these secret suppers always showed a comical realization of their shameful and furtive nature. Bock knew very well that Roger had no business at the ice-box, for the larger outlines of social law upon which every home depends are clearly understood by dogs. But Bock's face always showed his tremulous eagerness to participate in the sin, and rather than have him stand by as a silent and damning critic, Roger used to give him most of the cold potato. The censure of a dog is something no man can stand. But I rove, as Burton would say. After the ice-box, the cellar. Like all true householders, Roger was fond of his cellar. It was something mouldy of smell, but it harboured a well-stocked little bin of liquors, and the florid glow of the furnace mouth upon the concrete floor was a great pleasure to the bookseller. He loved to peer in at the dancing flicker of small blue flames that played above the ruddy mound of coals in the firebox--tenuous, airy little flames that were as blue as violets and hovered up and down in the ascending gases. Before blackening the fire with a stoking of coal he pulled up a wooden Bushmills box, turned off the electric bulb overhead, and sat there for a final pipe, watching the rosy shine of the grate. The tobacco smoke, drawn inward by the hot inhaling fire, seemed dry and gray in the golden brightness. Bock, who had pattered down the steps after him, nosed and snooped about the cellar. Roger was thinking of Burton's words on the immortal weed-- Tobacco, divine, rare, superexcellent tobacco, which goes far beyond all the panaceas, potable gold, and philosopher's stones, a sovereign remedy to all diseases. . . . a virtuous herb, if it be well qualified, opportunely taken, and medicinally used; but as it is commonly abused by most men, which take it as tinkers do ale, 'tis a plague, a mischief, a violent purger of goods, lands, health, hellish, devilish, and damned tobacco, the ruin and overthrow of body and soul---- Bock was standing on his hind legs, looking up at the front wall of the cellar, in which two small iron-grated windows opened onto the sunken area by the front door of the shop. He gave a low growl, and seemed uneasy. "What is it, Bock?" said Roger placidly, finishing his pipe. Bock gave a short, sharp bark, with a curious note of protest in it. But Roger's mind was still with Burton. "Rats?" he said. "Aye, very likely! This is Ratisbon, old man, but don't bark about it. Incident of the French Camp: 'Smiling, the rat fell dead.'" Bock paid no heed to this persiflage, but prowled the front end of the cellar, looking upward in curious agitation. He growled again, softly. "Shhh," said Roger gently. "Never mind the rats, Bock. Come on, we'll stoke up the fire and go to bed. Lord, it's one o'clock." Chapter XI Titania Tries Reading in Bed Aubrey, sitting at his window with the opera glasses, soon realized that he was blind weary. Even the exalted heroics of romance are not proof against fatigue, most potent enemy of all who do and dream. He had had a long day, coming after the skull-smiting of the night before; it was only the frosty air at the lifted sash that kept him at all awake. He had fallen into a half drowse when he heard footsteps coming down the opposite side of the street. He had forced himself awake several times before, to watch the passage of some harmless strollers through the innocent blackness of the Brooklyn night, but this time it was what he sought. The man stepped stealthily, with a certain blend of wariness and assurance. He halted under the lamp by the bookshop door, and the glasses gave him enlarged to Aubrey's eye. It was Weintraub, the druggist. The front of the bookshop was now entirely dark save for a curious little glimmer down below the pavement level. This puzzled Aubrey, but he focussed his glasses on the door of the shop. He saw Weintraub pull a key out of his pocket, insert it very carefully in the lock, and open the door stealthily. Leaving the door ajar behind him, the druggist slipped into the shop. "What devil's business is this?" thought Aubrey angrily. "The swine has even got a key of his own. There's no doubt about it. He and Mifflin are working together on this job." For a moment he was uncertain what to do. Should he run downstairs and across the street? Then, as he hesitated, he saw a pale beam of light over in the front left-hand corner of the shop. Through the glasses he could see the yellow circle of a flashlight splotched upon dim shelves of books. He saw Weintraub pull a volume out of the case, and the light vanished. Another instant and the man reappeared in the doorway, closed the door behind him with a gesture of careful silence, and was off up the street quietly and swiftly. It was all over in a minute. Two yellow oblongs shone for a minute or two down in the area underneath the door. Through the glasses he now made out these patches as the cellar windows. Then they disappeared also, and all was placid gloom. In the quivering light of the street lamps he could see the bookseller's sign gleaming whitely, with its lettering THIS SHOP IS HAUNTED. Aubrey sat back in his chair. "Well," he said to himself, "that guy certainly gave his shop the right name. This is by me. I do believe it's only some book-stealing game after all. I wonder if he and Weintraub go in for some first-edition faking, or some such stunt as that? I'd give a lot to know what it's all about." He stayed by the window on the qui vive, but no sound broke the stillness of Gissing Street. In the distance he could hear the occasional rumble of the Elevated trains rasping round the curve on Wordsworth Avenue. He wondered whether he ought to go over and break into the shop to see if all was well. But, like every healthy young man, he had a horror of appearing absurd. Little by little weariness numbed his apprehensions. Two o'clock clanged and echoed from distant steeples. He threw off his clothes and crawled into bed. It was ten o'clock on Sunday morning when he awoke. A broad swath of sunlight cut the room in half: the white muslin curtain at the window rippled outward like a flag. Aubrey exclaimed when he saw his watch. He had a sudden feeling of having been false to his trust. What had been happening across the way? He gazed out at the bookshop. Gissing Street was bright and demure in the crisp quietness of the forenoon. Mifflin's house showed no sign of life. It was as he had last seen it, save that broad green shades had been drawn down inside the big front windows, making it impossible to look through into the book-filled alcoves. Aubrey put on his overcoat in lieu of a dressing gown, and went in search of a bathtub. He found the bathroom on his floor locked, with sounds of leisurely splashing within. "Damn Mrs. J. F. Smith," he said. He was about to descend to the storey below, bashfully conscious of bare feet and pyjamaed shins, but looking over the banisters he saw Mrs. Schiller and the treasure-dog engaged in some household manoeuvres. The pug caught sight of his pyjama legs and began to yap. Aubrey retreated in the irritation of a man baulked of a cold tub. He shaved and dressed rapidly. On his way downstairs he met Mrs. Schiller. He thought that her gaze was disapproving. "A gentleman called to see you last night, sir," she said. "He said he was very sorry to miss you." "I was rather late in getting in," said Aubrey. "Did he leave his name?" "No, he said he'd see you some other time. He woke the whole house up by falling downstairs," she added sourly. He left the lodging house swiftly, fearing to be seen from the bookshop. He was very eager to learn if everything was all right, but he did not want the Mifflins to know he was lodging just opposite. Hastening diagonally across the street, he found that the Milwaukee Lunch, where he had eaten the night before, was open. He went in and had breakfast, rejoicing in grapefruit, ham and eggs, coffee, and doughnuts. He lit a pipe and sat by the window wondering what to do next. "It's damned perplexing," he said to himself. "I stand to lose either way. If I don't do anything, something may happen to the girl; if I butt in too soon I'll get in dutch with her. I wish I knew what Weintraub and that chef are up to." The lunchroom was practically empty, and in two chairs near him the proprietor and his assistant were sitting talking. Aubrey was suddenly struck by what they said. "Say, this here, now, bookseller guy must have struck it rich." "Who, Mifflin?" "Yeh; did ya see that car in front of his place this morning?" "No." "Believe me, some boat." "Musta hired it, hey? Where'd he go at?" "I didn't see. I just saw the bus standing front the door." "Say, did you see that swell dame he's got clerking for him?" "I sure did. What's he doing, taking her joy-riding?" "Shouldn't wonder. I wouldn't blame him----" Aubrey gave no sign of having heard, but got up and left the lunchroom. Had the girl been kidnapped while he overslept? He burned with shame to think what a pitiful failure his knight-errantry had been. His first idea was to beard Weintraub and compel him to explain his connection with the bookshop. His next thought was to call up Mr. Chapman and warn him of what had been going on. Then he decided it would be futile to do either of these before he really knew what had happened. He determined to get into the bookshop itself, and burst open its sinister secret. He walked hurriedly round to the rear alley, and surveyed the domestic apartments of the shop. Two windows in the second storey stood slightly open, but he could discern no signs of life. The back gate was still unlocked, and he walked boldly into the yard. The little enclosure was serene in the pale winter sunlight. Along one fence ran a line of bushes and perennials, their roots wrapped in straw. The grass plot was lumpy, the sod withered to a tawny yellow and granulated with a sprinkle of frost. Below the kitchen door--which stood at the head of a flight of steps--was a little grape arbour with a rustic bench where Roger used to smoke his pipe on summer evenings. At the back of this arbour was the cellar door. Aubrey tried it, and found it locked. He was in no mood to stick at trifles. He was determined to unriddle the mystery of the bookshop. At the right of the door was a low window, level with the brick pavement. Through the dusty pane he could see it was fastened only by a hook on the inside. He thrust his heel through the pane. As the glass tinkled onto the cellar floor he heard a low growl. He unhooked the catch, lifted the frame of the broken window, and looked in. There was Bock, with head quizzically tilted, uttering a rumbling guttural vibration that seemed to proceed automatically from his interior. Aubrey was a little dashed, but he said cheerily "Hullo, Bock! Good old man! Well, well, nice old fellow!" To his surprise, Bock recognized him as a friend and wagged his tail slightly, but still continued to growl. "I wish dogs weren't such sticklers for form," thought Aubrey. "Now if I went in by the front door, Bock wouldn't say anything. It's just because he sees me coming in this way that he's annoyed. Well, I'll have to take a chance." He thrust his legs in through the window, carefully holding up the sash with its jagged triangles of glass. It will never be known how severely Bock was tempted by the extremities thus exposed to him, but he was an old dog and his martial instincts had been undermined by years of kindness. Moreover, he remembered Aubrey perfectly well, and the smell of his trousers did not seem at all hostile. So he contented himself with a small grumbling of protest. He was an Irish terrier, but there was nothing Sinn Fein about him. Aubrey dropped to the floor, and patted the dog, thanking his good fortune. He glanced about the cellar as though expecting to find some lurking horror. Nothing more appalling than several cases of beer bottles met his eyes. He started quietly to go up the cellar stairs, and Bock, evidently consumed with legitimate curiosity, kept at his heels. "Look here," thought Aubrey. "I don't want the dog following me all through the house. If I touch anything he'll probably take a hunk out of my shin." He unlocked the door into the yard, and Bock obeying the Irish terrier's natural impulse to get into the open air, ran outside. Aubrey quickly closed the door again. Bock's face appeared at the broken window, looking in with so quaint an expression of indignant surprise that Aubrey almost laughed. "There, old man," he said, "it's all right. I'm just going to look around a bit." He ascended the stairs on tiptoe and found himself in the kitchen. All was quiet. An alarm clock ticked with a stumbling, headlong hurry. Pots of geraniums stood on the window sill. The range, with its lids off and the fire carefully nourished, radiated a mild warmth. Through a dark little pantry he entered the dining room. Still no sign of anything amiss. A pot of white heather stood on the table, and a corncob pipe lay on the sideboard. "This is the most innocent-looking kidnapper's den I ever heard of," he thought. "Any moving-picture director would be ashamed not to provide a better stage-set." At that instant he heard footsteps overhead. Curiously soft, muffled footsteps. Instantly he was on the alert. Now he would know the worst. A window upstairs was thrown open. "Bock, what are you doing in the yard?" floated a voice--a very clear, imperious voice that somehow made him think of the thin ringing of a fine glass tumbler. It was Titania. He stood aghast. Then he heard a door open, and steps on the stair. Merciful heaven, the girl must not find him here. What WOULD she think? He skipped back into the pantry, and shrank into a corner. He heard the footfalls reach the bottom of the stairs. There was a door into the kitchen from the central hall: it was not necessary for her to pass through the pantry, he thought. He heard her enter the kitchen. In his anxiety he crouched down beneath the sink, and his foot, bent beneath him, touched a large tin tray leaning against the wall. It fell over with a terrible clang. "Bock!" said Titania sharply, "what are you doing?" Aubrey was wondering miserably whether he ought to counterfeit a bark, but it was too late to do anything. The pantry door opened, and Titania looked in. They gazed at each other for several seconds in mutual horror. Even in his abasement, crouching under a shelf in the corner, Aubrey's stricken senses told him that he had never seen so fair a spectacle. Titania wore a blue kimono and a curious fragile lacy bonnet which he did not understand. Her dark, gold-spangled hair came down in two thick braids across her shoulders. Her blue eyes were very much alive with amazement and alarm which rapidly changed into anger. "Mr. Gilbert!" she cried. For an instant he thought she was going to laugh. Then a new expression came into her face. Without another word she turned and fled. He heard her run upstairs. A door banged, and was locked. A window was hastily closed. Again all was silent. Stupefied with chagrin, he rose from his cramped position. What on earth was he to do? How could he explain? He stood by the pantry sink in painful indecision. Should he slink out of the house? No, he couldn't do that without attempting to explain. And he was still convinced that some strange peril hung about this place. He must put Titania on her guard, no matter how embarrassing it proved. If only she hadn't been wearing a kimono--how much easier it would have been. He stepped out into the hall, and stood at the bottom of the stairs in the throes of doubt. After waiting some time in silence he cleared the huskiness from his throat and called out: "Miss Chapman!" There was no answer, but he heard light, rapid movements above. "Miss Chapman!" he called again. He heard the door opened, and clear words edged with frost came downward. This time he thought of a thin tumbler with ice in it. "Mr. Gilbert!" "Yes?" he said miserably. "Will you please call me a taxi?" Something in the calm, mandatory tone nettled him. After all, he had acted in pure good faith. "With pleasure," he said, "but not until I have told you something. It's very important. I beg your pardon most awfully for frightening you, but it's really very urgent." There was a brief silence. Then she said: "Brooklyn's a queer place. Wait a few minutes, please." Aubrey stood absently fingering the pattern on the wallpaper. He suddenly experienced a great craving for a pipe, but felt that the etiquette of the situation hardly permitted him to smoke. In a few moments Titania appeared at the head of the stairs in her customary garb. She sat down on the landing. Aubrey felt that everything was as bad as it could possibly be. If he could have seen her face his embarrassment would at least have had some compensation. But the light from a stair window shone behind her, and her features were in shadow. She sat clasping her hands round her knees. The light fell crosswise down the stairway, and he could see only a gleam of brightness upon her ankle. His mind unconsciously followed its beaten paths. "What a corking pose for a silk stocking ad!" he thought. "Wouldn't it make a stunning full-page layout. I must suggest it to the Ankleshimmer people." "Well?" she said. Then she could not refrain from laughter, he looked so hapless. She burst into an engaging trill. "Why don't you light your pipe?" she said. "You look as doleful as the Kaiser." "Miss Chapman," he said, "I'm afraid you think--I don't know what you must think. But I broke in here this morning because I--well, I don't think this is a safe place for you to be." "So it seems. That's why I asked you to get me a taxi." "There's something queer going on round this shop. It's not right for you to be here alone this way. I was afraid something had happened to you. Of course, I didn't know you were--were----" Faint almond blossoms grew in her cheeks. "I was reading," she said. "Mr. Mifflin talks so much about reading in bed, I thought I'd try it. They wanted me to go with them to-day but I wouldn't. You see, if I'm going to be a bookseller I've got to catch up with some of this literature that's been accumulating. After they left I--I--well, I wanted to see if this reading in bed is what it's cracked up to be." "Where has Mifflin gone?" asked Aubrey. "What business has he got to leave you here all alone?" "I had Bock," said Titania. "Gracious, Brooklyn on Sunday morning doesn't seem very perilous to me. If you must know, he and Mrs. Mifflin have gone over to spend the day with father. I was to have gone, too, but I wouldn't. What business is it of yours? You're as bad as Morris Finsbury in The Wrong Box. That's what I was reading when I heard the dog barking." Aubrey began to grow nettled. "You seem to think this was a mere impertinence on my part," he said. "Let me tell you a thing or two." And he briefly described to her the course of his experiences since leaving the shop on Friday evening, but omitting the fact that he was lodging just across the street. "There's something mighty unpalatable going on," he said. "At first I thought Mifflin was the goat. I thought it might be some frame-up for swiping valuable books from his shop. But when I saw Weintraub come in here with his own latch-key, I got wise. He and Mifflin are in cahoots, that's what. I don't know what they're pulling off, but I don't like the looks of it. You say Mifflin has gone out to see your father? I bet that's just camouflage, to stall you. I've got a great mind to ring Mr. Chapman up and tell him he ought to get you out of here." "I won't hear a word said against Mr. Mifflin," said Titania angrily. "He's one of my father's oldest friends. What would Mr. Mifflin say if he knew you had been breaking into his house and frightening me half to death? I'm sorry you got that knock on the head, because it seems that's your weak spot. I'm quite able to take care of myself, thank you. This isn't a movie." "Well, how do you explain the actions of this man Weintraub?" said Aubrey. "Do you like to have a man popping in and out of the shop at all hours of the night, stealing books?" "I don't have to explain it at all," said Titania. "I think it's up to you to do the explaining. Weintraub is a harmless old thing and he keeps delicious chocolates that cost only half as much as what you get on Fifth Avenue. Mr. Mifflin told me that he's a very good customer. Perhaps his business won't let him read in the daytime, and he comes in here late at night to borrow books. He probably reads in bed." "I don't think anybody who talks German round back alleys at night is a harmless old thing," said Aubrey. "I tell you, your Haunted Bookshop is haunted by something worse than the ghost of Thomas Carlyle. Let me show you something." He pulled the book cover out of his pocket, and pointed to the annotations in it. "That's Mifflin's handwriting," said Titania, pointing to the upper row of figures. "He puts notes like that in all his favourite books. They refer to pages where he has found interesting things." "Yes, and that's Weintraub's," said Aubrey, indicating the numbers in violet ink. "If that isn't a proof of their complicity, I'd like to know what is. If that Cromwell book is here, I'd like to have a look at it." They went into the shop. Titania preceded him down the musty aisle, and it made Aubrey angry to see the obstinate assurance of her small shoulders. He was horribly tempted to seize her and shake her. It annoyed him to see her bright, unconscious girlhood in that dingy vault of books. "She's as out of place here as--as a Packard ad in the Liberator" he said to himself. They stood in the History alcove. "Here it is," she said. "No, it isn't--that's the History of Frederick the Great." There was a two-inch gap in the shelf. Cromwell was gone. "Probably Mr. Mifflin has it somewhere around," said Titania. "It was there last night." "Probably nothing," said Aubrey. "I tell you, Weintraub came in and took it. I saw him. Look here, if you really want to know what I think, I'll tell you. The War's not over by a long sight. Weintraub's a German. Carlyle was pro-German--I remember that much from college. I believe your friend Mifflin is pro-German, too. I've heard some of his talk!" Titania faced him with cheeks aflame. "That'll do for you!" she cried. "Next thing I suppose you'll say Daddy's pro-German, and me, too! I'd like to see you say that to Mr. Mifflin himself." "I will, don't worry," said Aubrey grimly. He knew now that he had put himself hopelessly in the wrong in Titania's mind, but he refused to abate his own convictions. With sinking heart he saw her face relieved against the shelves of faded bindings. Her eyes shone with a deep and sultry blue, her chin quivered with anger. "Look here," she said furiously. "Either you or I must leave this place. If you intend to stay, please call me a taxi." Aubrey was as angry as she was. "I'm going," he said. "But you've got to play fair with me. I tell you on my oath, these two men, Mifflin and Weintraub, are framing something up. I'm going to get the goods on them and show you. But you mustn't put them wise that I'm on their track. If you do, of course, they'll call it off. I don't care what you think of me. You've got to promise me that." "I won't promise you ANYTHING," she said, "except never to speak to you again. I never saw a man like you before--and I've seen a good many." "I won't leave here until you promise me not to warn them," he retorted. "What I told you, I said in confidence. They've already found out where I'm lodging. Do you think this is a joke? They've tried to put me out of the way twice. If you breathe a word of this to Mifflin he'll warn the other two." "You're afraid to have Mr. Mifflin know you broke into his shop," she taunted. "You can think what you like." "I won't promise you anything!" she burst out. Then her face altered. The defiant little line of her mouth bent and her strength seemed to run out at each end of that pathetic curve. "Yes, I will," she said. "I suppose that's fair. I couldn't tell Mr. Mifflin, anyway. I'd be ashamed to tell him how you frightened me. I think you're hateful. I came over here thinking I was going to have such a good time, and you've spoilt it all!" For one terrible moment he thought she was going to cry. But he remembered having seen heroines cry in the movies, and knew it was only done when there was a table and chair handy. "Miss Chapman," he said, "I'm as sorry as a man can be. But I swear I did what I did in all honesty. If I'm wrong in this, you need never speak to me again. If I'm wrong, you--you can tell your father to take his advertising away from the Grey-Matter Company. I can't say more than that." And, to do him justice, he couldn't. It was the supreme sacrifice. She let him out of the front door without another word. Chapter XII Aubrey Determines to give Service that's Different Seldom has a young man spent a more desolate afternoon than Aubrey on that Sunday. His only consolation was that twenty minutes after he had left the bookshop he saw a taxi drive up (he was then sitting gloomily at his bedroom window) and Titania enter it and drive away. He supposed that she had gone to join the party in Larchmont, and was glad to know that she was out of what he now called the war zone. For the first time on record, O. Henry failed to solace him. His pipe tasted bitter and brackish. He was eager to know what Weintraub was doing, but did not dare make any investigations in broad daylight. His idea was to wait until dark. Observing the Sabbath calm of the streets, and the pageant of baby carriages wheeling toward Thackeray Boulevard, he wondered again whether he had thrown away this girl's friendship for a merely imaginary suspicion. At last he could endure his cramped bedroom no longer. Downstairs someone was dolefully playing a flute, most horrible of all tortures to tightened nerves. While her lodgers were at church the tireless Mrs. Schiller was doing a little housecleaning: he could hear the monotonous rasp of a carpet-sweeper passing back and forth in an adjoining room. He creaked irritably downstairs, and heard the usual splashing behind the bathroom door. In the frame of the hall mirror he saw a pencilled note: Will Mrs. Smith please call Tarkington 1565, it said. Unreasonably annoyed, he tore a piece of paper out of his notebook and wrote on it Will Mrs. Smith please call Bath 4200. Mounting to the second floor he tapped on the bathroom door. "Don't come in!" cried an agitated female voice. He thrust the memorandum under the door, and left the house. Walking the windy paths of Prospect Park he condemned himself to relentless self-scrutiny. "I've damned myself forever with her," he groaned, "unless I can prove something." The vision of Titania's face silhouetted against the shelves of books came maddeningly to his mind. "I was going to have such a good time, and you've spoilt it all!" With what angry conviction she had said: "I never saw a man like you before--and I've seen a good many!" Even in his disturbance of soul the familiar jargon of his profession came naturally to utterance. "At least she admits I'm DIFFERENT," he said dolefully. He remembered the first item in the Grey-Matter Code, a neat little booklet issued by his employers for the information of their representatives: Business is built upon CONFIDENCE. Before you can sell Grey-Matter Service to a Client, you must sell YOURSELF. "How am I going to sell myself to her?" he wondered. "I've simply got to deliver, that's all. I've got to give her service that's DIFFERENT. If I fall down on this, she'll never speak to me again. Not only that, the firm will lose the old man's account. It's simply unthinkable." Nevertheless, he thought about it a good deal, stimulated from time to time as in the course of his walk (which led him out toward the faubourgs of Flatbush) he passed long vistas of signboards, which he imagined placarded with vivid lithographs in behalf of the Chapman prunes. "Adam and Eve Ate Prunes On Their Honeymoon" was a slogan that flashed into his head, and he imagined a magnificent painting illustrating this text. Thus, in hours of stress, do all men turn for comfort to their chosen art. The poet, battered by fate, heals himself in the niceties of rhyme. The prohibitionist can weather the blackest melancholia by meditating the contortions of other people's abstinence. The most embittered citizen of Detroit will never perish by his own hand while he has an automobile to tinker. Aubrey walked many miles, gradually throwing his despair to the winds. The bright spirits of Orison Swett Marden and Ralph Waldo Trine, Dioscuri of Good Cheer, seemed to be with him reminding him that nothing is impossible. In a small restaurant he found sausages, griddle cakes and syrup. When he got back to Gissing Street it was dark, and he girded his soul for further endeavour. About nine o'clock he walked up the alley. He had left his overcoat in his room at Mrs. Schiller's and also the Cromwell bookcover--having taken the precaution, however, to copy the inscriptions into his pocket memorandum-book. He noticed lights in the rear of the bookshop, and concluded that the Mifflins and their employee had got home safely. Arrived at the back of Weintraub's pharmacy, he studied the contours of the building carefully. The drug store lay, as we have explained before, at the corner of Gissing Street and Wordsworth Avenue, just where the Elevated railway swings in a long curve. The course of this curve brought the scaffolding of the viaduct out over the back roof of the building, and this fact had impressed itself on Aubrey's observant eye the day before. The front of the drug store stood three storeys, but in the rear it dropped to two, with a flat roof over the hinder portion. Two windows looked out upon this roof. Weintraub's back yard opened onto the alley, but the gate, he found, was locked. The fence would not be hard to scale, but he hesitated to make so direct an approach. He ascended the stairs of the "L" station, on the near side, and paying a nickel passed through a turnstile onto the platform. Waiting until just after a train had left, and the long, windy sweep of planking was solitary, he dropped onto the narrow footway that runs beside the track. This required watchful walking, for the charged third rail was very near, but hugging the outer side of the path he proceeded without trouble. Every fifteen feet or so a girder ran sideways from the track, resting upon an upright from the street below. The fourth of these overhung the back corner of Weintraub's house, and he crawled cautiously along it. People were passing on the pavement underneath, and he greatly feared being discovered. But he reached the end of the beam without mishap. From here a drop of about twelve feet would bring him onto Weintraub's back roof. For a moment he reflected that, once down there, it would be impossible to return the same way. However, he decided to risk it. Where he was, with his legs swinging astride the girder, he was in serious danger of attracting attention. He would have given a great deal, just then, to have his overcoat with him, for by lowering it first he could have jumped onto it and muffled the noise of his fall. He took off his coat and carefully dropped it on the corner of the roof. Then cannily waiting until a train passed overhead, drowning all other sounds with its roar, he lowered himself as far as he could hang by his hands, and let go. For some minutes he lay prone on the tin roof, and during that time a number of distressing ideas occurred to him. If he really expected to get into Weintraub's house, why had he not laid his plans more carefully? Why (for instance) had he not made some attempt to find out how many there were in the household? Why had he not arranged with one of his friends to call Weintraub to the telephone at a given moment, so that he could be more sure of making an entry unnoticed? And what did he expect to see or do if he got inside the house? He found no answer to any of these questions. It was unpleasantly cold, and he was glad to slip his coat on again. The small revolver was still in his hip pocket. Another thought occurred to him--that he should have provided himself with tennis shoes. However, it was some comfort to know that rubber heels of a nationally advertised brand were under him. He crawled quietly up to the sill of one of the windows. It was closed, and the room inside was dark. A blind was pulled most of the way down, leaving a gap of about four inches. Peeping cautiously over the sill, he could see farther inside the house a brightly lit door and a passageway. "One thing I've got to look out for," he thought, "is children. There are bound to be some--who ever heard of a German without offspring? If I wake them, they'll bawl. This room is very likely a nursery, as it's on the southeastern side. Also, the window is shut tight, which is probably the German idea of bedroom ventilation." His guess may not have been a bad one, for after his eyes became accustomed to the dimness of the room he thought he could perceive two cot beds. He then crawled over to the other window. Here the blind was pulled down flush with the bottom of the sash. Trying the window very cautiously, he found it locked. Not knowing just what to do, he returned to the first window, and lay there peering in. The sill was just high enough above the roof level to make it necessary to raise himself a little on his hands to see inside, and the position was very trying. Moreover, the tin roof had a tendency to crumple noisily when he moved. He lay for some time, shivering in the chill, and wondering whether it would be safe to light a pipe. "There's another thing I'd better look out for," he thought, "and that's a dog. Who ever heard of a German without a dachshund?" He had watched the lighted doorway for a long while without seeing anything, and was beginning to think he was losing time to no profit when a stout and not ill-natured looking woman appeared in the hallway. She came into the room he was studying, and closed the door. She switched on the light, and to his horror began to disrobe. This was not what he had counted on at all, and he retreated rapidly. It was plain that nothing was to be gained where he was. He sat timidly at one edge of the roof and wondered what to do next. As he sat there, the back door opened almost directly below him, and he heard the clang of a garbage can set out by the stoop. The door stood open for perhaps half a minute, and he heard a male voice--Weintraub's, he thought--speaking in German. For the first time in his life he yearned for the society of his German instructor at college, and also wondered--in the rapid irrelevance of thought--what that worthy man was now doing to earn a living. In a rather long and poorly lubricated sentence, heavily verbed at the end, he distinguished one phrase that seemed important. "Nach Philadelphia gehen"--"Go to Philadelphia." Did that refer to Mifflin? he wondered. The door closed again. Leaning over the rain-gutter, he saw the light go out in the kitchen. He tried to look through the upper portion of the window just below him, but leaning out too far, the tin spout gave beneath his hands. Without knowing just how he did it, he slithered down the side of the wall, and found his feet on a window-sill. His hands still clung to the tin gutter above. He made haste to climb down from his position, and found himself outside the back door. He had managed the descent rather more quietly than if it had been carefully planned. But he was badly startled, and retreated to the bottom of the yard to see if he had aroused notice. A wait of several minutes brought no alarm, and he plucked up courage. On the inner side of the house--away from Wordsworth Avenue--a narrow paved passage led to an outside cellar-way with old-fashioned slanting doors. He reconnoitred this warily. A bright light was shining from a window in this alley. He crept below it on hands and knees fearing to look in until he had investigated a little. He found that one flap of the cellar door was open, and poked his nose into the aperture. All was dark below, but a strong, damp stench of paints and chemicals arose. He sniffed gingerly. "I suppose he stores drugs down there," he thought. Very carefully he crawled back, on hands and knees, toward the lighted window. Lifting his head a few inches at a time, finally he got his eyes above the level of the sill. To his disappointment he found the lower half of the window frosted. As he knelt there, a pipe set in the wall suddenly vomited liquid which gushed out upon his knees. He sniffed it, and again smelled a strong aroma of acids. With great care, leaning against the brick wall of the house, he rose to his feet and peeped through the upper half of the pane. It seemed to be the room where prescriptions were compounded. As it was empty, he allowed himself a hasty survey. All manner of bottles were ranged along the walls; there was a high counter with scales, a desk, and a sink. At the back he could see the bamboo curtain which he remembered having noticed from the shop. The whole place was in the utmost disorder: mortars, glass beakers, a typewriter, cabinets of labels, dusty piles of old prescriptions strung on filing hooks, papers of pills and capsules, all strewn in an indescribable litter. Some infusion was heating in a glass bowl propped on a tripod over a blue gas flame. Aubrey noticed particularly a heap of old books several feet high piled carelessly at one end of the counter. Looking more carefully, he saw that what he had taken for a mirror over the prescription counter was an aperture looking into the shop. Through this he could see Weintraub, behind the cigar case, waiting upon some belated customer with his shop-worn air of affability. The visitor departed, and Weintraub locked the door after him and pulled down the blinds. Then he returned toward the prescription room, and Aubrey ducked out of view. Presently he risked looking again, and was just in time to see a curious sight. The druggist was bending over the counter, pouring some liquid into a glass vessel. His face was directly under a hanging bulb, and Aubrey was amazed at the transformation. The apparently genial apothecary of cigar stand and soda fountain was gone. He saw instead a heavy, cruel, jowlish face, with eyelids hooded down over the eyes, and a square thrusting chin buttressed on a mass of jaw and suetty cheek that glistened with an oily shimmer. The jaw quivered a little as though with some intense suppressed emotion. The man was completely absorbed in his task. The thick lower lip lapped upward over the mouth. On the cheekbone was a deep red scar. Aubrey felt a pang of fascinated amazement at the gross energy and power of that abominable relentless mask. "So this is the harmless old thing!" he thought. Just then the bamboo curtain parted, and the woman whom he had seen upstairs appeared. Forgetting his own situation, Aubrey still stared. She wore a faded dressing gown and her hair was braided as though for the night. She looked frightened, and must have spoken, for Aubrey saw her lips move. The man remained bent over his counter until the last drops of liquid had run out. His jaw tightened, he straightened suddenly and took one step toward her, with outstretched hand imperiously pointed. Aubrey could see his face plainly: it had a savagery more than bestial. The woman's face, which had borne a timid, pleading expression, appealed in vain against that fierce gesture. She turned and vanished. Aubrey saw the druggist's pointing finger tremble. Again he ducked out of sight. "That man's face would be lonely in a crowd," he said to himself. "And I used to think the movies exaggerated things. Say, he ought to play opposite Theda Bara." He lay at full length in the paved alley and thought that a little acquaintance with Weintraub would go a long way. Then the light in the window above him went out, and he gathered himself together for quick motion if necessary. Perhaps the man would come out to close the cellar door---- The thought was in his mind when a light flashed on farther down the passage, between him and the kitchen. It came from a small barred window on the ground level. Evidently the druggist had gone down into the cellar. Aubrey crawled silently along toward the yard. Reaching the lit pane he lay against the wall and looked in. The window was too grimed for him to see clearly, but what he could make out had the appearance of a chemical laboratory and machine shop combined. A long work bench was lit by several electrics. On it he saw glass vials of odd shapes, and a medley of tools. Sheets of tin, lengths of lead pipe, gas burners, a vise, boilers and cylinders, tall jars of coloured fluids. He could hear a dull humming sound, which he surmised came from some sort of revolving tool which he could see was run by a belt from a motor. On trying to spy more clearly he found that what he had taken for dirt was a coat of whitewash which had been applied to the window on the inside, but the coating had worn away in one spot which gave him a loophole. What surprised him most was to spy the covers of a number of books strewn about the work table. One, he was ready to swear, was the Cromwell. He knew that bright blue cloth by this time. For the second time that evening Aubrey wished for the presence of one of his former instructors. "I wish I had my old chemistry professor here," he thought. "I'd like to know what this bird is up to. I'd hate to swallow one of his prescriptions." His teeth were chattering after the long exposure and he was wet through from lying in the little gutter that apparently drained off from the sink in Weintraub's prescription laboratory. He could not see what the druggist was doing in the cellar, for the man's broad back was turned toward him. He felt as though he had had quite enough thrills for one evening. Creeping along he found his way back to the yard, and stepped cautiously among the empty boxes with which it was strewn. An elevated train rumbled overhead, and he watched the brightly lighted cars swing by. While the train roared above him, he scrambled up the fence and dropped down into the alley. "Well," he thought, "I'd give full-page space, preferred position, in the magazine Ben Franklin founded to the guy that'd tell me what's going on at this grand bolshevik headquarters. It looks to me as though they're getting ready to blow the Octagon Hotel off the map." He found a little confectionery shop on Wordsworth Avenue that was still open, and went in for a cup of hot chocolate to warm himself. "The expense account on this business is going to be rather heavy," he said to himself. "I think I'll have to charge it up to the Daintybits account. Say, old Grey Matter gives service that's DIFFERENT, don't she! We not only keep Chapman's goods in the public eye, but we face all the horrors of Brooklyn to preserve his family from unlawful occasions. No, I don't like the company that bookseller runs with. If 'nach Philadelphia' is the word, I think I'll tag along. I guess it's off for Philadelphia in the morning!" Chapter XIII The Battle of Ludlow Street Rarely was a more genuine tribute paid to entrancing girlhood than when Aubrey compelled himself, by sheer force of will and the ticking of his subconscious time-sense, to wake at six o'clock the next morning. For this young man took sleep seriously and with a primitive zest. It was to him almost a religious function. As a minor poet has said, he "made sleep a career." But he did not know what train Roger might be taking, and he was determined not to miss him. By a quarter after six he was seated in the Milwaukee Lunch (which is never closed--Open from Now Till the Judgment Day. Tables for Ladies, as its sign says) with a cup of coffee and corned beef hash. In the mood of tender melancholy common to unaccustomed early rising he dwelt fondly on the thought of Titania, so near and yet so far away. He had leisure to give free rein to these musings, for it was ten past seven before Roger appeared, hurrying toward the subway. Aubrey followed at a discreet distance, taking care not to be observed. The bookseller and his pursuer both boarded the eight o'clock train at the Pennsylvania Station, but in very different moods. To Roger, this expedition was a frolic, pure and simple. He had been tied down to the bookshop so long that a day's excursion seemed too good to be true. He bought two cigars--an unusual luxury--and let the morning paper lie unheeded in his lap as the train drummed over the Hackensack marshes. He felt a good deal of pride in having been summoned to appraise the Oldham library. Mr. Oldham was a very distinguished collector, a wealthy Philadelphia merchant whose choice Johnson, Lamb, Keats, and Blake items were the envy of connoisseurs all over the world. Roger knew very well that there were many better-known dealers who would have jumped at the chance to examine the collection and pocket the appraiser's fee. The word that Roger had had by long distance telephone was that Mr. Oldham had decided to sell his collection, and before putting it to auction desired the advices of an expert as to the prices his items should command in the present state of the market. And as Roger was not particularly conversant with current events in the world of rare books and manuscripts, he spent most of the trip in turning over some annotated catalogues of recent sales which Mr. Chapman had lent him. "This invitation," he said to himself, "confirms what I have always said, that the artist, in any line of work, will eventually be recognized above the mere tradesman. Somehow or other Mr. Oldham has heard that I am not only a seller of old books but a lover of them. He prefers to have me go over his treasures with him, rather than one of those who peddle these things like so much tallow." Aubrey's humour was far removed from that of the happy bookseller. In the first place, Roger was sitting in the smoker, and as Aubrey feared to enter the same car for fear of being observed, he had to do without his pipe. He took the foremost seat in the second coach, and peering occasionally through the glass doors he could see the bald poll of his quarry wreathed with exhalements of cheap havana. Secondly, he had hoped to see Weintraub on the same train, but though he had tarried at the train-gate until the last moment, the German had not appeared. He had concluded from Weintraub's words the night before that druggist and bookseller were bound on a joint errand. Apparently he was mistaken. He bit his nails, glowered at the flying landscape, and revolved many grievous fancies in his prickling bosom. Among other discontents was the knowledge that he did not have enough money with him to pay his fare back to New York, and he would either have to borrow from someone in Philadelphia or wire to his office for funds. He had not anticipated, when setting out upon this series of adventures, that it would prove so costly. The train drew into Broad Street station at ten o'clock, and Aubrey followed the bookseller through the bustling terminus and round the City Hall plaza. Mifflin seemed to know his way, but Philadelphia was comparatively strange to the Grey-Matter solicitor. He was quite surprised at the impressive vista of South Broad Street, and chagrined to find people jostling him on the crowded pavement as though they did not know he had just come from New York. Roger turned in at a huge office building on Broad Street and took an express elevator. Aubrey did not dare follow him into the car, so he waited in the lobby. He learned from the starter that there was a second tier of elevators on the other side of the building, so he tipped a boy a quarter to watch them for him, describing Mifflin so accurately that he could not be missed. By this time Aubrey was in a thoroughly ill temper, and enjoyed quarrelling with the starter on the subject of indicators for showing the position of the elevators. Observing that in this building the indicators were glass tubes in which the movement of the car was traced by a rising or falling column of coloured fluid, Aubrey remarked testily that that old-fashioned stunt had long been abandoned in New York. The starter retorted that New York was only two hours away if he liked it better. This argument helped to fleet the time rapidly. Meanwhile Roger, with the pleasurable sensation of one who expects to be received as a distinguished visitor from out of town, had entered the luxurious suite of Mr. Oldham. A young lady, rather too transparently shirtwaisted but fair to look upon, asked what she could do for him. "I want to see Mr. Oldham." "What name shall I say?" "Mr. Mifflin--Mr. Mifflin of Brooklyn." "Have you an appointment?" "Yes." Roger sat down with agreeable anticipation. He noticed the shining mahogany of the office furniture, the sparkling green jar of drinking water, the hushed and efficient activity of the young ladies. "Philadelphia girls are amazingly comely," he said to himself, "but none of these can hold a candle to Miss Titania." The young lady returned from the private office looking a little perplexed. "Did you have an appointment with Mr. Oldham?" she said. "He doesn't seem to recall it." "Why, certainly," said Roger. "It was arranged by telephone on Saturday afternoon. Mr. Oldham's secretary called me up." "Have I got your name right?" she asked, showing a slip on which she had written Mr. Miflin. "Two f's," said Roger. "Mr. Roger Mifflin, the bookseller." The girl retired, and came back a moment later. "Mr. Oldham's very busy," she said, "but he can see you for a moment." Roger was ushered into the private office, a large, airy room lined with bookshelves. Mr. Oldham, a tall, thin man with short gray hair and lively black eyes, rose courteously from his desk. "How do you do, sir," he said. "I'm sorry, I had forgotten our appointment." "He must be very absent minded," thought Roger. "Arranges to sell a collection worth half a million, and forgets all about it." "I came over in response to your message," he said. "About selling your collection." Mr. Oldham looked at him, rather intently, Roger thought. "Do you want to buy it?" he said. "To buy it?" said Roger, a little peevishly. "Why, no. I came over to appraise it for you. Your secretary telephoned me on Saturday." "My dear sir," replied the other, "there must be some mistake. I have no intention of selling my collection. I never sent you a message." Roger was aghast. "Why," he exclaimed, "your secretary called me up on Saturday and said you particularly wanted me to come over this morning, to examine your books with you. I've made the trip from Brooklyn for that purpose." Mr. Oldham touched a buzzer, and a middle-aged woman came into the office. "Miss Patterson," he said, "did you telephone to Mr. Mifflin of Brooklyn on Saturday, asking him----" "It was a man that telephoned," said Roger. "I'm exceedingly sorry, Mr. Mifflin," said Mr. Oldham. "More sorry than I can tell you--I'm afraid someone has played a trick on you. As I told you, and Miss Patterson will bear me out, I have no idea of selling my books, and have never authorized any one even to suggest such a thing." Roger was filled with confusion and anger. A hoax on the part of some of the Corn Cob Club, he thought to himself. He flushed painfully to recall the simplicity of his glee. "Please don't be embarrassed," said Mr. Oldham, seeing the little man's vexation. "Don't let's consider the trip wasted. Won't you come out and dine with me in the country this evening, and see my things?" But Roger was too proud to accept this balm, courteous as it was. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I'm afraid I can't do it. I'm rather busy at home, and only came over because I believed this to be urgent." "Some other time, perhaps," said Mr. Oldham. "Look here, you're a bookseller? I don't believe I know your shop. Give me your card. The next time I'm in New York I'd like to stop in." Roger got away as quickly as the other's politeness would let him. He chafed savagely at the awkwardness of his position. Not until he reached the street again did he breathe freely. "Some of Jerry Gladfist's tomfoolery, I'll bet a hat," he muttered. "By the bones of Fanny Kelly, I'll make him smart for it." Even Aubrey, picking up the trail again, could see that Roger was angry. "Something's got his goat," he reflected. "I wonder what he's peeved about?" They crossed Broad Street and Roger started off down Chestnut. Aubrey saw the bookseller halt in a doorway to light his pipe, and stopped some yards behind him to look up at the statue of William Penn on the City Hall. It was a blustery day, and at that moment a gust of wind whipped off his hat and sent it spinning down Broad Street. He ran half a block before he recaptured it. When he got back to Chestnut, Roger had disappeared. He hurried down Chestnut Street, bumping pedestrians in his eagerness, but at Thirteenth he halted in dismay. Nowhere could he see a sign of the little bookseller. He appealed to the policeman at that corner, but learned nothing. Vainly he scoured the block and up and down Juniper Street. It was eleven o'clock, and the streets were thronged. He cursed the book business in both hemispheres, cursed himself, and cursed Philadelphia. Then he went into a tobacconist's and bought a packet of cigarettes. For an hour he patrolled up and down Chestnut Street, on both sides of the way, thinking he might possibly encounter Roger. At the end of this time he found himself in front of a newspaper office, and remembered that an old friend of his was an editorial writer on the staff. He entered, and went up in the elevator. He found his friend in a small grimy den, surrounded by a sea of papers, smoking a pipe with his feet on the table. They greeted each other joyfully. "Well, look who's here!" cried the facetious journalist. "Tamburlaine the Great, and none other! What brings you to this distant outpost?" Aubrey grinned at the use of his old college nickname. "I've come to lunch with you, and borrow enough money to get home with." "On Monday?" cried the other. "Tuesday being the day of stipend in these quarters? Nay, say not so!" They lunched together at a quiet Italian restaurant, and Aubrey narrated tersely the adventures of the past few days. The newspaper man smoked pensively when the story was concluded. "I'd like to see the girl," he said. "Tambo, your tale hath the ring of sincerity. It is full of sound and fury, but it signifieth something. You say your man is a second-hand bookseller?" "Yes." "Then I know where you'll find him." "Nonsense!" "It's worth trying. Go up to Leary's, 9 South Ninth. It's right on this street. I'll show you." "Let's go," said Aubrey promptly. "Not only that," said the other, "but I'll lend you my last V. Not for your sake, but on behalf of the girl. Just mention my name to her, will you? "Right up the block," he pointed as they reached Chestnut Street. "No, I won't come with you, Wilson's speaking to Congress to-day, and there's big stuff coming over the wire. So long, old man. Invite me to the wedding!" Aubrey had no idea what Leary's was, and rather expected it to be a tavern of some sort. When he reached the place, however, he saw why his friend had suggested it as a likely lurking ground for Roger. It would be as impossible for any bibliophile to pass this famous second-hand bookstore as for a woman to go by a wedding party without trying to see the bride. Although it was a bleak day, and a snell wind blew down the street, the pavement counters were lined with people turning over disordered piles of volumes. Within, he could see a vista of white shelves, and the many-coloured tapestry of bindings stretching far away to the rear of the building. He entered eagerly, and looked about. The shop was comfortably busy, with a number of people browsing. They seemed normal enough from behind, but in their eyes he detected the wild, peering glitter of the bibliomaniac. Here and there stood members of the staff. Upon their features Aubrey discerned the placid and philosophic tranquillity which he associated with second-hand booksellers--all save Mifflin. He paced through the narrow aisles, scanning the blissful throng of seekers. He went down to the educational department in the basement, up to the medical books in the gallery, even back to the sections of Drama and Pennsylvania History in the raised quarterdeck at the rear. There was no trace of Roger. At a desk under the stairway he saw a lean, studious, and kindly-looking bibliosoph, who was poring over an immense catalogue. An idea struck him. "Have you a copy of Carlyle's Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell?" he asked. The other looked up. "I'm afraid we haven't," he said. "Another gentleman was in here asking for it just a few minutes ago." "Good God!" cried Aubrey. "Did he get it?" This emphasis brought no surprise to the bookseller, who was accustomed to the oddities of edition hunters. "No," he said. "We didn't have a copy. We haven't seen one for a long time." "Was he a little bald man with a red beard and bright blue eyes?" asked Aubrey hoarsely. "Yes--Mr. Mifflin of Brooklyn. Do you know him?" "I should say I do!" cried Aubrey. "Where has he gone? I've been hunting him all over town, the scoundrel!" The bookseller, douce man, had seen too many eccentric customers to be shocked by the vehemence of his questioner. "He was here a moment ago," he said gently, and gazed with a mild interest upon the excited young advertising man. "I daresay you'll find him just outside, in Ludlow Street." "Where's that?" The tall man--and I don't see why I should scruple to name him, for it was Philip Warner--explained that Ludlow Street was the narrow alley that runs along one side of Leary's and elbows at right angles behind the shop. Down the flank of the store, along this narrow little street, run shelves of books under a penthouse. It is here that Leary's displays its stock of ragamuffin ten-centers--queer dingy volumes that call to the hearts of gentle questers. Along these historic shelves many troubled spirits have come as near happiness as they are like to get . . . for after all, happiness (as the mathematicians might say) lies on a curve, and we approach it only by asymptote. . . . The frequenters of this alley call themselves whimsically The Ludlow Street Business Men's Association, and Charles Lamb or Eugene Field would have been proud to preside at their annual dinners, at which the members recount their happiest book-finds of the year. Aubrey rushed out of the shop and looked down the alley. Half a dozen Ludlow Street Business Men were groping among the shelves. Then, down at the far end, his small face poked into an open volume, he saw Roger. He approached with a rapid stride. "Well," he said angrily, "here you are!" Roger looked up from his book good-humouredly. Apparently, in the zeal of his favourite pastime, he had forgotten where he was. "Hullo!" he said. "What are you doing in Brooklyn? Look here, here's a copy of Tooke's Pantheon----" "What's the idea?" cried Aubrey harshly. "Are you trying to kid me? What are you and Weintraub framing up here in Philadelphia?" Roger's mind came back to Ludlow Street. He looked with some surprise at the flushed face of the young man, and put the book back in its place on the shelf, making a mental note of its location. His disappointment of the morning came back to him with some irritation. "What are you talking about?" he said. "What the deuce business is it of yours?" "I'll make it my business," said Aubrey, and shook his fist in the bookseller's face. "I've been trailing you, you scoundrel, and I want to know what kind of a game you're playing." A spot of red spread on Roger's cheekbones. In spite of his apparent demureness he had a pugnacious spirit and a quick fist. "By the bones of Charles Lamb!" he said. "Young man, your manners need mending. If you're looking for display advertising, I'll give you one on each eye." Aubrey had expected to find a cringing culprit, and this back talk infuriated him beyond control. "You damned little bolshevik," he said, "if you were my size I'd give you a hiding. You tell me what you and your pro-German pals are up to or I'll put the police on you!" Roger stiffened. His beard bristled, and his blue eyes glittered. "You impudent dog," he said quietly, "you come round the corner where these people can't see us and I'll give you some private tutoring." He led the way round the corner of the alley. In this narrow channel, between blank walls, they confronted each other. "In the name of Gutenberg," said Roger, calling upon his patron saint, "explain yourself or I'll hit you." "Who's he?" sneered Aubrey. "Another one of your Huns?" That instant he received a smart blow on the chin, which would have been much harder but that Roger misgauged his footing on the uneven cobbles, and hardly reached the face of his opponent, who topped him by many inches. Aubrey forgot his resolution not to hit a smaller man, and also calling upon his patron saints--the Associated Advertising Clubs of the World--he delivered a smashing slog which hit the bookseller in the chest and jolted him half across the alley. Both men were furiously angry--Aubrey with the accumulated bitterness of several days' anxiety and suspicion, and Roger with the quick-flaming indignation of a hot-tempered man unwarrantably outraged. Aubrey had the better of the encounter in height, weight, and more than twenty years juniority, but fortune played for the bookseller. Aubrey's terrific punch sent the latter staggering across the alley onto the opposite curb. Aubrey followed him up with a rush, intending to crush the other with one fearful smite. But Roger, keeping cool, now had the advantage of position. Standing on the curb, he had a little the better in height. As Aubrey leaped at him, his face grim with hatred, Roger met him with a savage buffet on the jaw. Aubrey's foot struck against the curb, and he fell backward onto the stones. His head crashed violently on the cobbles, and the old cut on his scalp broke out afresh. Dazed and shaken, there was, for the moment, no more fight in him. "You insolent pup," panted Roger, "do you want any more?" Then he saw that Aubrey was really hurt. With horror he observed a trickle of blood run down the side of the young man's face. "Good Lord," he said. "Maybe I've killed him!" In a panic he ran round the corner to get Leary's outside man, who stands in a little sentry box at the front angle of the store and sells the outdoor books. "Quick," he said. "There's a fellow back here badly hurt." They ran back around the corner, and found Aubrey walking rather shakily toward them. Immense relief swam through Roger's brain. "Look here," he said, "I'm awfully sorry--are you hurt?" Aubrey glared whitely at him, but was too stunned to speak. He grunted, and the others took him one on each side and supported him. Leary's man ran inside the store and opened the little door of the freight elevator at the back of the shop. In this way, avoiding notice save by a few book-prowlers, Aubrey was carted into the shop as though he had been a parcel of second-hand books. Mr. Warner greeted them at the back of the shop, a little surprised, but gentle as ever. "What's wrong?" he said. "Oh, we've been fighting over a copy of Tooke's Pantheon," said Roger. They led Aubrey into the little private office at the rear. Here they made him sit down in a chair and bathed his bleeding head with cold water. Philip Warner, always resourceful, produced some surgical plaster. Roger wanted to telephone for a doctor. "Not on your life," said Aubrey, pulling himself together. "See here, Mr. Mifflin, don't flatter yourself you gave me this cut on the skull. I got that the other evening on Brooklyn Bridge, going home from your damned bookshop. Now if you and I can be alone for a few minutes, we've got to have a talk." Chapter XIV The "Cromwell" Makes its Last Appearance "You utter idiot," said Roger, half an hour later. "Why didn't you tell me all this sooner? Good Lord, man, there's some devil's work going on!" "How the deuce was I to know you knew nothing about it?" said Aubrey impatiently. "You'll grant everything pointed against you? When I saw that guy go into the shop with his own key, what could I think but that you were in league with him? Gracious, man, are you so befuddled in your old books that you don't see what's going on round you?" "What time did you say that was?" said Roger shortly. "One o'clock Sunday morning." Roger thought a minute. "Yes, I was in the cellar with Bock," he said. "Bock barked, and I thought it was rats. That fellow must have taken an impression of the lock and made himself a key. He's been in the shop hundreds of times, and could easily do it. That explains the disappearing Cromwell. But WHY? What's the idea?" "For the love of heaven," said Aubrey. "Let's get back to Brooklyn as soon as we can. God only knows what may have happened. Fool that I was, to go away and leave those women all alone. Triple-distilled lunacy!" "My dear fellow," said Roger, "I was the fool to be lured off by a fake telephone call. Judging by what you say, Weintraub must have worked that also." Aubrey looked at his watch. "Just after three," he said. "We can't get a train till four," said Roger. "That means we can't get back to Gissing Street until nearly seven." "Call them up," said Aubrey. They were still in the private office at the rear of Leary's. Roger was well-known in the shop, and had no hesitation in using the telephone. He lifted the receiver. "Long Distance, please," he said. "Hullo? I want to get Brooklyn, Wordsworth 1617-W." They spent a sour twenty-five minutes waiting for the connection. Roger went out to talk with Warner, while Aubrey fumed in the back office. He could not sit still, and paced the little room in a fidget of impatience, tearing his watch out of his pocket every few minutes. He felt dull and sick with vague fear. To his mind recurred the spiteful buzz of that voice over the wire--"Gissing Street is not healthy for you." He remembered the scuffle on the Bridge, the whispering in the alley, and the sinister face of the druggist at his prescription counter. The whole series of events seemed a grossly fantastic nightmare, yet it frightened him. "If only I were in Brooklyn," he groaned, "it wouldn't be so bad. But to be over here, a hundred miles away, in another cursed bookshop, while that girl may be in trouble--Gosh!" he muttered. "If I get through this business all right I'll lay off bookshops for the rest of my life!" The telephone rang, and Aubrey frantically beckoned to Roger, who was outside, talking. "Answer it, you chump!" said Roger. "We'll lose the connection!" "Nix," said Aubrey. "If Titania hears my voice she'll ring off. She's sore at me." Roger ran to the instrument. "Hullo, hullo?" he said, irritably. "Hullo, is that Wordsworth----? Yes, I'm calling Brooklyn--Hullo!" Aubrey, leaning over Roger's shoulder, could hear a clucking in the receiver, and then, incredibly clear, a thin, silver, distant voice. How well he knew it! It seemed to vibrate in the air all about him. He could hear every syllable distinctly. A hot perspiration burst out on his forehead and in the palms of his hands. "Hullo," said Roger. "Is that Mifflin's Bookshop?" "Yes," said Titania. "Is that you, Mr. Mifflin? Where are you?" "In Philadelphia," said Roger. "Tell me, is everything all right?" "Everything's dandy," said Titania. "I'm selling loads of books. Mrs. Mifflin's gone out to do some shopping." Aubrey shook to hear the tiny, airy voice, like a trill of birdsong, like a tinkling from some distant star. He could imagine her standing at the phone in the back of the shadowy bookshop, and seemed to see her as though through an inverted telescope, very minute and very perfect. How brave and exquisite she was! "When are you coming home?" she was saying. "About seven o'clock," said Roger. "Listen, is everything absolutely O. K.?" "Why, yes," said Titania. "I've been having lots of fun. I went down just now and put some coal on the furnace. Oh, yes. Mr. Weintraub came in a little while ago and left a suitcase of books. He said you wouldn't mind. A friend of his is going to call for them this afternoon." "Hold the wire a moment," said Roger, and clapped his hand over the mouthpiece. "She says Weintraub left a suitcase of books there to be called for. What do you make of that?" "For the love of God, tell her not to touch those books." "Hullo?" said Roger. Aubrey, leaning over him, noticed that the little bookseller's naked pate was ringed with crystal beads. "Hullo?" replied Titania's elfin voice promptly. "Did you open the suitcase?" "No. It's locked. Mr. Weintraub said there were a lot of old books in it for a friend of his. It's very heavy." "Look here," said Roger, and his voice rang sharply. "This is important. I don't want you to touch that suitcase. Leave it wherever it is, and DON'T TOUCH IT. Promise me." "Yes, Mr. Mifflin. Had I better put it in a safe place?" "DON'T TOUCH IT!" "Bock's sniffing at it now." "Don't touch it, and don't let Bock touch it. It--it's got valuable papers in it." "I'll be careful of it," said Titania. "Promise me not to touch it. And another thing--if any one calls for it, don't let them take it until I get home." Aubrey held out his watch in front of Roger. The latter nodded. "Do you understand?" he said. "Do you hear me all right?" "Yes, splendidly. I think it's wonderful! You know I never talked on long distance before----" "Don't touch the bag," repeated Roger doggedly, "and don't let any one take it until we--until I get back." "I promise," said Titania blithely. "Good-bye," said Roger, and set down the receiver. His face looked curiously pinched, and there was perspiration in the hollows under his eyes. Aubrey held out his watch impatiently. "We've just time to make it," cried Roger, and they rushed from the shop. It was not a sprightly journey. The train made its accustomed detour through West Philadelphia and North Philadelphia before getting down to business, and the two voyagers felt a personal hatred of the brakemen who permitted passengers from these suburbs to straggle leisurely aboard instead of flogging them in with knotted whips. When the express stopped at Trenton, Aubrey could easily have turned a howitzer upon that innocent city and blasted it into rubble. An unexpected stop at Princeton Junction was the last straw. Aubrey addressed the conductor in terms that were highly treasonable, considering that this official was a government servant. The winter twilight drew in, gray and dreary, with a threat of snow. For some time they sat in silence, Roger buried in a Philadelphia afternoon paper containing the text of the President's speech announcing his trip to Europe, and Aubrey gloomily recapitulating the schedule of his past week. His head throbbed, his hands were wet with nervousness so that crumbs of tobacco adhered to them annoyingly. "It's a funny thing," he said at last. "You know I never heard of your shop until a week ago to-day, and now it seems like the most important place on earth. It was only last Tuesday that we had supper together, and since then I've had my scalp laid open twice, had a desperado lie in wait for me in my own bedroom, spent two night vigils on Gissing Street, and endangered the biggest advertising account our agency handles. I don't wonder you call the place haunted!" "I suppose it would all make good advertising copy?" said Roger peevishly. "Well, I don't know" said Aubrey. "It's a bit too rough, I'm afraid. How do you dope it out?" "I don't know what to think. Weintraub has run that drug store for twenty years or more. Years ago, before I ever got into the book business, I used to know his shop. He was always rather interested in books, especially scientific books, and we got quite friendly when I opened up on Gissing Street. I never fell for his face very hard, but he always seemed quiet and well-disposed. It sounds to me like some kind of trade in illicit drugs, or German incendiary bombs. You know what a lot of fires there were during the war--those big grain elevators in Brooklyn, and so on." "I thought at first it was a kidnapping stunt," said Aubrey. "I thought you had got Miss Chapman planted in your shop so that these other guys could smuggle her away." "You seem to have done me the honour of thinking me a very complete rascal," said Roger. Aubrey's lips trembled with irritable retort, but he checked himself heroically. "What was your particular interest in the Cromwell book?" he asked after a pause. "Oh, I read somewhere--two or three years ago--that it was one of Woodrow Wilson's favourite books. That interested me, and I looked it up." "By the way," cried Aubrey excitedly, "I forgot to show you those numbers that were written in the cover." He pulled out his memorandum book, and showed the transcript he had made. "Well, one of these is perfectly understandable," said Roger. "Here, where it says 329 ff. cf. W. W. That simply means 'pages 329 and following, compare Woodrow Wilson.' I remember jotting that down not long ago, because that passage in the book reminded me of some of Wilson's ideas. I generally note down in the back of a book the numbers of any pages that interest me specially. These other page numbers convey nothing unless I had the book before me." "The first bunch of numbers was in your handwriting, then; but underneath were these others, in Weintraub's--or at any rate in his ink. When I saw that he was jotting down what I took to be code stuff in the backs of your books I naturally assumed you and he were working together----" "And you found the cover in his drug store?" "Yes." Roger scowled. "I don't make it out," he said. "Well, there's nothing we can do till we get there. Do you want to look at the paper? There's the text of Wilson's speech to Congress this morning." Aubrey shook his head dismally, and leaned his hot forehead against the pane. Neither of them spoke again until they reached Manhattan Transfer, where they changed for the Hudson Terminal. It was seven o'clock when they hurried out of the subway terminus at Atlantic Avenue. It was a raw, damp evening, but the streets had already begun to bustle with their nightly exuberance of light and colour. The yellow glitter of a pawnshop window reminded Aubrey of the small revolver in his pocket. As they passed a dark alley, he stepped aside to load the weapon. "Have you anything of this sort with you?" he said, showing it to Roger. "Good Lord, no," said the bookseller. "What do you think I am, a moving-picture hero?" Down Gissing Street the younger man set so rapid a pace that his companion had to trot to keep abreast. The placid vista of the little street was reassuring. Under the glowing effusion of the shop windows the pavement was a path of checkered brightness. In Weintraub's pharmacy they could see the pasty-faced assistant in his stained white coat serving a beaker of hot chocolate. In the stationer's shop people were looking over trays of Christmas cards. In the Milwaukee Lunch Aubrey saw (and envied) a sturdy citizen peacefully dipping a doughnut into a cup of coffee. "This all seems very unreal," said Roger. As they neared the bookshop, Aubrey's heart gave a jerk of apprehension. The blinds in the front windows had been drawn down. A dull shining came through them, showing that the lights were turned on inside. But why should the shades be lowered with closing time three hours away? They reached the front door, and Aubrey was about to seize the handle when Roger halted him. "Wait a moment," he said. "Let's go in quietly. There may be something queer going on." Aubrey turned the knob gently. The door was locked. Roger pulled out his latchkey and cautiously released the bolt. Then he opened the door slightly--about an inch. "You're taller than I am," he whispered. "Reach up and muffle the bell above the door while I open it." Aubrey thrust three fingers through the aperture and blocked the trigger of the gong. Then Roger pushed the door wide, and they tiptoed in. The shop was empty, and apparently normal. They stood for an instant with pounding pulses. From the back of the house came a clear voice, a little tremulous: "You can do what you like, I shan't tell you where it is. Mr. Mifflin said----" There followed the bang of a falling chair, and a sound of rapid movement. Aubrey was down the aisle in a flash, followed by Roger, who had delayed just long enough to close the door. He tiptoed up the steps at the back of the shop and looked into the dining room. At the instant his eyes took in the scene it seemed as though the whole room was in motion. The cloth was spread for supper and shone white under the drop lamp. In the far corner of the room Titania was struggling in the grasp of a bearded man whom Aubrey instantly recognized as the chef. On the near side of the table, holding a revolver levelled at the girl, stood Weintraub. His back was toward the door. Aubrey could see the druggist's sullen jaw crease and shake with anger. Two strides took him into the room. He jammed the muzzle of his pistol against the oily cheek. "Drop it!" he said hoarsely. "You Hun!" With his left hand he seized the man's shirt collar and drew it tight against the throat. In his tremor of rage and excitement his arms felt curiously weak, and his first thought was how impossible it would be to strangle that swinish neck. For an instant there was a breathless tableau. The bearded man still had his hands on Titania's shoulders. She, very pale but with brilliant eyes, gazed at Aubrey in unbelieving amazement. Weintraub stood quite motionless with both hands on the dining table, as though thinking. He felt the cold bruise of metal against the hollow of his cheek. Slowly he opened his right hand and his revolver fell on the linen cloth. Then Roger burst into the room. Titania wrenched herself away from the chef. "I wouldn't give them the suitcase!" she cried. Aubrey kept his pistol pinned against Weintraub's face. With his left hand he picked up the druggist's revolver. Roger was about to seize the chef, who was standing uncertainly on the other side of the table. "Here," said Aubrey, "take this gun. Cover this fellow and leave that one to me. I've got a score to settle with him." The chef made a movement as though to jump through the window behind him, but Aubrey flung himself upon him. He hit the man square on the nose and felt a delicious throb of satisfaction as the rubbery flesh flattened beneath his knuckles. He seized the man's hairy throat and sank his fingers into it. The other tried to snatch the bread knife on the table, but was too late. He fell to the floor, and Aubrey throttled him savagely. "You blasted Hun," he grunted. "Go wrestling with girls, will you?" Titania ran from the room, through the pantry. Roger was holding Weintraub's revolver in front of the German's face. "Look here," he said, "what does this mean?" "It's all a mistake," said the druggist suavely, though his eyes slid uneasily to and fro. "I just came in to get some books I left here earlier in the afternoon." "With a revolver, eh?" said Roger. "Speak up, Hindenburg, what's the big idea?" "It's not my revolver," said Weintraub. "It's Metzger's." "Where's this suitcase of yours?" said Roger. "We're going to have a look at it." "It's all a stupid mistake," said Weintraub. "I left a suitcase of old books here for Metzger, because I expected to go out of town this afternoon. He called for it, and your young woman wouldn't give it to him. He came to me, and I came down here to tell her it was all right." "Is that Metzger?" said Roger, pointing to the bearded man who was trying to break Aubrey's grip. "Gilbert, don't choke that man, we want him to do some explaining." Aubrey got up, picked his revolver from the floor where he had dropped it, and prodded the chef to his feet. "Well, you swine," he said, "how did you enjoy falling downstairs the other evening? As for you, Herr Weintraub, I'd like to know what kind of prescriptions you make up in that cellar of yours." Weintraub's face shone damply in the lamplight. Perspiration was thick on his forehead. "My dear Mifflin," he said, "this is awfully stupid. In my eagerness, I'm afraid----" Titania ran back into the room, followed by Helen, whose face was crimson. "Thank God you're back, Roger," she said. "These brutes tied me up in the kitchen and gagged me with a roller-towel. They threatened to shoot Titania if she wouldn't give them the suitcase." Weintraub began to say something, but Roger thrust the revolver between his eyes. "Hold your tongue!" he said. "We're going to have a look at those books of yours." "I'll get the suitcase," said Titania. "I hid it. When Mr. Weintraub came in and asked for it, at first I was going to give it to him, but he looked so queer I thought something must be wrong." "Don't you get it," said Aubrey, and their eyes met for the first time. "Show me where it is, and we'll let friend Hun bring it." Titania flushed a little. "It's in my bedroom cupboard," she said. She led the way upstairs, Metzger following, and Aubrey behind Metzger with his pistol ready. Outside the bedroom door Aubrey halted. "Show him the suitcase and let him pick it up," he said. "If he makes a wrong movement, call me, and I'll shoot him." Titania pointed out the suitcase, which she had stowed at the back of her cupboard behind some clothes. The chef showed no insubordination, and the three returned downstairs. "Very well," said Roger. "We'll go down in the shop where we can see better. Perhaps he's got a first folio Shakespeare in here. Helen, you go to the phone and ring up the McFee Street police station. Ask them to send a couple of men round here at once." "My dear Mifflin," said Weintraub, "this is very absurd. Only a few old books that I had collected from time to time." "I don't call it absurd when a man comes into my house and ties my wife up with clothesline and threatens to shoot a young girl," said Roger. "We'll see what the police have to say about this, Weintraub. Don't make any mistake: if you try to bolt I'll blow your brains out." Aubrey led the way down into the shop while Metzger carried the suitcase. Roger and Weintraub followed, and Titania brought up the rear. Under a bright light in the Essay alcove Aubrey made the chef lay the bag on the table. "Open her up," he said curtly. "It's nothing but some old books," said Metzger. "If they're old enough they may be valuable," said Roger. "I'm interested in old books. Look sharp!" Metzger drew a key from his pocket and unlocked the bag. Aubrey held the pistol at his head as he threw back the lid. The suitcase was full of second-hand books closely packed together. Roger, with great presence of mind, was keeping his eyes on Weintraub. "Tell me what's in it," he said. "Why, it's only a lot of books, after all," cried Titania. "You see," said Weintraub surlily, "there's no mystery about it. I'm sorry I was so----" "Oh, look!" said Titania; "There's the Cromwell book!" For an instant Roger forgot himself. He looked instinctively at the suitcase, and in that moment the druggist broke away, ran down the aisle, and flew out of the door. Roger dashed after him, but was too late. Aubrey was holding Metzger by the collar with the pistol at his head. "Good God," he said, "why didn't you shoot?" "I don't know" said Roger in confusion. "I was afraid of hitting him. Never mind, we can fix him later." "The police will be here in a minute," said Helen, calling from the telephone. "I'm going to let Bock in. He's in the back yard." "I think they're both crazy," said Titania. "Let's put the Cromwell back on the shelf and let this creature go." She put out her hand for the book. "Stop!" cried Aubrey, and seized her arm. "Don't touch that book!" Titania shrank back, frightened by his voice. Had everyone gone insane? "Here, Mr. Metzger," said Aubrey, "you put that book back on the shelf where it belongs. Don't try to get away. I've got this revolver pointed at you." He and Roger were both startled by the chef's face. Above the unkempt beard his eyes shone with a half-crazed lustre, and his hands shook. "Very well," he said. "Show me where it goes." "I'll show you," said Titania. Aubrey put out his arm in front of the girl. "Stay where you are," he said angrily. "Down in the History alcove," said Roger. "The front alcove on the other side of the shop. We've both got you covered." Instead of taking the volume from the suitcase, Metzger picked up the whole bag, holding it flat. He carried it to the alcove they indicated. He placed the case carefully on the floor, and picked the Cromwell volume out of it. "Where would you want it to go?" he said in an odd voice. "This is a valuable book." "On the fifth shelf," said Roger. "Over there----" "For God's sake stand back," said Aubrey. "Don't go near him. There's something damnable about this." "You poor fools!" cried Metzger harshly. "To hell with you and your old books." He drew his hand back as though to throw the volume at them. There was a quick patter of feet, and Bock, growling, ran down the aisle. In the same instant, Aubrey, obeying some unexplained impulse, gave Roger a violent push back into the Fiction alcove, seized Titania roughly in his arms, and ran with her toward the back of the shop. Metzger's arm was raised, about to throw the book, when Bock darted at him and buried his teeth in the man's leg. The Cromwell fell from his hand. There was a shattering explosion, a dull roar, and for an instant Aubrey thought the whole bookshop had turned into a vast spinning top. The floor rocked and sagged, shelves of books were hurled in every direction. Carrying Titania, he had just reached the steps leading to the domestic quarters when they were flung sideways into the corner behind Roger's desk. The air was full of flying books. A row of encyclopedias crashed down upon his shoulders, narrowly missing Titania's head. The front windows were shivered into flying streamers of broken glass. The table near the door was hurled into the opposite gallery. With a splintering crash the corner of the gallery above the History alcove collapsed, and hundreds of volumes cascaded heavily on to the floor. The lights went out, and for an instant all was silence. "Are you all right?" said Aubrey hastily. He and Titania had fallen sprawling against the bookseller's desk. "I think so," she said faintly. "Where's Mr. Mifflin?" Aubrey put out his hand to help her, and touched something wet on the floor. "Good heavens," he thought. "She's dying!" He struggled to his feet in the darkness. "Hullo, Mr. Mifflin," he called, "where are you?" There was no answer. A beam of light gushed out from the passageway behind the shop, and picking his way over fallen litter he found Mrs. Mifflin standing dazed by the dining-room door. In the back of the house the lights were still burning. "For heaven's sake, have you a candle?" he said. "Where's Roger?" she cried piteously, and stumbled into the kitchen. With a candle Aubrey found Titania sitting on the floor, very faint, but unhurt. What he had thought was blood proved to be a pool of ink from a quart bottle that had stood over Roger's desk. He picked her up like a child and carried her into the kitchen. "Stay here and don't stir," he said. By this time a crowd was already gathering on the pavement. Someone came in with a lantern. Three policemen appeared at the door. "For God's sake," cried Aubrey, "get a light in here so we can see what's happened. Mifflin's buried in this mess somewhere. Someone ring for an ambulance." The whole front of the Haunted Bookshop was a wreck. In the pale glimmer of the lantern it was a disastrous sight. Helen groped her way down the shattered aisle. "Where was he?" she cried wildly. "Thanks to that set of Trollope," said a voice in the remains of the Fiction alcove, "I think I'm all right. Books make good shock-absorbers. Is any one hurt?" It was Roger, half stunned, but undamaged. He crawled out from under a case of shelves that had crumpled down upon him. "Bring that lantern over here," said Aubrey, pointing to a dark heap lying on the floor under the broken fragments of Roger's bulletin board. It was the chef. He was dead. And clinging to his leg was all that was left of Bock. Chapter XV Mr. Chapman Waves His Wand Gissing Street will not soon forget the explosion at the Haunted Bookshop. When it was learned that the cellar of Weintraub's pharmacy contained just the information for which the Department of Justice had been looking for four years, and that the inoffensive German-American druggist had been the artisan of hundreds of incendiary bombs that had been placed on American and Allied shipping and in ammunition plants--and that this same Weintraub had committed suicide when arrested on Bromfield Street in Boston the next day--Gissing Street hummed with excitement. The Milwaukee Lunch did a roaring business among the sensation seekers who came to view the ruins of the bookshop. When it became known that fragments of a cabin plan of the George Washington had been found in Metzger's pocket, and the confession of an accomplice on the kitchen staff of the Octagon Hotel showed that the bomb, disguised as a copy of one of Woodrow Wilson's favourite books, was to have been placed in the Presidential suite of the steamship, indignation knew no bounds. Mrs. J. F. Smith left Mrs. Schiller's lodgings, declaring that she would stay no longer in a pro-German colony; and Aubrey was able at last to get a much-needed bath. For the next three days he was too busy with agents of the Department of Justice to be able to carry on an investigation of his own that greatly occupied his mind. But late on Friday afternoon he called at the bookshop to talk things over. The debris had all been neatly cleared away, and the shattered front of the building boarded up. Inside, Aubrey found Roger seated on the floor, looking over piles of volumes that were heaped pell-mell around him. Through Mr. Chapman's influence with a well-known firm of builders, the bookseller had been able to get men to work at once in making repairs, but even so it would be at least ten days, he said, before he could reopen for business. "I hate to lose the value of all this advertising," he lamented. "It isn't often that a second-hand bookstore gets onto the front pages of the newspapers." "I thought you didn't believe in advertising," said Aubrey. "The kind of advertising I believe in," said Roger, "is the kind that doesn't cost you anything." Aubrey smiled as he looked round at the dismantled shop. "It seems to me that this'll cost you a tidy bit when the bill comes in." "My dear fellow," said Roger, "This is just what I needed. I was getting into a rut. The explosion has blown out a whole lot of books I had forgotten about and didn't even know I had. Look, here's an old copy of How to Be Happy Though Married, which I see the publisher lists as 'Fiction.' Here's Urn Burial, and The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac, and Mistletoe's Book of Deplorable Facts. I'm going to have a thorough house-cleaning. I'm thinking seriously of putting in a vacuum cleaner and a cash register. Titania was quite right, the place was too dirty. That girl has given me a lot of ideas." Aubrey wanted to ask where she was, but didn't like to say so point-blank. "There's no question about it," said Roger, "an explosion now and then does one good. Since the reporters got here and dragged the whole yarn out of us, I've had half a dozen offers from publishers for my book, a lyceum bureau wants me to lecture on Bookselling as a Form of Public Service, I've had five hundred letters from people asking when the shop will reopen for business, and the American Booksellers' Association has invited me to give an address at its convention next spring. It's the first recognition I've ever had. If it weren't for poor dear old Bock---- Come, we've buried him in the back yard. I want to show you his grave." Over a pathetically small mound near the fence a bunch of big yellow chrysanthemums were standing in a vase. "Titania put those there," said Roger. "She says she's going to plant a dogwood tree there in the spring. We intend to put up a little stone for him, and I'm trying to think of an inscription, I thought of De Mortuis Nil Nisi Bonum, but that's a bit too flippant." The living quarters of the house had not been damaged by the explosion, and Roger took Aubrey back to the den. "You've come just at the right time," he said. "Mr. Chapman's coming to dinner this evening, and we'll all have a good talk. There's a lot about this business I don't understand yet." Aubrey was still keeping his eye open for a sign of Titania's presence, and Roger noticed his wandering gaze. "This is Miss Chapman's afternoon off," he said. "She got her first salary to-day, and was so much exhilarated that she went to New York to blow it in. She's out with her father. Excuse me, please, I'm going to help Helen get dinner ready." Aubrey sat down by the fire, and lit his pipe. The burden of his meditation was that it was just a week since he had first met Titania, and in all that week there had been no waking moment when he had not thought of her. He was wondering how long it might take for a girl to fall in love? A man--he knew now--could fall in love in five minutes, but how did it work with girls? He was also thinking what unique Daintybits advertising copy he could build (like all ad men he always spoke of building an ad, never of writing one) out of this affair if he could only use the inside stuff. He heard a rustle behind him, and there she was. She had on a gray fur coat and a lively little hat. Her cheeks were delicately tinted by the winter air. Aubrey rose. "Why, Mr. Gilbert!" she said. "Where have you been keeping yourself when I wanted to see you so badly? I haven't seen you, not to talk to, since last Sunday." He found it impossible to say anything intelligible. She threw off her coat, and went on, with a wistful gravity that became her even more than smiles: "Mr. Mifflin has told me some more about what you did last week--I mean, how you took a room across the street and spied upon that hateful man and saw through the whole thing when we were too blind to know what was going on. And I want to apologize for the silly things I said that Sunday morning. Will you forgive me?" Aubrey had never felt his self-salesmanship ability at such a low ebb. To his unspeakable horror, he felt his eyes betray him. They grew moist. "Please don't talk like that," he said. "I had no right to do what I did, anyway. And I was wrong in what I said about Mr. Mifflin. I don't wonder you were angry." "Now surely you're not going to deprive me of the pleasure of thanking you," she said. "You know as well as I do that you saved my life--all our lives, that night. I guess you'd have saved poor Bock's, too, if you could." Her eyes filled with tears. "If anybody deserves credit, it's you," he said. "Why, if it hadn't been for you they'd have been away with that suitcase and probably Metzger would have got his bomb on board the ship and blown up the President----" "I'm not arguing with you," she said. "I'm just thanking you." It was a happy little party that sat down in Roger's dining room that evening. Helen had prepared Eggs Samuel Butler in Aubrey's honour, and Mr. Chapman had brought two bottles of champagne to pledge the future success of the bookshop. Aubrey was called upon to announce the result of his conferences with the secret service men who had been looking up Weintraub's record. "It all seems so simple now," he said, "that I wonder we didn't see through it at once. You see, we all made the mistake of assuming that German plotting would stop automatically when the armistice was signed. It seems that this man Weintraub was one of the most dangerous spies Germany had in this country. Thirty or forty fires and explosions on our ships at sea are said to have been due to his work. As he had lived here so long and taken out citizen's papers, no one suspected him. But after his death, his wife, whom he had treated very brutally, gave way and told a great deal about his activities. According to her, as soon as it was announced that the President would go to the Peace Conference, Weintraub made up his mind to get a bomb into the President's cabin on board the George Washington. Mrs. Weintraub tried to dissuade him from it, as she was in secret opposed to these murderous plots of his, but he threatened to kill her if she thwarted him. She lived in terror of her life. I can believe it, for I remember her face when her husband looked at her. "Of course to make the bomb was simple enough for Weintraub. He had an infernally complete laboratory in the cellar of his house, where he had made hundreds. The problem was, how to make a bomb that would not look suspicious, and how to get it into the President's private cabin. He hit on the idea of binding it into the cover of a book. How he came to choose that particular volume, I don't know." "I think probably I gave him the idea quite innocently," said Roger. "He used to come in here a good deal and one day he asked me whether Mr. Wilson was a great reader. I said that I believed he was, and then mentioned the Cromwell, which I had heard was one of Wilson's favourite books. Weintraub was much interested and said he must read the book some day. I remember now that he stood in that alcove for some time, looking over it." "Well," said Aubrey, "it must have seemed to him that luck was playing into his hands. This man Metzger, who had been an assistant chef at the Octagon for years, was slated to go on board the George Washington with the party of cooks from that hotel who were to prepare the President's meals. Weintraub was informed of all this from someone higher up in the German spy organization. Metzger, who was known as Messier at the hotel, was a very clever chef, and had fake passports as a Swiss citizen. He was another tool of the organization. By the original scheme there would have been no direct communication between Weintraub and Metzger, but the go-between was spotted by the Department of Justice on another count, and is now behind bars at Atlanta. "It seems that Weintraub had conceived the idea that the least suspicious way of passing his messages to Metzger would be to slip them into a copy of some book--a book little likely to be purchased--in a second-hand bookshop. Metzger had been informed what the book was, but--perhaps owing to the unexpected removal of the go-between--did not know in which shop he was to find it. That explains why so many booksellers had inquiries from him recently for a copy of the Cromwell volume. "Weintraub, of course, was not at all anxious to have any direct dealings with Metzger, as the druggist had a high regard for his own skin. When the chef was finally informed where the bookshop was in which he was to see the book, he hurried over here. Weintraub had picked out this shop not only because it was as unlikely as any place on earth to be suspected as a channel of spy codes, but also because he had your confidence and could drop in frequently without arousing surprise. The first time Metzger came here happened to be the night I dined with you, as you remember." Roger nodded. "He asked for the book, and to my surprise, it wasn't there." "No: for the excellent reason that Weintraub had taken it some days before, to measure it so he could build his infernal machine to fit, and also to have it rebound. He needed the original binding as a case for his bomb. The following night, as you told me, it came back. He brought it himself, having provided himself with a key to your front door." "It was gone again on Thursday night, when the Corn Cob Club met here," said Mr. Chapman. "Yes, that time Metzger had taken it," said Aubrey. "He misunderstood his instructions, and thought he was to steal the book. You see, owing to the absence of their third man, they were working at cross purposes. Metzger, I think, was only intended to get his information out of the book, and leave it where it was. At any rate, he was puzzled, and inserted that ad in the Times the next morning--that LOST ad, you remember. By that, I imagine, he intended to convey the idea that he had located the bookshop, but didn't know what to do next. And the date he mentioned in the ad, midnight on Tuesday, December third, was to inform Weintraub (of whose identity he was still ignorant) when Metzger was to go on board the ship. Weintraub had been instructed by their spy organization to watch the LOST and FOUND ads." "Think of it!" cried Titania. "Well," continued Aubrey, "all this may not be 100 per cent. accurate, but after putting things together this is how it dopes out. Weintraub, who was as canny as they make them, saw he'd have to get into direct touch with Metzger. He sent him word, on the Friday, to come over to see him and bring the book. Metzger, meanwhile, had had a bad fright when I spoke to him in the hotel elevator. He returned the book to the shop that night, as Mrs. Mifflin remembers. Then, when I stopped in at the drug store on my way home, he must have been with Weintraub. I found the Cromwell cover in the drug-store bookcase--why Weintraub was careless enough to leave it there I can't guess--and they spotted me right away as having some kind of hunch. So they followed me over the Bridge and tried to get rid of me. It was because I got that cover on Friday night that Weintraub broke into the shop again early Sunday morning. He had to have the cover of the book to bind his bomb in." Aubrey was agreeably conscious of the close attention of his audience. He caught Titania's gaze, and flushed a little. "That's pretty nearly all there is to it," he said. "I knew that if those guys were so keen to put me out of the way there must be something rather rotten on foot. I came over to Brooklyn the next afternoon, Saturday, and took a room across the street." "And we went to the movies," chirped Titania. "The rest of it I think you all know--except Metzger's visit to my lodgings that night." He described the incident. "You see they were trailing me pretty close. If I hadn't happened to notice the cigar at my window I guess he'd have had me on toast. Of course you know how wrongly I doped it out. I thought Mr. Mifflin was running with them, and I owe him my apology for that. He's laid me out once on that score, over in Philadelphia." Humourously, Aubrey narrated how he had sleuthed the bookseller to Ludlow Street, and had been worsted in battle. "I think they counted on disposing of me sooner or later," said Aubrey. "They framed up that telephone call to get Mr. Mifflin out of town. The point in having Metzger come to the bookshop to get the suitcase was to clear Weintraub's skirts if possible. Apparently it was just a bag of old books. The bombed book, I guess, was perfectly harmless until any one tried to open it." "You both got back just in the nick of time," said Titania admiringly. "You see I was all alone most of the afternoon. Weintraub left the suitcase about two o'clock. Metzger came for it about six. I refused to let him have it. He was very persistent, and I had to threaten to set Bock at him. It was all I could do to hold the dear old dog in, he was so keen to go for Metzger. The chef went away, and I suppose he went up to see Weintraub about it. I hid the suitcase in my room. Mr. Mifflin had forbidden me to touch it, but I thought that the safest thing to do. Then Mrs. Mifflin came in. We let Bock into the yard for a run, and were getting supper. I heard the bell ring, and went into the shop. There were the two Germans, pulling down the shades. I asked what they meant by it, and they grabbed me and told me to shut up. Then Metzger pointed a pistol at me while the other one tied up Mrs. Mifflin." "The damned scoundrels!" cried Aubrey. "They got what was coming to them." "Well, my friends," said Mr. Chapman, "Let's thank heaven that it ended no worse. Mr. Gilbert, I haven't told you yet how I feel about the whole affair. That'll come later. I'd like to propose the health of Mr. Aubrey Gilbert, who is certainly the hero of this film!" They drank the toast with cheers, and Aubrey blushed becomingly. "Oh, I forgot something!" cried Titania. "When I went shopping this afternoon I stopped in at Brentano's, and was lucky enough to find just what I wanted. It's for Mr. Gilbert, as a souvenir of the Haunted Bookshop." She ran to the sideboard and brought back a parcel. Aubrey opened it with delighted agitation. It was a copy of Carlyle's Cromwell. He tried to stammer his thanks, but what he saw--or thought he saw--in Titania's sparkling face--unmanned him. "The same edition!" said Roger. "Now let's see what those mystic page numbers are! Gilbert, have you got your memorandum?" Aubrey took out his notebook. "Here we are," he said. "This is what Weintraub wrote in the back of the cover." 153 (3) 1, 2. Roger glanced at the notation. "That ought to be easy," he said. "You see in this edition three volumes are bound in one. Let's look at page 153 in the third volume, the first and second lines." Aubrey turned to the place. He read, and smiled. "Right you are," he said. "Read it!" they all cried. "To seduce the Protector's guard, to blow up the Protector in his bedroom, and do other little fiddling things." "I shouldn't wonder if that's where he got his idea," said Roger. "What have I been saying right along--that books aren't merely dead things!" "Good gracious," said Titania. "You told me that books are explosives. You were right, weren't you! But it's lucky Mr. Gilbert didn't hear you say it or he'd certainly have suspected you!" "The joke is on me," said Roger. "Well, I'VE got a toast to propose," said Titania. "Here's to the memory of Bock, the dearest, bravest dog I ever met!" They drank it with due gravity. "Well, good people," said Mr. Chapman, "there's nothing we can do for Bock now. But we can do something for the rest of us. I've been talking with Titania, Mr. Mifflin. I'm bound to say that after this disaster my first thought was to get her out of the book business as fast as I could. I thought it was a little too exciting for her. You know I sent her over here to have a quiet time and calm down a bit. But she wouldn't hear of leaving. And if I'm going to have a family interest in the book business I want to do something to justify it. I know your idea about travelling book-wagons, and taking literature into the countryside. Now if you and Mrs. Mifflin can find the proper people to run them, I'll finance a fleet of ten of those Parnassuses you're always talking about, and have them built in time to go on the road next spring. How about it?" Roger and Helen looked at each other, and at Mr. Chapman. In a flash Roger saw one of his dearest dreams coming true. Titania, to whom this was a surprise, leaped from her chair and ran to kiss her father, crying, "Oh, Daddy, you ARE a darling!" Roger rose solemnly and gave Mr. Chapman his hand. "My dear sir," he said, "Miss Titania has found the right word. You are an honour to human nature, sir, and I hope you'll never live to regret it. This is the happiest moment of my life." "Then that's settled," said Mr. Chapman. "We'll go over the details later. Now there's another thing on my mind. Perhaps I shouldn't bring up business matters here, but this is a kind of family party--Mr. Gilbert, it's my duty to inform you that I intend to take my advertising out of the hands of the Grey-Matter Agency." Aubrey's heart sank. He had feared a catastrophe of this kind from the first. Naturally a hard-headed business man would not care to entrust such vast interests to a firm whose young men went careering about like secret service agents, hunting for spies, eavesdropping in alleys, and accusing people of pro-germanism. Business, Aubrey said to himself, is built upon Confidence, and what confidence could Mr. Chapman have in such vagabond and romantic doings? Still, he felt that he had done nothing to be ashamed of. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. "We have tried to give you service. I assure you that I've spent by far the larger part of my time at the office in working up plans for your campaigns." He could not bear to look at Titania, ashamed that she should be the witness of his humiliation. "That's exactly it," said Mr. Chapman. "I don't want just the larger part of your time. I want all of it. I want you to accept the position of assistant advertising manager of the Daintybits Corporation." They all cheered, and for the third time that evening Aubrey felt more overwhelmed than any good advertising man is accustomed to feel. He tried to express his delight, and then added: "I think it's my turn to propose a toast. I give you the health of Mr. and Mrs. Mifflin, and their Haunted Bookshop, the place where I first--I first----" His courage failed him, and he concluded, "First learned the meaning of literature." "Suppose we adjourn to the den," said Helen. "We have so many delightful things to talk over, and I know Roger wants to tell you all about the improvements he is planning for the shop." Aubrey lingered to be the last, and it is to be conjectured that Titania did not drop her handkerchief merely by accident. The others had already crossed the hall into the sitting room. Their eyes met, and Aubrey could feel himself drowned in her steady, honest gaze. He was tortured by the bliss of being so near her, and alone. The rest of the world seemed to shred away and leave them standing in that little island of light where the tablecloth gleamed under the lamp. In his hand he clutched the precious book. Out of all the thousand things he thought, there was only one he dared to say. "Will you write my name in it?" "I'd love to," she said, a little shakily, for she, too, was strangely alarmed at certain throbbings. He gave her his pen, and she sat down at the table. She wrote quickly For Aubrey Gilbert From Titania Chapman With much gr She paused. "Oh," she said quickly. "Do I have to finish it now?" She looked up at him, with the lamplight shining on her vivid face. Aubrey felt oddly stupefied, and was thinking only of the little golden sparkle of her eyelashes. This time her eyes were the first to turn away. "You see," she said with a funny little quaver, "I might want to change the wording." And she ran from the room. As she entered the den, her father was speaking. "You know," he said, "I'm rather glad she wants to stay in the book business." Roger looked up at her. "Well," he said, "I believe it agrees with her! You know, the beauty of living in a place like this is that you get so absorbed in the books you don't have any temptation to worry about anything else. The people in books become more real to you than any one in actual life." Titania, sitting on the arm of Mrs. Mifflin's chair, took Helen's hand, unobserved by the others. They smiled at each other slyly. 
5311	----	PARNASSUS ON WHEELS BY CHRISTOPHER MORLEY To H.B.F. and H.F.M. "Trusty, dusky, vivid, true" A LETTER TO David Grayson, Esq. OF HEMPFIELD, U.S.A. MY DEAR SIR, Although my name appears on the title page, the real author of this book is Miss Helen McGill (now Mrs. Roger Mifflin), who told me the story with her own inimitable vivacity. And on her behalf I want to send to you these few words of acknowledgment. Mrs. Mifflin, I need hardly say, is unskilled in the arts of authorship: this is her first book, and I doubt whether she will ever write another. She hardly realized, I think, how much her story owes to your own delightful writings. There used to be a well-thumbed copy of "Adventures in Contentment" on her table at the Sabine Farm, and I have seen her pick it up, after a long day in the kitchen, read it with chuckles, and say that the story of you and Harriet reminded her of herself and Andrew. She used to mutter something about "Adventures in Discontentment" and ask why Harriet's side of the matter was never told? And so when her own adventure came to pass, and she was urged to put it on paper, I think she unconsciously adopted something of the manner and matter that you have made properly yours. Surely, sir, you will not disown so innocent a tribute! At any rate, Miss Harriet Grayson, whose excellent qualities we have all so long admired, will find in Mrs. Mifflin a kindred spirit. Mrs. Mifflin would have said this for herself, with her characteristic definiteness of speech, had she not been out of touch with her publishers and foolscap paper. She and the Professor are on their Parnassus, somewhere on the high roads, happily engrossed in the most godly diversion known to man--selling books. And I venture to think that there are no volumes they take more pleasure in recommending than the wholesome and invigorating books which bear your name. Believe me, dear Mr. Grayson, with warm regards, Faithfully yours, CHRISTOPHER MORLEY. CHAPTER ONE I wonder if there isn't a lot of bunkum in higher education? I never found that people who were learned in logarithms and other kinds of poetry were any quicker in washing dishes or darning socks. I've done a good deal of reading when I could, and I don't want to "admit impediments" to the love of books, but I've also seen lots of good, practical folk spoiled by too much fine print. Reading sonnets always gives me hiccups, too. I never expected to be an author! But I do think there are some amusing things about the story of Andrew and myself and how books broke up our placid life. When John Gutenberg, whose real name (so the Professor says) was John Gooseflesh, borrowed that money to set up his printing press he launched a lot of troubles on the world. Andrew and I were wonderfully happy on the farm until he became an author. If I could have foreseen all the bother his writings were to cause us, I would certainly have burnt the first manuscript in the kitchen stove. Andrew McGill, the author of those books every one reads, is my brother. In other words, I am his sister, ten years younger. Years ago Andrew was a business man, but his health failed and, like so many people in the story books, he fled to the country, or, as he called it, to the bosom of Nature. He and I were the only ones left in an unsuccessful family. I was slowly perishing as a conscientious governess in the brownstone region of New York. He rescued me from that and we bought a farm with our combined savings. We became real farmers, up with the sun and to bed with the same. Andrew wore overalls and a soft shirt and grew brown and tough. My hands got red and blue with soapsuds and frost; I never saw a Redfern advertisement from one year's end to another, and my kitchen was a battlefield where I set my teeth and learned to love hard work. Our literature was government agriculture reports, patent medicine almanacs, seedsmen's booklets, and Sears Roebuck catalogues. We subscribed to Farm and Fireside and read the serials aloud. Every now and then, for real excitement, we read something stirring in the Old Testament--that cheery book Jeremiah, for instance, of which Andrew was very fond. The farm did actually prosper, after a while; and Andrew used to hang over the pasture bars at sunset, and tell, from the way his pipe burned, just what the weather would be the next day. As I have said, we were tremendously happy until Andrew got the fatal idea of telling the world how happy we were. I am sorry to have to admit he had always been rather a bookish man. In his college days he had edited the students' magazine, and sometimes he would get discontented with the Farm and Fireside serials and pull down his bound volumes of the college paper. He would read me some of his youthful poems and stories and mutter vaguely about writing something himself some day. I was more concerned with sitting hens than with sonnets and I'm bound to say I never took these threats very seriously. I should have been more severe. Then great-uncle Philip died, and his carload of books came to us. He had been a college professor, and years ago when Andrew was a boy Uncle Philip had been very fond of him--had, in fact, put him through college. We were the only near relatives, and all those books turned up one fine day. That was the beginning of the end, if I had only known it. Andrew had the time of his life building shelves all round our living-room; not content with that he turned the old hen house into a study for himself, put in a stove, and used to sit up there evenings after I had gone to bed. The first thing I knew he called the place Sabine Farm (although it had been known for years as Bog Hollow) because he thought it a literary thing to do. He used to take a book along with him when he drove over to Redfield for supplies; sometimes the wagon would be two hours late coming home, with old Ben loafing along between the shafts and Andrew lost in his book. I didn't think much of all this, but I'm an easy-going woman and as long as Andrew kept the farm going I had plenty to do on my own hook. Hot bread and coffee, eggs and preserves for breakfast; soup and hot meat, vegetables, dumplings, gravy, brown bread and white, huckleberry pudding, chocolate cake and buttermilk for dinner; muffins, tea, sausage rolls, blackberries and cream, and doughnuts for supper--that's the kind of menu I had been preparing three times a day for years. I hadn't any time to worry about what wasn't my business. And then one morning I caught Andrew doing up a big, flat parcel for the postman. He looked so sheepish I just had to ask what it was. "I've written a book," said Andrew, and he showed me the title page-- PARADISE REGAINED BY ANDREW McGILL Even then I wasn't much worried, because of course I knew no one would print it. But Lord! a month or so later came a letter from a publisher--accepting it! That's the letter Andrew keeps framed above his desk. Just to show how such things sound I'll copy it here: DECAMERON, JONES AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS UNION SQUARE, NEW YORK January 13, 1907. DEAR MR. McGILL: We have read with singular pleasure your manuscript "Paradise Regained." There is no doubt in our minds that so spirited an account of the joys of sane country living should meet with popular approval, and, with the exception of a few revisions and abbreviations, we would be glad to publish the book practically as it stands. We would like to have it illustrated by Mr. Tortoni, some of whose work you may have seen, and would be glad to know whether he may call upon you in order to acquaint himself with the local colour of your neighbourhood. We would be glad to pay you a royalty of 10 percent upon the retail price of the book, and we enclose duplicate contracts for your signature in case this proves satisfactory to you. Believe us, etc., etc., DECAMERON, JONES & CO. I have since thought that "Paradise Lost" would have been a better title for that book. It was published in the autumn of 1907, and since that time our life has never been the same. By some mischance the book became the success of the season; it was widely commended as "a gospel of health and sanity" and Andrew received, in almost every mail, offers from publishers and magazine editors who wanted to get hold of his next book. It is almost incredible to what stratagems publishers will descend to influence an author. Andrew had written in "Paradise Regained" of the tramps who visit us, how quaint and appealing some of them are (let me add, how dirty), and how we never turn away any one who seems worthy. Would you believe that, in the spring after the book was published, a disreputable-looking vagabond with a knapsack, who turned up one day, blarneyed Andrew about his book and stayed overnight, announced himself at breakfast as a leading New York publisher? He had chosen this ruse in order to make Andrew's acquaintance. You can imagine that it didn't take long for Andrew to become spoiled at this rate! The next year he suddenly disappeared, leaving only a note on the kitchen table, and tramped all over the state for six weeks collecting material for a new book. I had all I could do to keep him from going to New York to talk to editors and people of that sort. Envelopes of newspaper cuttings used to come to him, and he would pore over them when he ought to have been ploughing corn. Luckily the mail man comes along about the middle of the morning when Andrew is out in the fields, so I used to look over the letters before he saw them. After the second book ("Happiness and Hayseed" it was called) was printed, letters from publishers got so thick that I used to put them all in the stove before Andrew saw them--except those from the Decameron Jones people, which sometimes held checks. Literary folk used to turn up now and then to interview Andrew, but generally I managed to head them off. But Andrew got to be less and less of a farmer and more and more of a literary man. He bought a typewriter. He would hang over the pigpen noting down adjectives for the sunset instead of mending the weather vane on the barn which took a slew so that the north wind came from the southwest. He hardly ever looked at the Sears Roebuck catalogues any more, and after Mr. Decameron came to visit us and suggested that Andrew write a book of country poems, the man became simply unbearable. And all the time I was counting eggs and turning out three meals a day, and running the farm when Andrew got a literary fit and would go off on some vagabond jaunt to collect adventures for a new book. (I wish you could have seen the state he was in when he came back from these trips, hoboing it along the roads without any money or a clean sock to his back. One time he returned with a cough you could hear the other side of the barn, and I had to nurse him for three weeks.) When somebody wrote a little booklet about "The Sage of Redfield" and described me as a "rural Xantippe" and "the domestic balance-wheel that kept the great writer close to the homely realities of life" I made up my mind to give Andrew some of his own medicine. And that's my story. CHAPTER TWO It was a fine, crisp morning in fall--October I dare say--and I was in the kitchen coring apples for apple sauce. We were going to have roast pork for dinner with boiled potatoes and what Andrew calls Vandyke brown gravy. Andrew had driven over to town to get some flour and feed and wouldn't be back till noontime. Being a Monday, Mrs. McNally, the washerwoman, had come over to take care of the washing. I remember I was just on my way out to the wood pile for a few sticks of birch when I heard wheels turn in at the gate. There was one of the fattest white horses I ever saw, and a queer wagon, shaped like a van. A funny-looking little man with a red beard leaned forward from the seat and said something. I didn't hear what it was, I was looking at that preposterous wagon of his. It was coloured a pale, robin's-egg blue, and on the side, in big scarlet letters, was painted: R. MIFFLIN'S TRAVELLING PARNASSUS GOOD BOOKS FOR SALE SHAKESPEARE, CHARLES LAMB, R.L.S. HAZLITT, AND ALL OTHERS Underneath the wagon, in slings, hung what looked like a tent, together with a lantern, a bucket, and other small things. The van had a raised skylight on the roof, something like an old-fashioned trolley car; and from one corner went up a stove pipe. At the back was a door with little windows on each side and a flight of steps leading up to it. As I stood looking at this queer turnout, the little reddish man climbed down from in front and stood watching me. His face was a comic mixture of pleasant drollery and a sort of weather-beaten cynicism. He had a neat little russet beard and a shabby Norfolk jacket. His head was very bald. "Is this where Andrew McGill lives?" he said. I admitted it. "But he's away until noon," I added. "He'll be back then. There's roast pork for dinner." "And apple sauce?" said the little man. "Apple sauce and brown gravy," I said. "That's why I'm sure he'll be home on time. Sometimes he's late when there's boiled dinner, but never on roast pork days. Andrew would never do for a rabbi." A sudden suspicion struck me. "You're not another publisher, are you?" I cried. "What do you want with Andrew?" "I was wondering whether he wouldn't buy this outfit," said the little man, including, with a wave of the hand, both van and white horse. As he spoke he released a hook somewhere, and raised the whole side of his wagon like a flap. Some kind of catch clicked, the flap remained up like a roof, displaying nothing but books--rows and rows of them. The flank of his van was nothing but a big bookcase. Shelves stood above shelves, all of them full of books--both old and new. As I stood gazing, he pulled out a printed card from somewhere and gave it to me: ROGER MIFFLIN'S TRAVELLING PARNASSUS Worthy friends, my wain doth hold Many a book, both new and old; Books, the truest friends of man, Fill this rolling caravan. Books to satisfy all uses, Golden lyrics of the Muses, Books on cookery and farming, Novels passionate and charming, Every kind for every need So that he who buys may read. What librarian can surpass us? MIFFLIN'S TRAVELLING PARNASSUS By R. Mifflin, Prop'r. Star Job Print, Celeryville, Va. While I was chuckling over this, he had raised a similar flap on the other side of the Parnassus which revealed still more shelves loaded with books. I'm afraid I am severely practical by nature. "Well!" I said, "I should think you _would_ need a pretty stout steed to lug that load along. It must weigh more than a coal wagon." "Oh, Peg can manage it all right," he said. "We don't travel very fast. But look here, I want to sell out. Do you suppose your husband would buy the outfit--Parnassus, Pegasus, and all? He's fond of books, isn't he? "Hold on a minute!" I said. "Andrew's my brother, not my husband, and he's altogether _too_ fond of books. Books'll be the ruin of this farm pretty soon. He's mooning about over his books like a sitting hen about half the time, when he ought to be mending harness. Lord, if he saw this wagonload of yours he'd be unsettled for a week. I have to stop the postman down the road and take all the publishers' catalogues out of the mail so that Andrew don't see 'em. I'm mighty glad he's not here just now, I can tell you!" I'm not literary, as I said before, but I'm human enough to like a good book, and my eye was running along those shelves of his as I spoke. He certainly had a pretty miscellaneous collection. I noticed poetry, essays, novels, cook books, juveniles, school books, Bibles, and what not--all jumbled together. "Well, see here," said the little man--and about this time I noticed that he had the bright eyes of a fanatic--"I've been cruising with this Parnassus going on seven years. I've covered the territory from Florida to Maine and I reckon I've injected about as much good literature into the countryside as ever old Doc Eliot did with his five-foot shelf. I want to sell out now. I'm going to write a book about 'Literature Among the Farmers,' and want to settle down with my brother in Brooklyn and write it. I've got a sackful of notes for it. I guess I'll just stick around until Mr. McGill gets home and see if he won't buy me out. I'll sell the whole concern, horse, wagon, and books, for $400. I've read Andrew McGill's stuff and I reckon the proposition'll interest him. I've had more fun with this Parnassus than a barrel of monkeys. I used to be a school teacher till my health broke down. Then I took this up and I've made more than expenses and had the time of my life." "Well, Mr. Mifflin," I said, "if you want to stay around I guess I can't stop you. But I'm sorry you and your old Parnassus ever came this way." I turned on my heel and went back to the kitchen. I knew pretty well that Andrew would go up in the air when he saw that wagonload of books and one of those crazy cards with Mr. Mifflin's poetry on it. I must confess that I was considerably upset. Andrew is just as unpractical and fanciful as a young girl, and always dreaming of new adventures and rambles around the country. If he ever saw that travelling Parnassus he'd fall for it like snap. And I knew Mr. Decameron was after him for a new book anyway. (I'd intercepted one of his letters suggesting another "Happiness and Hayseed" trip just a few weeks before. Andrew was away when the letter came. I had a suspicion what was in it; so I opened it, read it, and--well, burnt it. Heavens! as though Andrew didn't have enough to do without mooning down the road like a tinker, just to write a book about it.) As I worked around the kitchen I could see Mr. Mifflin making himself at home. He unhitched his horse, tied her up to the fence, sat down by the wood pile, and lit a pipe. I could see I was in for it. By and by I couldn't stand it any longer. I went out to talk to that bald-headed pedlar. "See here," I said. "You're a pretty cool fish to make yourself so easy in my yard. I tell you I don't want you around here, you and your travelling parcheesi. Suppose you clear out of here before my brother gets back and don't be breaking up our happy family." "Miss McGill," he said (the man had a pleasant way with him, too--darn him--with his bright, twinkling eye and his silly little beard), "I'm sure I don't want to be discourteous. If you move me on from here, of course I'll go; but I warn you I shall lie in wait for Mr. McGill just down this road. I'm here to sell this caravan of culture, and by the bones of Swinburne I think your brother's the man to buy it." My blood was up now, and I'll admit that I said my next without proper calculation. "Rather than have Andrew buy your old parcheesi," I said, "I'll buy it myself. I'll give you $300 for it." The little man's face brightened. He didn't either accept or decline my offer. (I was frightened to death that he'd take me right on the nail and bang would go my three years' savings for a Ford.) "Come and have another look at her," he said. I must admit that Mr. Roger Mifflin had fixed up his van mighty comfortably inside. The body of the wagon was built out on each side over the wheels, which gave it an unwieldy appearance but made extra room for the bookshelves. This left an inside space about five feet wide and nine long. On one side he had a little oil stove, a flap table, and a cozy-looking bunk above which was built a kind of chest of drawers--to hold clothes and such things, I suppose; on the other side more bookshelves, a small table, and a little wicker easy chair. Every possible inch of space seemed to be made useful in some way, for a shelf or a hook or a hanging cupboard or something. Above the stove was a neat little row of pots and dishes and cooking usefuls. The raised skylight made it just possible to stand upright in the centre aisle of the van; and a little sliding window opened onto the driver's seat in front. Altogether it was a very neat affair. The windows in front and back were curtained and a pot of geraniums stood on a diminutive shelf. I was amused to see a sandy Irish terrier curled up on a bright Mexican blanket in the bunk. "Miss McGill," he said, "I couldn't sell Parnassus for less than four hundred. I've put twice that much into her, one time and another. She's built clean and solid all through, and there's everything a man would need from blankets to bouillon cubes. The whole thing's yours for $400--including dog, cook stove, and everything--jib, boom, and spanker. There's a tent in a sling underneath, and an ice box (he pulled up a little trap door under the bunk) and a tank of coal oil and Lord knows what all. She's as good as a yacht; but I'm tired of her. If you're so afraid of your brother taking a fancy to her, why don't you buy her yourself and go off on a lark? Make _him_ stay home and mind the farm!... Tell you what I'll do. I'll start you on the road myself, come with you the first day and show you how it's worked. You could have the time of your life in this thing, and give yourself a fine vacation. It would give your brother a good surprise, too. Why not?" I don't know whether it was the neatness of his absurd little van, or the madness of the whole proposition, or just the desire to have an adventure of my own and play a trick on Andrew, but anyway, some extraordinary impulse seized me and I roared with laughter. "Right!" I said. "I'll do it." I, Helen McGill, in the thirty-ninth year of my age! CHAPTER THREE "Well," I thought, "if I'm in for an adventure I may as well be spry about it. Andrew'll be home by half-past twelve and if I'm going to give him the slip I'd better get a start. I suppose he'll think I'm crazy! He'll follow me, I guess. Well, he just shan't catch me, that's all!" A kind of anger came over me to think that I'd been living on that farm for nearly fifteen years--yes, sir, ever since I was twenty-five--and hardly ever been away except for that trip to Boston once a year to go shopping with cousin Edie. I'm a home-keeping soul, I guess, and I love my kitchen and my preserve cupboard and my linen closet as well as grandmother ever did, but something in that blue October air and that crazy little red-bearded man just tickled me. "Look here, Mr. Parnassus," I said, "I guess I'm a fat old fool but I just believe I'll do that. You hitch up your horse and van and I'll go pack some clothes and write you a check. It'll do Andrew all the good in the world to have me skip. I'll get a chance to read a few books, too. It'll be as good as going to college!" And I untied my apron and ran for the house. The little man stood leaning against a corner of the van as if he were stupefied. I dare say he was. I ran into the house through the front door, and it struck me as comical to see a copy of one of Andrew's magazines lying on the living-room table with "The Revolt of Womanhood" printed across it in red letters. "Here goes for the revolt of Helen McGill," I thought. I sat down at Andrew's desk, pushed aside a pad of notes he had been jotting down about "the magic of autumn," and scrawled a few lines: DEAR ANDREW, Don't be thinking I'm crazy. I've gone off for an adventure. It just came over me that you've had all the adventures while I've been at home baking bread. Mrs. McNally will look after your meals and one of her girls can come over to do the housework. So don't worry. I'm going off for a little while--a month, maybe--to see some of this happiness and hayseed of yours. It's what the magazines call the revolt of womanhood. Warm underwear in the cedar chest in the spare room when you need it. With love, HELEN. I left the note on his desk. Mrs. McNally was bending over the tubs in the laundry. I could see only the broad arch of her back and hear the vigorous zzzzzzz of her rubbing. She straightened up at my call. "Mrs. McNally," I said, "I'm going away for a little trip. You'd better let the washing go until this afternoon and get Andrew's dinner for him. He'll be back about twelve-thirty. It's half-past ten now. You tell him I've gone over to see Mrs. Collins at Locust Farm." Mrs. McNally is a brawny, slow-witted Swede. "All right Mis' McGill," she said. "You be back to denner?" "No, I'm not coming back for a month," I said. "I'm going away for a trip. I want you to send Rosie over here every day to do the housework while I'm away. You can arrange with Mr. McGill about that. I've got to hurry now." Mrs. McNally's honest eyes, as blue as Copenhagen china, gazing through the window in perplexity, fell upon the travelling Parnassus and Mr. Mifflin backing Pegasus into the shafts. I saw her make a valiant effort to comprehend the sign painted on the side of the van--and give it up. "You going driving?" she said blankly. "Yes," I said, and fled upstairs. I always keep my bank book in an old Huyler box in the top drawer of my bureau. I don't save very quickly, I'm afraid. I have a little income from some money father left me, but Andrew takes care of that. Andrew pays all the farm expenses, but the housekeeping accounts fall to me. I make a fairish amount of pin money on my poultry and some of my preserves that I send to Boston, and on some recipes of mine that I send to a woman's magazine now and then; but generally my savings don't amount to much over $10 a month. In the last five years I had put by something more than $600. I had been saving up for a Ford. But just now it looked to me as if that Parnassus would be more fun than a Ford ever could be. Four hundred dollars was a lot of money, but I thought of what it would mean to have Andrew come home and buy it. Why, he'd be away until Thanksgiving! Whereas if I bought it I could take it away, have my adventure, and sell it somewhere so that Andrew never need see it. I hardened my heart and determined to give the Sage of Redfield some of his own medicine. My balance at the Redfield National Bank was $615.20. I sat down at the table in my bedroom where I keep my accounts and wrote out a check to Roger Mifflin for $400. I put in plenty of curlicues after the figures so that no one could raise the check into $400,000; then I got out my old rattan suit case and put in some clothes. The whole business didn't take me ten minutes. I came downstairs to find Mrs. McNally looking sourly at the Parnassus from the kitchen door. "You going away in that--that 'bus, Mis' McGill?" she asked. "Yes, Mrs. McNally," I said cheerfully. Her use of the word gave me an inspiration. "That's one of the new jitney 'buses we hear about. He's going to take me to the station. Don't you worry about me. I'm going for a holiday. You get Mr. McGill's dinner ready for him. After dinner tell him there's a note for him in the living-room." "I tank that bane a queer 'bus," said Mrs. McNally, puzzled. I think the excellent woman suspected an elopement. I carried my suit case out to the Parnassus. Pegasus stood placidly between the shafts. From within came sounds of vigorous movement. In a moment the little man burst out with a bulging portmanteau in his hand. He had a tweed cap slanted on the back of his head. "There!" he cried triumphantly. "I've packed all my personal effects--clothes and so on--and everything else goes with the transaction. When I get on the train with this bag I'm a free man, and hurrah for Brooklyn! Lord, won't I be glad to get back to the city! I lived in Brooklyn once, and I haven't been back there for ten years," he added plaintively. "Here's the check," I said, handing it to him. He flushed a little, and looked at me rather shamefacedly. "See here," he said, "I hope you're not making a bad bargain? I don't want to take advantage of a lady. If you think your brother...." "I was going to buy a Ford, anyway," I said, "and it looks to me as though this parcheesi of yours would be cheaper to run than any flivver that ever came out of Detroit. I want to keep it away from Andrew and that's the main thing. You give me a receipt and we'll get away from here before he comes back." He took the check without a word, hoisted his fat portmanteau on the driver's seat, and then disappeared in the van. In a minute he reappeared. On the back of one of his poetical cards he had written: Received from Miss McGill the sum of four hundred dollars in exchange for one Travelling Parnassus in first class condition, delivered to her this day, October 3rd, 19--. Signed ROGER MIFFLIN. "Tell me," I said, "does your Parnassus--_my_ Parnassus, rather--contain everything I'm likely to need? Is it stocked up with food and so on?" "I was coming to that," he said. "You'll find a fair supply of stuff in the cupboard over the stove, though I used to get most of my meals at farmhouses along the road. I generally read aloud to people as I go along, and they're often good for a free meal. It's amazing how little most of the country folk know about books, and how pleased they are to hear good stuff. Down in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania...." "Well, how about the horse?" I said hastily, seeing him about to embark on an anecdote. It wasn't far short of eleven o'clock, and I was anxious to get started. "It might be well to take along some oats. My supply's about exhausted." I filled a sack with oats in the stable and Mr. Mifflin showed me where to hang it under the van. Then in the kitchen I loaded a big basket with provisions for an emergency: a dozen eggs, a jar of sliced bacon, butter, cheese, condensed milk, tea, biscuits, jam, and two loaves of bread. These Mr. Mifflin stowed inside the van, Mrs. McNally watching in amazement. "I tank this bane a queer picnic!" she said. "Which way are you going? Mr. McGill, is he coming after you?" "No," I insisted, "he's not coming. I'm going off on a holiday. You get dinner for him and he won't worry about anything until after that. Tell him I've gone over to see Mrs. Collins." I climbed the little steps and entered my Parnassus with a pleasant thrill of ownership. The terrier on the bunk jumped to the floor with a friendly wag of the tail. I piled the bunk with bedding and blankets of my own, shook out the drawers which fitted above the bunk, and put into them what few belongings I was taking with me. And we were ready to start. Redbeard was already sitting in front with the reins in hand. I climbed up beside him. The front seat was broad but uncushioned, well sheltered by the peak of the van. I gave a quick glance around at the comfortable house under its elms and maples--saw the big, red barn shining in the sun and the pump under the grape arbour. I waved good-bye to Mrs. McNally who was watching us in silent amazement. Pegasus threw her solid weight against the traces and Parnassus swung round and rolled past the gate. We turned into the Redfield road. "Here," said Mifflin, handing me the reins, "you're skipper, you'd better drive. Which way do you want to go?" My breath came a little fast when I realized that my adventure had begun! CHAPTER FOUR Just out of sight of the farm the road forks, one way running on to Walton where you cross the river by a covered bridge, the other swinging down toward Greenbriar and Port Vigor. Mrs. Collins lives a mile or so up the Walton road, and as I very often run over to see her I thought Andrew would be most likely to look for me there. So, after we had passed through the grove, I took the right-hand turn to Greenbriar. We began the long ascent over Huckleberry Hill and as I smelt the fresh autumn odour of the leaves I chuckled a little. Mr. Mifflin seemed in a perfect ecstasy of high spirits. "This is certainly grand," he said. "Lord, I applaud your spunk. Do you think Mr. McGill will give chase?" "I haven't an idea," I said. "Not right away, anyhow. He's so used to my settled ways that I don't think he'll suspect anything till he finds my note. I wonder what kind of story Mrs. McNally will tell!" "How about putting him off the scent?" he said. "Give me your handkerchief." I did so. He hopped nimbly out, ran back down the hill (he was a spry little person in spite of his bald crown), and dropped the handkerchief on the Walton Road about a hundred feet beyond the fork. Then he followed me up the slope. "There," he said, grinning like a kid, "that'll fool him. The Sage of Redfield will undoubtedly follow a false spoor and the criminals will win a good start. But I'm afraid it's rather easy to follow a craft as unusual as Parnassus." "Tell me how you manage the thing," I said. "Do you really make it pay?" We halted at the top of the hill to give Pegasus a breathing space. The terrier lay down in the dust and watched us gravely. Mr. Mifflin pulled out a pipe and begged my permission to smoke. "It's rather comical how I first got into it," he said. "I was a school teacher down in Maryland. I'd been plugging away in a country school for years, on a starvation salary. I was trying to support an invalid mother, and put by something in case of storms. I remember how I used to wonder whether I'd ever be able to wear a suit that wasn't shabby and have my shoes polished every day. Then my health went back on me. The doctor told me to get into the open air. By and by I got this idea of a travelling bookstore. I had always been a lover of books, and in the days when I boarded out among the farmers I used to read aloud to them. After my mother died I built the wagon to suit my own ideas, bought a stock of books from a big second-hand store in Baltimore, and set out. Parnassus just about saved my life I guess." He pushed his faded old cap back on his head and relit his pipe. I clicked to Pegasus and we rumbled gently off over the upland, looking down across the pastures. Distant cow bells sounded tankle-tonk among the bushes. Across the slope of the hill I could see the road winding away to Redfield. Somewhere along that road Andrew would be rolling back toward home and roast pork with apple sauce; and here was I, setting out on the first madness of my life without even a qualm. "Miss McGill," said the little man, "this rolling pavilion has been wife, doctor, and religion to me for seven years. A month ago I would have scoffed at the thought of leaving her; but somehow it's come over me I need a change. There's a book I've been yearning to write for a long time, and I need a desk steady under my elbows and a roof over my head. And silly as it seems, I'm crazy to get back to Brooklyn. My brother and I used to live there as kids. Think of walking over the old Bridge at sunset and seeing the towers of Manhattan against a red sky! And those old gray cruisers down in the Navy Yard! You don't know how tickled I am to sell out. I've sold a lot of copies of your brother's books and I've often thought he'd be the man to buy Parnassus if I got tired of her." "So he would," I said. "Just the man. He'd be only too likely to--and go maundering about in this jaunting car and neglect the farm. But tell me about selling books. How much profit do you make out of it? We'll be passing Mrs. Mason's farm, by and by, and we might as well sell her something just to make a start." "It's very simple," he said. "I replenish my stock whenever I go through a big town. There's always a second-hand bookstore somewhere about, where you can pick up odds and ends. And every now and then I write to a wholesaler in New York for some stuff. When I buy a book I mark in the back just what I paid for it, then I know what I can afford to sell it for. See here." He pulled up a book from behind the seat--a copy of "Lorna Doone" it was--and showed me the letters _a m_ scrawled in pencil in the back. "That means that I paid ten cents for this. Now, if you sell it for a quarter you've got a safe profit. It costs me about four dollars a week to run Parnassus--generally less. If you clear that much in six days you can afford to lay off on Sundays!" "How do you know that _a m_ stands for ten cents?" I asked. "The code word's _manuscript_. Each letter stands for a figure, from 0 up to 9, see?" He scrawled it down on a scrap of paper: m a n u s c r i p t 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 "Now, you see _a m_ stands for 10, _a n_ would be 12, _n s_ is 24, _a c_ is 15, _a m m_ is $1.00, and so on. I don't pay much over fifty cents for books as a rule, because country folks are shy of paying much for them. They'll pay a lot for a separator or a buggy top, but they've never been taught to worry about literature! But it's surprising how excited they get about books if you sell 'em the right kind. Over beyond Port Vigor there's a farmer who's waiting for me to go back--I've been there three or four times--and he'll buy about five dollars' worth if I know him. First time I went there I sold him 'Treasure Island,' and he's talking about it yet. I sold him 'Robinson Crusoe,' and 'Little Women' for his daughter, and 'Huck Finn,' and Grubb's book about 'The Potato.' Last time I was there he wanted some Shakespeare, but I wouldn't give it to him. I didn't think he was up to it yet." I began to see something of the little man's idealism in his work. He was a kind of traveling missionary in his way. A hefty talker, too. His eyes were twinkling now and I could see him warming up. "Lord!" he said, "when you sell a man a book you don't sell him just twelve ounces of paper and ink and glue--you sell him a whole new life. Love and friendship and humour and ships at sea by night--there's all heaven and earth in a book, a real book I mean. Jiminy! If I were the baker or the butcher or the broom huckster, people would run to the gate when I came by--just waiting for my stuff. And here I go loaded with everlasting salvation--yes, ma'am, salvation for their little, stunted minds--and it's hard to make 'em see it. That's what makes it worth while--I'm doing something that nobody else from Nazareth, Maine, to Walla Walla, Washington, has ever thought of. It's a new field, but by the bones of Whitman it's worth while. That's what this country needs--more books!" He laughed at his own vehemence. "Do you know, it's comical," he said. "Even the publishers, the fellows that print the books, can't see what I'm doing for them. Some of 'em refuse me credit because I sell their books for what they're worth instead of for the prices they mark on them. They write me letters about price-maintenance--and I write back about merit-maintenance. Publish a good book and I'll get a good price for it, say I! Sometimes I think the publishers know less about books than any one else! I guess that's natural, though. Most school teachers don't know much about children." "The best of it is," he went on, "I have such a darn good time. Peg and Bock (that's the dog) and I go loafing along the road on a warm summer day, and by and by we'll fetch up alongside some boarding-house and there are the boarders all rocking off their lunch on the veranda. Most of 'em bored to death--nothing good to read, nothing to do but sit and watch the flies buzzing in the sun and the chickens rubbing up and down in the dust. First thing you know I'll sell half a dozen books that put the love of life into them, and they don't forget Parnassus in a hurry. Take O. Henry, for instance--there isn't anybody so dog-gone sleepy that he won't enjoy that man's stories. He understood life, you bet, and he could write it down with all its little twists. I've spent an evening reading O. Henry and Wilkie Collins to people and had them buy out all their books I had and clamour for more." "What do you do in winter?" I asked--a practical question, as most of mine are. "That depends on where I am when bad weather sets in," said Mr. Mifflin. "Two winters I was down south and managed to keep Parnassus going all through the season. Otherwise, I just lay up wherever I am. I've never found it hard to get lodging for Peg and a job for myself, if I had to have them. Last winter I worked in a bookstore in Boston. Winter before, I was in a country drugstore down in Pennsylvania. Winter before that, I tutored a couple of small boys in English literature. Winter before that, I was a steward on a steamer; you see how it goes. I've had a fairly miscellaneous experience. As far as I can see, a man who's fond of books never need starve! But this winter I'm planning to live with my brother in Brooklyn and slog away at my book. Lord, how I've pondered over that thing! Long summer afternoons I've sat here, jogging along in the dust, thinking it out until it seemed as if my forehead would burst. You see, my idea is that the common people--in the country, that is--never have had any chance to get hold of books, and never have had any one to explain what books can mean. It's all right for college presidents to draw up their five-foot shelves of great literature, and for the publishers to advertise sets of their Linoleum Classics, but what the people need is the good, homely, honest stuff--something that'll stick to their ribs--make them laugh and tremble and feel sick to think of the littleness of this popcorn ball spinning in space without ever even getting a hot-box! And something that'll spur 'em on to keep the hearth well swept and the wood pile split into kindling and the dishes washed and dried and put away. Any one who can get the country people to read something worth while is doing his nation a real service. And that's what this caravan of culture aspires to.... You must be weary of this harangue! Does the Sage of Redfield ever run on like that?" "Not to me," I said. "He's known me so long that he thinks of me as a kind of animated bread-baking and cake-mixing machine. I guess he doesn't put much stock in my judgment in literary matters. But he puts his digestion in my hands without reserve. There's Mason's farm over there. I guess we'd better sell them some books--hadn't we? Just for a starter." We turned into the lane that runs up to the Mason farmhouse. Bock trotted on ahead--very stiff on his legs and his tail gently wagging--to interview the mastiff, and Mrs. Mason who was sitting on the porch, peeling potatoes, laid down the pan. She's a big, buxom woman with jolly, brown eyes like a cow's. "For heaven's sake, Miss McGill," she called out in a cheerful voice--"I'm glad to see you. Got a lift, did you?" She hadn't really noticed the inscription on Parnassus, and thought it was a regular huckster's wagon. "Well, Mrs. Mason," I said, "I've gone into the book business. This is Mr. Mifflin. I've bought out his stock. We've come to sell you some books." She laughed. "Go on, Helen," she said, "you can't kid me! I bought a whole set of books last year from an agent--'The World's Great Funeral Orations'--twenty volumes. Sam and I ain't read more'n the first volume yet. It's awful uneasy reading!" Mifflin jumped down, and raised the side flap of the wagon. Mrs. Mason came closer. I was tickled to see how the little man perked up at the sight of a customer. Evidently selling books was meat and drink to him. "Madam," he said, "'Funeral Orations' (bound in sackcloth, I suppose?) have their place, but Miss McGill and I have got some real books here to which I invite your attention. Winter will be here soon, and you will need something more cheerful to beguile your evenings. Very possibly you have growing children who would profit by a good book or two. A book of fairy tales for the little girl I see on the porch? Or stories of inventors for that boy who is about to break his neck jumping from the barn loft? Or a book about road making for your husband? Surely there is something here you need? Miss McGill probably knows your tastes." That little red-bearded man was surely a born salesman. How he guessed that Mr. Mason was the road commissioner in our township, goodness only knows. Perhaps it was just a lucky shot. By this time most of the family had gathered around the van, and I saw Mr. Mason coming from the barn with his twelve-year-old Billy. "Sam," shouted Mrs. Mason, "here's Miss McGill turned book pedlar and got a preacher with her!" "Hello, Miss McGill," said Mr. Mason. He is a big, slow-moving man of great gravity and solidity. "Where's Andrew?" "Andrew's coming home for roast pork and apple sauce," I said, "and I'm going off to sell books for a living. Mr. Mifflin here is teaching me how. We've got a book on road mending that's just what you need." I saw Mr. and Mrs. Mason exchange glances. Evidently they thought me crazy. I began to wonder whether we had made a mistake in calling on people I knew so well. The situation was a trifle embarrassing. Mr. Mifflin came to the rescue. "Don't be alarmed, sir," he said to Mr. Mason. "I haven't kidnapped Miss McGill." (As he is about half my size this was amusing.) "We are trying to increase her brother's income by selling his books for him. As a matter of fact, we have a wager with him that we can sell fifty copies of 'Happiness and Hayseed' before Hallowe'en. Now I'm sure your sporting instinct will assist us by taking at least one copy. Andrew McGill is probably the greatest author in this State, and every taxpayer ought to possess his books. May I show you a copy?" "That sounds reasonable," said Mr. Mason, and he almost smiled. "What do you say, Emma, think we better buy a book or two? You know those 'Funeral Orations.'..." "Well," said Emma, "you know we've always said we ought to read one of Andrew McGill's books but we didn't rightly know how to get hold of one. That fellow that sold us the funeral speeches didn't seem to know about 'em. I tell you what, you folks better stop and have dinner with us and you can tell us what we'd ought to buy. I'm just ready to put the potatoes on the stove now." I must confess that the prospect of sitting down to a meal I hadn't cooked myself appealed to me strongly; and I was keen to see what kind of grub Mrs. Mason provided for her household; but I was afraid that if we dallied there too long Andrew would be after us. I was about to say that we would have to be getting on, and couldn't stay; but apparently the zest of expounding his philosophy to new listeners was too much for Mifflin. I heard him saying: "That's mighty kind of you, Mrs. Mason, and we'd like very much to stay. Perhaps I can put Peg up in your barn for a while. Then we can tell you all about our books." And to my amazement I found myself chiming in with assent. Mifflin certainly surpassed himself at dinner. The fact that Mrs. Mason's hot biscuits tasted of saleratus gave me far less satisfaction than it otherwise would, because I was absorbed in listening to the little vagabond's talk. Mr. Mason came to the table grumbling something about his telephone being out of order--(I wondered whether he had been trying to get Andrew on the wire; he was a little afraid that I was being run away with, I think)--but he was soon won over by the current of the little man's cheery wit. Nothing daunted Mifflin. He talked to the old grandmother about quilts; offered to cut off a strip of his necktie for her new patchwork; and told all about the illustrated book on quilts that he had in the van. He discussed cookery and the Bible with Mrs. Mason; and she being a leading light in the Greenbriar Sunday School, was pleasantly scandalized by his account of the best detective stories in the Old Testament. With Mr. Mason he was all scientific farming, chemical manures, macadam roads, and crop rotation; and to little Billy (who sat next him) he told extraordinary yarns about Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett, Kit Carson, Buffalo Bill, and what not. Honestly I was amazed at the little man. He was as genial as a cricket on the hearth, and yet every now and then his earnestness would break through. I don't wonder he was a success at selling books. That man could sell clothes pins or Paris garters, I guess, and make them seem romantic. "You know, Mr. Mason," he said, "you certainly owe it to these youngsters of yours to put a few really good books into their hands. City kids have the libraries to go to, but in the country there's only old Doc Hostetter's Almanac and the letters written by ladies with backache telling how Peruna did for them. Give this boy and girl of yours a few good books and you're starting them on the double-track, block-signal line to happiness. Now there's 'Little Women'--that girl of yours can learn more about real girlhood and fine womanhood out of that book than from a year's paper dolls in the attic." "That's right, Pa," assented Mrs. Mason. ("Go on with your meal, Professor, the meat'll be cold.") She was completely won by the travelling bookseller, and had given him the highest title of honour in her ken. "Why, I read that story when I was a girl, and I still remember it. That's better readin' for Dorothy than those funeral speeches, I reckon. I believe the Professor's right: we'd ought to have more books laying around. Seems kind of a shame, with a famous author at the next farm, not to read more, don't it, now?" So by the time we got down to Mrs. Mason's squash pie (good pie, too, I admit, but her hand is a little heavy for pastry), the whole household was enthusiastic about books, and the atmosphere was literary enough for even Dr. Eliot to live in without panting. Mrs. Mason opened up her parlour and we sat there while Mifflin recited "The Revenge" and "Maud Muller." "Well, now, ain't that real sweet!" said Emma Mason. "It's surprising how those words rhyme so nicely. Seems almost as though it was done a-purpose! Reminds me of piece day at school. There was a mighty pretty piece I learned called the 'Wreck of the Asperus.'" And she subsided into a genteel melancholy. I saw that Mr. Mifflin was well astride his hobby: he had started to tell the children about Robin Hood, but I had the sense to give him a wink. We had to be getting along or surely Andrew might be on us. So while Mifflin was putting Pegasus into the shafts again I picked out seven or eight books that I thought would fit the needs of the Masons. Mr. Mason insisted that "Happiness and Hayseed" be included among them, and gave me a crisp five-dollar bill, refusing any change. "No, no," he said, "I've had more fun than I get at a grange meeting. Come round again, Miss McGill; I'm going to tell Andrew what a good show this travelling theayter of yours gives! And you, Professor, any time you're here about road-mending season, stop in an' tell me some more good advice. Well, I must get back to the field." Bock fell in under the van, and we creaked off down the lane. Mifflin filled his pipe and was chuckling to himself. I was a little worried now for fear Andrew might overtake us. "It's a wonder Sam Mason didn't call up Andrew," I said. "It must have looked mighty queer to him for an old farm hand like me to be around, peddling books." "He would have done it straight off," said Mifflin, "but you see, I cut his telephone wire!" CHAPTER FIVE I gazed in astonishment at the wizened little rogue. Here was a new side to the amiable idealist! Apparently there was a streak of fearless deviltry in him besides his gentle love of books. I'm bound to say that now, for the first time, I really admired him. I had burnt my own very respectable boats behind me, and I rather enjoyed knowing that he, too, could act briskly in a pinch. "Well!" I said. "You are a cool hand! It's a good job for you that you didn't stay a schoolmaster. You might have taught your pupils some fine deviltries! And at your age, too!" I'm afraid my raillery goes a little too far sometimes. He flushed a bit at my reference to his age, and puffed sharply at his pipe. "I say," he rejoined, "how old do you think I am, anyway? Only forty-one, by the bones of Byron! Henry VIII was only forty-one when he married Anne Boleyn. There are many consolations in history for people over forty! Remember that when you get there. "Shakespeare wrote 'King Lear' at forty-one," he added, more humorously; and then burst out laughing. "I'd like to edit a series of 'Chloroform Classics,' to include only books written after forty. Who was that doctor man who recommended anaesthetics for us at that age? Now isn't that just like a medico? Nurse us through the diseases of childhood, and as soon as we settle down into permanent good health and worldly wisdom, and freedom from doctors' fees, why he loses interest in us! Jove! I must note that down and bring it into my book." He pulled out a memorandum book and jotted down "Chloroform Classics" in a small, neat hand. "Well," I said (I felt a little contrite, as I was sincerely sorry to have offended him), "I've passed forty myself in some measurements, so youth no longer has any terrors for me." He looked at me rather comically. "My dear madam," he said, "your age is precisely eighteen. I think that if we escape the clutches of the Sage of Redfield you may really begin to live." "Oh, Andrew's not a bad sort," I said. "He's absentminded, and hot tempered, and a little selfish. The publishers have done their best to spoil him, but for a literary man I guess he's quite human. He rescued me from being a governess, and that's to his credit. If only he didn't take his meals quite so much as a matter of course...." "The preposterous thing about him is that he really can _write_," said Mifflin. "I envy him that. Don't let him know I said so, but as a matter of fact his prose is almost as good as Thoreau. He approaches facts as daintily as a cat crossing a wet road." "You should see him at dinner," I thought; or rather I meant to think it, but the words slipped out. I found myself thinking aloud in a rather disconcerting way while sitting with this strange little person. He looked at me. I noticed for the first time that his eyes were slate blue, with funny birds' foot wrinkles at the corners. "That's so," he said. "I never thought of that. A fine prose style certainly presupposes sound nourishment. Excellent point that... And yet Thoreau did his own cooking. A sort of Boy Scout I guess, with a badge as kitchen master. Perhaps he took Beechnut bacon with him into the woods. I wonder who cooked for Stevenson--Cummy? The 'Child's Garden of Verses' was really a kind of kitchen garden, wasn't it? I'm afraid the commissariat problem has weighed rather heavily on you. I'm glad you've got away from it." All this was getting rather intricate for me. I set it down as I remember it, inaccurately perhaps. My governess days are pretty far astern now, and my line is common sense rather than literary allusions. I said something of the sort. "Common sense?" he repeated. "Good Lord, ma'am, sense is the most uncommon thing in the world. I haven't got it. I don't believe your brother has, from what you say. Bock here has it. See how he trots along the road, keeps an eye on the scenery, and minds his own business. I never saw him get into a fight yet. Wish I could say the same of myself. I named him after Boccaccio, to remind me to read the 'Decameron' some day." "Judging by the way you talk," I said, "you ought to be quite a writer yourself." "Talkers never write. They go on talking." There was a considerable silence. Mifflin relit his pipe and watched the landscape with a shrewd eye. I held the reins loosely, and Peg ambled along with a steady clop-clop. Parnassus creaked musically, and the mid-afternoon sun lay rich across the road. We passed another farm, but I did not suggest stopping as I felt we ought to push on. Mifflin seemed lost in meditation, and I began to wonder, a little uneasily, how the adventure would turn out. This quaintly masterful little man was a trifle disconcerting. Across the next ridge I could see the Greenbriar church spire shining white. "Do you know this part of the country?" I asked finally. "Not this exact section. I've been in Port Vigor often, but then I was on the road that runs along the Sound. I suppose this village ahead is Greenbriar?" "Yes," I said. "It's about thirteen miles from there to Port Vigor. How do you expect to get back to Brooklyn?" "Oh, Brooklyn?" he said vaguely. "Yes, I'd forgotten about Brooklyn for the minute. I was thinking of my book. Why, I guess I'll take the train from Port Vigor. The trouble is, you can never get to Brooklyn without going through New York. It's symbolic, I suppose." Again there was a silence. Finally he said, "Is there another town between Greenbriar and Port Vigor?" "Yes, Shelby," I said. "About five miles from Greenbriar." "That'll be as far as you'll get to-night," he said. "I'll see you safe to Shelby, and then make tracks for Port Vigor. I hope there's a decent inn at Shelby where you can stop overnight." I hoped so, too, but I wasn't going to let him see that with the waning afternoon my enthusiasm was a little less robust. I was wondering what Andrew was thinking, and whether Mrs. McNally had left things in good order. Like most Swedes she had to be watched or she left her work only three quarters done. And I didn't depend any too much on her daughter Rosie to do the housework efficiently. I wondered what kind of meals Andrew would get. And probably he would go right on wearing his summer underclothes, although I had already reminded him about changing. Then there were the chickens... Well, the Rubicon was crossed now, and there was nothing to be done. To my surprise, little Redbeard had divined my anxiety. "Now don't you worry about the Sage," he said kindly. "A man that draws his royalties isn't going to starve. By the bones of John Murray, his publishers can send him a cook if necessary! This is a holiday for you, and don't you forget it." And with this cheering sentiment in my mind, we rolled sedately down the hill toward Greenbriar. I am about as hardy as most folks, I think, but I confess I balked a little at the idea of facing the various people I know in Greenbriar as the owner of a bookvan and the companion of a literary huckster. Also I recollected that if Andrew should try to trace us it would be as well for me to keep out of sight. So after telling Mr. Mifflin how I felt about matters I dived into the Parnassus and lay down most comfortably on the bunk. Bock the terrier joined me, and I rested there in great comfort of mind and body as we ambled down the grade. The sun shone through the little skylight gilding a tin pan that hung over the cook stove. Tacked here and there were portraits of authors, and I noticed a faded newspaper cutting pinned up. The headlines ran: "Literary Pedlar Lectures on Poetry." I read it through. Apparently the Professor (so I had begun to call him, as the aptness of the nickname stuck in my mind) had given a lecture in Camden, N.J., where he had asserted that Tennyson was a greater poet than Walt Whitman; and the boosters of the Camden poet had enlivened the evening with missiles. It seems that the chief Whitman disciple in Camden is Mr. Traubel; and Mr. Mifflin had started the rumpus by asserting that Tennyson, too, had "Traubels of his own." What an absurd creature the Professor was, I thought, as I lay comfortably lulled by the rolling wheels. Greenbriar is a straggling little town, built around a large common meadow. Mifflin's general plan in towns, he had told me, was to halt Parnassus in front of the principal store or hotel, and when a little throng had gathered he would put up the flaps of the van, distribute his cards, and deliver a harangue on the value of good books. I lay concealed inside, but I gathered from the sounds that this was what was happening. We came to a stop; I heard a growing murmur of voices and laughter outside, and then the click of the raised sides of the wagon. I heard Mifflin's shrill, slightly nasal voice making facetious remarks as he passed out the cards. Evidently Bock was quite accustomed to the routine, for though his tail wagged gently when the Professor began to talk, he lay quite peaceably dozing at my feet. "My friends," said Mr. Mifflin. "You remember Abe Lincoln's joke about the dog? If you call a tail a leg, said Abe, how many legs has a dog? Five, you answer. No, says Abe; because calling a tail a leg doesn't make it a leg. Well, there are lots of us in the same case as that dog's tail. Calling us men doesn't _make_ us men. No creature on earth has a right to think himself a human being if he doesn't know at least one good book. The man that spends every evening chewing Piper Heidsieck at the store is unworthy to catch the intimations of a benevolent Creator. The man that's got a few good books on his shelf is making his wife happy, giving his children a square deal, and he's likely to be a better citizen himself. How about that, parson?" I heard the deep voice of Reverend Kane, the Methodist minister: "You're dead right, Professor!" he shouted. "Tell us some more about books. I'm right with you!" Evidently Mr. Kane had been attracted by the sight of Parnassus, and I could hear him muttering to himself as he pulled one or two books from the shelves. How surprised he would have been if he had known I was inside the van! I took the precaution of slipping the bolt of the door at the back, and drew the curtains. Then I crept back into the bunk. I began to imagine what an absurd situation there would be if Andrew should arrive on the scene. "You are all used to hucksters and pedlars and fellows selling every kind of junk from brooms to bananas," said the Professor's voice. "But how often does any one come round here to sell you books? You've got your town library, I dare say; but there are some books that folks ought to own. I've got 'em all here from Bibles to cook books. They'll speak for themselves. Step up to the shelves, friends, and pick and choose." I heard the parson asking the price of something he had found on the shelves, and I believe he bought it; but the hum of voices around the flanks of Parnassus was very soothing, and in spite of my interest in what was going on I'm afraid I fell asleep. I must have been pretty tired; anyway I never felt the van start again. The Professor says he looked in through the little window from the driver's seat, and saw me sound asleep. And the next thing I knew I woke up with a start to find myself rolling leisurely in the dark. Bock was still lying over my feet, and there was a faint, musical clang from the bucket under the van which struck against something now and then. The Professor was sitting in front, with a lighted lantern hanging from the peak of the van roof. He was humming some outlandish song to himself, with a queer, monotonous refrain: Shipwrecked was I off Soft Perowse And right along the shore, And so I did resolve to roam The country to explore. Tommy rip fal lal and a balum tip Tommy rip fal lal I dee; And so I did resolve to roam The country for to see! I jumped out of the bunk, cracked my shins against something, and uttered a rousing halloo. Parnassus stopped, and the Professor pushed back the sliding window behind the driver's seat. "Heavens!" I said. "Father Time, what o'clock is it?" "Pretty near supper time, I reckon. You must have fallen asleep while I was taking money from the Philistines. I made nearly three dollars for you. Let's pull up along the road and have a bite to eat." He guided Pegasus to one side of the road, and then showed me how to light the swinging lamp that hung under the skylight. "No use to light the stove on a lovely evening like this," he said. "I'll collect some sticks and we can cook outside. You get out your basket of grub and I'll make a fire." He unhitched Pegasus, tied her to a tree, and gave her a nose bag of oats. Then he rooted around for some twigs and had a fire going in a jiffy. In five minutes I had bacon and scrambled eggs sizzling in a frying pan, and he had brought out a pail of water from the cooler under the bunk, and was making tea. I never enjoyed a picnic so much! It was a perfect autumn evening, windless and frosty, with a dead black sky and a tiny rim of new moon like a thumb-nail paring. We had our eggs and bacon, washed down with tea and condensed milk, and followed by bread and jam. The little fire burned blue and cozy, and we sat on each side of it while Bock scoured the pan and ate the crusts. "This your own bread, Miss McGill?" he asked. "Yes," I said. "I was calculating the other day that I've baked more than 400 loaves a year for the last fifteen years. That's more than 6,000 loaves of bread. They can put that on my tombstone." "The art of baking bread is as transcendent a mystery as the art of making sonnets," said Redbeard. "And then your hot biscuits--they might be counted as shorter lyrics, I suppose--triolets perhaps. That makes quite an anthology, or a doxology, if you prefer it." "Yeast is yeast, and West is West," I said, and was quite surprised at my own cleverness. I hadn't made a remark like that to Andrew in five years. "I see you are acquainted with Kipling," he said. "Oh, yes, every governess is." "Where and whom did you govern?" "I was in New York, with the family of a wealthy stockbroker. There were three children. I used to take them walking in Central Park." "Did you ever go to Brooklyn?" he asked abruptly. "Never," I replied. "Ah!" he said. "That's just the trouble. New York is Babylon; Brooklyn is the true Holy City. New York is the city of envy, office work, and hustle; Brooklyn is the region of homes and happiness. It is extraordinary: poor, harassed New Yorkers presume to look down on low-lying, home-loving Brooklyn, when as a matter of fact it is the precious jewel their souls are thirsting for and they never know it. Broadway: think how symbolic the name is. Broad is the way that leadeth to destruction! But in Brooklyn the ways are narrow, and they lead to the Heavenly City of content. Central Park: there you are--the centre of things, hemmed in by walls of pride. Now how much better is Prospect Park, giving a fair view over the hills of humility! There is no hope for New Yorkers, for they glory in their skyscraping sins; but in Brooklyn there is the wisdom of the lowly." "So you think that if I had been a governess in Brooklyn I should have been so contented that I would never have come with Andrew and compiled my anthology of 6,000 loaves of bread and the lesser lyrics?" But the volatile Professor had already soared to other points of view, and was not to be thwarted by argument. "Of course Brooklyn is a dingy place, really," he admitted. "But to me it symbolizes a state of mind, whereas New York is only a state of pocket. You see I was a boy in Brooklyn: it still trails clouds of glory for me. When I get back there and start work on my book I shall be as happy as Nebuchadnezzar when he left off grass and returned to tea and crumpets. 'Literature Among the Farmers' I'm going to call it, but that's a poor title. I'd like to read you some of my notes for it." I'm afraid I poorly concealed a yawn. As a matter of fact I was sleepy, and it was growing chilly. "Tell me first," I said, "where in the world are we, and what time is it?" He pulled out a turnip watch. "It's nine o'clock," he said, "and we're about two miles from Shelby, I should reckon. Perhaps we'd better get along. They told me in Greenbriar that the Grand Central Hotel in Shelby is a good place to stop at. That's why I wasn't anxious to get there. It sounds so darned like New York." He bundled the cooking utensils back into Parnassus, hitched Peg up again, and tied Bock to the stern of the van. Then he insisted on giving me the two dollars and eighty cents he had collected in Greenbriar. I was really too sleepy to protest, and of course it was mine anyway. We creaked off along the dark and silent road between the pine woods. I think he talked fluently about his pilgrim's progress among the farmers of a dozen states, but (to be honest) I fell asleep in my corner of the seat. I woke up when we halted before the one hotel in Shelby--a plain, unimposing country inn, despite its absurd name. I left him to put Parnassus and the animals away for the night, while I engaged a room. Just as I got my key from the clerk he came into the dingy lobby. "Well, Mr. Mifflin," I said. "Shall I see you in the morning?" "I had intended to push on to Port Vigor to-night," he said, "but as it's fully eight miles (they tell me), I guess I'll bivouac here. I think I'll go into the smoking-room and put them wise to some good books. We won't say good-bye till to-morrow." My room was pleasant and clean (fairly so). I took my suit case up with me and had a hot bath. As I fell asleep I heard a shrill voice ascending from below, punctuated with masculine laughter. The Pilgrim was making more converts! CHAPTER SIX I had a curious feeling of bewilderment when I woke the next morning. The bare room with the red-and-blue rag carpet and green china toilet set was utterly strange. In the hall outside I heard a clock strike. "Heavens!" I thought, "I've overslept myself nearly two hours. What on earth will Andrew do for breakfast?" And then as I ran to close the window I saw the blue Parnassus with its startling red letters standing in the yard. Instantly I remembered. And discreetly peeping from behind the window shade I saw that the Professor, armed with a tin of paint, was blotting out his own name on the side of the van, evidently intending to substitute mine. That was something I had not thought of. However, I might as well make the best of it. I dressed promptly, repacked my bag, and hurried downstairs for breakfast. The long table was nearly empty, but one or two men sitting at the other end eyed me curiously. Through the window I could see my name in large, red letters, growing on the side of the van, as the Professor diligently wielded his brush. And when I had finished my coffee and beans and bacon I noticed with some amusement that the Professor had painted out the line about Shakespeare, Charles Lamb, and so on, and had substituted new lettering. The sign now read: H. MCGILL'S TRAVELLING PARNASSUS GOOD BOOKS FOR SALE COOK BOOKS A SPECIALTY INQUIRE WITHIN Evidently he distrusted my familiarity with the classics. I paid my bill at the desk, and was careful also to pay the charge for putting up the horse and van overnight. Then I strolled into the stable yard, where I found Mr. Mifflin regarding his handiwork with satisfaction. He had freshened up all the red lettering, which shone brilliantly in the morning sunlight. "Good-morning," I said. He returned it. "There!" he cried--"Parnassus is really yours! All the world lies before you! And I've got some more money for you. I sold some books last night. I persuaded the hotel keeper to buy several volumes of O. Henry for his smoking-room shelf, and I sold the 'Waldorf Cook Book' to the cook. My! wasn't her coffee awful? I hope the cook book will better it." He handed me two limp bills and a handful of small change. I took it gravely and put it in my purse. This was really not bad--more than ten dollars in less than twenty-four hours. "Parnassus seems to be a gold mine," I said. "Which way do you think you'll go?" he asked. "Well, as I know you want to get to Port Vigor I might just as well give you a lift that way," I answered. "Good! I was hoping you'd say that. They tell me the stage for Port Vigor doesn't leave till noon, and I think it would kill me to hang around here all morning with no books to sell. Once I get on the train I'll be all right." Bock was tied up in a corner of the yard, under the side door of the hotel. I went over to release him while the Professor was putting Peg into harness. As I stooped to unfasten the chain from his collar I heard some one talking through the telephone. The hotel lobby was just over my head, and the window was open. "What did you say?" "---- ---- ---- ----" "McGill? Yes, sir, registered here last night. She's here now." I didn't wait to hear more. Unfastening Bock, I hurried to tell Mifflin. His eyes sparkled. "The Sage is evidently on our spoor," he chuckled. "Well, let's be off. I don't see what he can do even if he overhauls us." The clerk was calling me from the window: "Miss McGill, your brother's on the wire and asks to speak to you." "Tell him I'm busy," I retorted, and climbed onto the seat. It was not a diplomatic reply, I'm afraid, but I was too exhilarated by the keen morning and the spirit of adventure to stop to think of a better answer. Mifflin clucked to Peg, and off we went. The road from Shelby to Port Vigor runs across the broad hill slopes that trend toward the Sound; and below, on our left, the river lay glittering in the valley. It was a perfect landscape: the woods were all bronze and gold; the clouds were snowy white and seemed like heavenly washing hung out to air; the sun was warm and swam gloriously in an arch of superb blue. My heart was uplifted indeed. For the first time, I think, I knew how Andrew feels on those vagabond trips of his. Why had all this been hidden from me before? Why had the transcendent mystery of baking bread blinded me so long to the mysteries of sun and sky and wind in the trees? We passed a white farmhouse close to the road. By the gate sat the farmer on a log, whittling a stick and smoking his pipe. Through the kitchen window I could see a woman blacking the stove. I wanted to cry out: "Oh, silly woman! Leave your stove, your pots and pans and chores, even if only for one day! Come out and see the sun in the sky and the river in the distance!" The farmer looked blankly at Parnassus as we passed, and then I remembered my mission as a distributor of literature. Mifflin was sitting with one foot on his bulging portmanteau, watching the tree tops rocking in the cool wind. He seemed to be far away in a morning muse. I threw down the reins and accosted the farmer. "Good-morning, friend." "Morning to you, ma'am," he said firmly. "I'm selling books," I said. "I wonder if there isn't something you need?" "Thanks, lady," he said, "but I bought a mort o' books last year an' I don't believe I'll ever read 'em this side Jordan. A whole set o' 'Funereal Orations' what an agent left on me at a dollar a month. I could qualify as earnest mourner at any death-bed merrymakin' now, I reckon." "You need some books to teach you how to live, not how to die," I said. "How about your wife--wouldn't she enjoy a good book? How about some fairy tales for the children?" "Bless me," he said, "I ain't got a wife. I never was a daring man, and I guess I'll confine my melancholy pleasures to them funereal orators for some time yet." "Well, now, hold on a minute!" I exclaimed. "I've got just the thing for you." I had been looking over the shelves with some care, and remembered seeing a copy of "Reveries of a Bachelor." I clambered down, raised the flap of the van (it gave me quite a thrill to do it myself for the first time), and hunted out the book. I looked inside the cover and saw the letters _n m_ in Mifflin's neat hand. "Here you are," I said. "I'll sell you that for thirty cents." "Thank you kindly, ma'am," he said courteously. "But honestly I wouldn't know what to do with it. I am working through a government report on scabworm and fungus, and I sandwich in a little of them funereal speeches with it, and honestly that's about all the readin' I figure on. That an' the Port Vigor Clarion." I saw that he really meant it, so I climbed back on the seat. I would have liked to talk to the woman in the kitchen who was peering out of the window in amazement, but I decided it would be better to jog on and not waste time. The farmer and I exchanged friendly salutes, and Parnassus rumbled on. The morning was so lovely that I did not feel talkative, and as the Professor seemed pensive I said nothing. But as Peg plodded slowly up a gentle slope he suddenly pulled a book out of his pocket and began to read aloud. I was watching the river, and did not turn round, but listened carefully: "Rolling cloud, volleying wind, and wheeling sun--the blue tabernacle of sky, the circle of the seasons, the sparkling multitude of the stars--all these are surely part of one rhythmic, mystic whole. Everywhere, as we go about our small business, we must discern the fingerprints of the gigantic plan, the orderly and inexorable routine with neither beginning nor end, in which death is but a preface to another birth, and birth the certain forerunner of another death. We human beings are as powerless to conceive the motive or the moral of it all as the dog is powerless to understand the reasoning in his master's mind. He sees the master's acts, benevolent or malevolent, and wags his tail. But the master's acts are always inscrutable to him. And so with us. "And therefore, brethren, let us take the road with a light heart. Let us praise the bronze of the leaves and the crash of the surf while we have eyes to see and ears to hear. An honest amazement at the unspeakable beauties of the world is a comely posture for the scholar. Let us all be scholars under Mother Nature's eye. "How do you like that?" he asked. "A little heavy, but very good," I said. "There's nothing in it about the transcendent mystery of baking bread!" He looked rather blank. "Do you know who wrote it?" he asked. I made a valiant effort to summon some of my governessly recollections of literature. "I give it up," I said feebly. "Is it Carlyle?" "That is by Andrew McGill," he said. "One of his cosmic passages which are now beginning to be reprinted in schoolbooks. The blighter writes well." I began to be uneasy lest I should be put through a literary catechism, so I said nothing, but roused Peg into an amble. To tell the truth I was more curious to hear the Professor talk about his own book than about Andrew's. I had always carefully refrained from reading Andrew's stuff, as I thought it rather dull. "As for me," said the Professor, "I have no facility at the grand style. I have always suffered from the feeling that it's better to read a good book than to write a poor one; and I've done so much mixed reading in my time that my mind is full of echoes and voices of better men. But this book I'm worrying about now really deserves to be written, I think, for it has a message of its own." He gazed almost wistfully across the sunny valley. In the distance I caught a glint of the Sound. The Professor's faded tweed cap was slanted over one ear, and his stubby little beard shone bright red in the sun. I kept a sympathetic silence. He seemed pleased to have some one to talk to about his precious book. "The world is full of great writers about literature," he said, "but they're all selfish and aristocratic. Addison, Lamb, Hazlitt, Emerson, Lowell--take any one you choose--they all conceive the love of books as a rare and perfect mystery for the few--a thing of the secluded study where they can sit alone at night with a candle, and a cigar, and a glass of port on the table and a spaniel on the hearthrug. What I say is, who has ever gone out into high roads and hedges to bring literature home to the plain man? To bring it home to his business and bosom, as somebody says? The farther into the country you go, the fewer and worse books you find. I've spent several years joggling around with this citadel of crime, and by the bones of Ben Ezra I don't think I ever found a really good book (except the Bible) at a farmhouse yet, unless I put it there myself. The mandarins of culture--what do they do to teach the common folk to read? It's no good writing down lists of books for farmers and compiling five-foot shelves; you've got to go out and visit the people yourself--take the books to them, talk to the teachers and bully the editors of country newspapers and farm magazines and tell the children stories--and then little by little you begin to get good books circulating in the veins of the nation. It's a great work, mind you! It's like carrying the Holy Grail to some of these way-back farmhouses. And I wish there were a thousand Parnassuses instead of this one. I'd never give it up if it weren't for my book: but I want to write about my ideas in the hope of stirring other folk up, too. I don't suppose there's a publisher in the country will take it!" "Try Mr. Decameron," I said. "He's always been very nice to Andrew." "Think what it would mean," he cried, waving an eloquent hand, "if some rich man would start a fund to equip a hundred or so wagons like this to go huckstering literature around through the rural districts. It would pay, too, once you got started. Yes, by the bones of Webster! I went to a meeting of booksellers once, at some hotel in New York, and told 'em about my scheme. They laughed at me. But I've had more fun toting books around in this Parnassus than I could have had in fifty years sitting in a bookstore, or teaching school, or preaching. Life's full of savour when you go creaking along the road like this. Look at today, with the sun and the air and the silver clouds. Best of all, though, I love the rainy days. I used to pull up alongside the road, throw a rubber blanket over Peg, and Bock and I would curl up in the bunk and smoke and read. I used to read aloud to Bock: we went through 'Midshipman Easy' together, and a good deal of Shakespeare. He's a very bookish dog. We've seen some queer experiences in this Parnassus." The hill road from Shelby to Port Vigor is a lonely one, as most of the farmhouses lie down in the valley. If I had known better we might have taken the longer and more populous way, but as a matter of fact I was enjoying the wide view and the solitary road lying white in the sunshine. We jogged along very pleasantly. Once more we stopped at a house where Mifflin pleaded for a chance to exercise his art. I was much amused when he succeeded in selling a copy of "Grimm's Fairy Tales" to a shrewish spinster on the plea that she would enjoy reading the stories to her nephews and nieces who were coming to visit her. "My!" he chuckled, as he gave me the dingy quarter he had extracted. "There's nothing in that book as grim as she is!" A little farther on we halted by a roadside spring to give Peg a drink, and I suggested lunch. I had laid in some bread and cheese in Shelby, and with this and some jam we made excellent sandwiches. As we were sitting by the fence the motor stage trundled past on its way to Port Vigor. A little distance down the road it halted, and then went on again. I saw a familiar figure walking back toward us. "Now I'm in for it," I said to the Professor. "Here's Andrew!" CHAPTER SEVEN Andrew is just as thin as I am fat, and his clothes hang on him in the most comical way. He is very tall and shambling, wears a ragged beard and a broad Stetson hat, and suffers amazingly from hay fever in the autumn. (In fact, his essay on "Hay Fever" is the best thing he ever wrote, I think.) As he came striding up the road I noticed how his trousers fluttered at the ankles as the wind plucked at them. The breeze curled his beard back under his chin and his face was quite dark with anger. I couldn't help being amused; he looked so funny. "The Sage looks like Bernard Shaw," whispered Mifflin. I always believe in drawing first blood. "Good-morning, Andrew," I called cheerfully. "Want to buy any books?" I halted Pegasus, and Andrew stood a little in front of the wheel--partly out of breath and mostly out of temper. "What on earth is this nonsense, Helen?" he said angrily. "You've led me the deuce of a chase since yesterday. And who is this--this person you're driving with?" "Andrew," I said, "you forget your manners. Let me introduce Mr. Mifflin. I have bought his caravan and am taking a holiday, selling books. Mr. Mifflin is on his way to Port Vigor where he takes the train to Brooklyn." Andrew stared at the Professor without speaking. I could tell by the blaze in his light-blue eyes that he was thoroughly angry, and I feared things would be worse before they were better. Andrew is slow to wrath, but a very hard person to deal with when roused. And I had some inkling by this time of the Professor's temperament. Moreover, I am afraid that some of my remarks had rather prejudiced him against Andrew, as a brother at any rate and apart from his excellent prose. Mifflin had the next word. He had taken off his funny little cap, and his bare skull shone like an egg. I noticed a little sort of fairy ring of tiny drops around his crown. "My dear sir," said Mifflin, "the proceedings look somewhat unusual, but the facts are simple to narrate. Your sister has bought this van and its contents, and I have been instructing her in my theories of the dissemination of good books. You as a literary man..." Andrew paid absolutely no attention to the Professor, and I saw a slow flush tinge Mifflin's sallow cheek. "Look here, Helen," said Andrew, "do you think I propose to have my sister careering around the State with a strolling vagabond? Upon my soul you ought to have better sense--and at your age and weight! I got home yesterday and found your ridiculous note. I went to Mrs. Collins, and she knew nothing. I went to Mason's, and found him wondering who had bilked his telephone. I suppose you did that. He had seen this freight car of yours and put me on the track. But my God! I never thought to see a woman of forty abducted by gypsies!" Mifflin was about to speak but I waved him back. "Now see here Andrew," I said, "you talk too quickly. A woman of forty (you exaggerate, by the way) who has compiled an anthology of 6,000 loaves of bread and dedicated it to you deserves some courtesy. When _you_ want to run off on some vagabond tour or other you don't hesitate to do it. You expect me to stay home and do the Lady Eglantine in the poultry yard. By the ghost of Susan B. Anthony, I won't do it! This is the first real holiday I've had in fifteen years, and I'm going to suit myself." Andrew's mouth opened, but I shook my fist so convincingly that he halted. "I bought this Parnassus from Mr. Mifflin fair and square for four hundred dollars. That's the price of about thirteen hundred dozen eggs," I said. (I had worked this out in my head while Mifflin was talking about his book.) "The money's mine, and I'm going to use it my own way. Now, Andrew McGill, if you want to buy any books, you can parley with me. Otherwise, I'm on my way. You can expect me back when you see me." I handed him one of Mifflin's little cards, which were in a pocket at the side of the van, and gathered up the reins. I was really angry, for Andrew had been both unreasonable and insulting. Andrew looked at the card, and tore it in halves. He looked at the side of Parnassus where the fresh red lettering was still damp. "Well, upon my word," he said, "you must be crazy." He burst into a violent fit of sneezing--a last touch of hay fever, I suspect, as there was still goldenrod in the meadows. He coughed and sneezed furiously, which made him madder than ever. At last he turned to Mifflin who was sitting bald-headed with a flushed face and very bright eyes. Andrew took him all in, the shabby Norfolk jacket, the bulging memorandum book in his pocket, the stuffed portmanteau under his foot, even the copy of "Happiness and Hayseed" which had dropped to the floor and lay back up. "Look here, you," said Andrew, "I don't know by what infernal arts you cajoled my sister away to go vagabonding in a huckster's wagon, but I know this, that if you've cheated her out of her money I'll have the law on you." I tried to insert a word of protest, but matters had gone too far. The Professor was as mad as Andrew now. "By the bones of Piers Plowman," he said, "I had expected to meet a man of letters and the author of this book"--he held up "Happiness and Hayseed"--"but I see I was mistaken. I tell you, sir, a man who would insult his sister before a stranger, as you have done, is an oaf and a cad." He threw the book over the hedge, and before I could say a word he had vaulted over the off wheel and ran round behind the van. "Look here sir," he said, with his little red beard bristling, "your sister is over age and acting of her own free will. By the bones of the Baptist, I don't blame her for wanting a vacation if this is the way you treat her. She is nothing to me, sir, and I am nothing to her, but I propose to be a teacher to you. Put up your hands and I'll give you a lesson!" This was too much for me. I believe I screamed aloud, and started to clamber from the van. But before I could do anything the two fanatics had begun to pummel each other. I saw Andrew swing savagely at Mifflin, and Mifflin hit him square on the chin. Andrew's hat fell on the road. Peg stood placidly, and Bock made as if to grab Andrew's leg, but I hopped out and seized him. It was certainly a weird sight. I suppose I should have wrung my hands and had hysterics, but as a matter of fact I was almost amused, it was so silly. Thank goodness the road was deserted. Andrew was a foot taller than the Professor, but awkward, loosely knit, and unmuscular, while the little Redbeard was wiry as a cat. Also Andrew was so furious that he was quite beside himself, and Mifflin was in the cold anger that always wins. Andrew landed a couple of flailing blows on the other man's chest and shoulders, but in thirty seconds he got another punch on the chin followed by one on the nose that tumbled him over backward. Andrew sat in the road fishing for a handkerchief, and Mifflin stood glaring at him, but looking very ill at ease. Neither of them said a word. Bock broke away from me and capered and danced about Mifflin's feet as if it were all a game. It was an extraordinary scene. Andrew got up, mopping his bleeding nose. "Upon my soul," he said, "I almost respect you for that punch. But by Jove I'll have the law on you for kidnapping my sister. You're a fine kind of a pirate." Mifflin said nothing. "Don't be a fool, Andrew" I said. "Can't you see that I want a little adventure of my own? Go home and bake six thousand loaves of bread, and by the time they're done I'll be back again. I think two men of your age ought to be ashamed of yourselves. I'm going off to sell books." And with that I climbed up to the seat and clucked to Pegasus. Andrew and Mifflin and Bock remained standing in the road. I was mad all the way through. I was mad at both men for behaving like schoolboys. I was mad at Andrew for being so unreasonable, yet in a way I admired him for it; I was mad at Mifflin for giving Andrew a bloody nose, and yet I appreciated the spirit in which it was done. I was mad at myself for causing all the trouble, and I was mad at Parnassus. If there had been a convenient cliff handy I would have pushed the old thing over it. But now I was in for it, and just had to go on. Slowly I rolled up a long grade, and then saw Port Vigor lying ahead and the broad blue stretches of the Sound. Parnassus rumbled on with its pleasant creak, and the mellow sun and sweep of the air soon soothed me. I began to taste salt in the wind, and above the meadows two or three seagulls were circling. Like all women, my angry mood melted into a reaction of exaggerated tenderness and I began to praise both Andrew and Mifflin in my heart. How fine to have a brother so solicitous of his sister's welfare and reputation! And yet, how splendid the little, scrawny Professor had been! How quick to resent an insult and how bold to avenge it! His absurd little tweed cap was lying on the seat, and I picked it up almost sentimentally. The lining was frayed and torn. From my suit case in the van I got out a small sewing kit, and hanging the reins on a hook I began to stitch up the rents as Peg jogged along. I thought with amusement of the quaint life Mr. Mifflin had led in his "caravan of culture." I imagined him addressing the audience of Whitman disciples in Camden, and wondered how the fuss ended. I imagined him in his beloved Brooklyn, strolling in Prospect Park and preaching to chance comers his gospel of good books. How different was his militant love of literature from Andrew's quiet satisfaction. And yet how much they really had in common! It tickled me to think of Mifflin reading aloud from "Happiness and Hayseed," and praising it so highly, just before fighting with the author and giving him a bloody nose. I remembered that I should have spoken to Andrew about feeding the hens, and reminded him of his winter undergarments. What helpless creatures men are, after all! I finished mending the cap in high good humour. I had hardly laid it down when I heard a quick step in the road behind me, and looking back, there was Mifflin, striding along with his bald pate covered with little beads of moisture. Bock trotted sedately at his heels. I halted Peg. "Well," I said, "what's happened to Andrew?" The Professor still looked a bit shamefaced. "The Sage is a tenacious person," he said. "We argued for a bit without much satisfaction. As a matter of fact we nearly came to blows again, only he got another waft of goldenrod, which started him sneezing, and then his nose began bleeding once more. He is convinced that I'm a ruffian, and said so in excellent prose. Honestly, I admire him a great deal. I believe he intends to have the law on me. I gave him my Brooklyn address in case he wants to follow the matter up. I think I rather pleased him by asking him to autograph 'Happiness and Hayseed' for me. I found it lying in the ditch." "Well," I said, "you two are certainly a great pair of lunatics. You both ought to go on the stage. You'd be as good as Weber and Fields. Did he give you the autograph?" He pulled the book out of his pocket. Scrawled in it in pencil were the words "I have shed blood for Mr. Mifflin. Andrew McGill." "I shall read the book again with renewed interest," said Mifflin. "May I get in?" "By all means," I said. "There's Port Vigor in front of us." He put on his cap, noticed that it seemed to feel different, pulled it off again, and then looked at me in a quaint embarrassment. "You are very good, Miss McGill," he said. "Where did Andrew go?" I asked. "He set off for Shelby on foot," Mifflin answered. "He has a grand stride for walking. He suddenly remembered that he had left some potatoes boiling on the fire yesterday afternoon, and said he must get back to attend to them. He said he hoped you would send him a postal card now and then. Do you know, he reminds me of Thoreau more than ever." "He reminds me of a burnt cooking pot," I said. "I suppose all my kitchenware will be in a horrible state when I get home." CHAPTER EIGHT Port Vigor is a fascinating old town. It is built on a point jutting out into the Sound. Dimly in the distance one can see the end of Long Island, which Mifflin viewed with sparkling eyes. It seemed to bring him closer to Brooklyn. Several schooners were beating along the estuary in the fresh wind, and there was a delicious tang of brine in the air. We drove direct to the station where the Professor alighted. We took his portmanteau, and shut Bock inside the van to prevent the dog from following him. Then there was an awkward pause as he stood by the wheel with his cap off. "Well, Miss McGill," he said, "there's an express train at five o'clock, so with luck I shall be in Brooklyn to-night. My brother's address is 600 Abingdon Avenue, and I hope when you're sending a card to the Sage you'll let me have one, too. I shall be very homesick for Parnassus, but I'd rather leave her with you than with any one I know." He bowed very low, and before I could say a word he blew his nose violently and hurried away. I saw him carrying his valise into the station, and then he disappeared. I suppose that living alone with Andrew for all these years has unused me to the eccentricities of other people, but surely this little Redbeard was one of the strangest beings one would be likely to meet. Bock yowled dismally inside, and I did not feel in any mood to sell books in Port Vigor. I drove back into the town and stopped at a tea shop for a pot of tea and some toast. When I came out I found that quite a little crowd had collected, partly owing to the strange appearance of Parnassus and partly because of Bock's plaintive cries from within. Most of the onlookers seemed to suspect the outfit of being part of a travelling menagerie, so almost against my will I put up the flaps, tied Bock to the tail of the wagon, and began to answer the humourous questions of the crowd. Two or three bought books without any urging, and it was some time before I could get away. Finally I shut up the van and pulled off, as I was afraid of seeing some one I knew. As I turned into the Woodbridge Road I heard the whistle of the five o'clock train to New York. The twenty miles of road between Sabine Farm and Port Vigor was all familiar to me, but now to my relief I struck into a region that I had never visited. On my occasional trips to Boston I had always taken the train at Port Vigor, so the country roads were unknown. But I had set out on the Woodbridge way because Mifflin had spoken of a farmer, Mr. Pratt, who lived about four miles out of Port Vigor, on the Woodbridge Road. Apparently Mr. Pratt had several times bought books from the Professor and the latter had promised to visit him again. So I felt in duty bound to oblige a good customer. After the varied adventures of the last two days it was almost a relief to be alone to think things over. Here was I, Helen McGill, in a queer case indeed. Instead of being home at Sabine Farm getting supper, I was trundling along a strange road, the sole owner of a Parnassus (probably the only one in existence), a horse, and a dog, and a cartload of books on my hands. Since the morning of the day before my whole life had twisted out of its accustomed orbit. I had spent four hundred dollars of my savings; I had sold about thirteen dollars' worth of books; I had precipitated a fight and met a philosopher. Not only that, I was dimly beginning to evolve a new philosophy of my own. And all this in order to prevent Andrew from buying a lot more books! At any rate, I had been successful in that. When he had seen Parnassus at last, he had hardly looked at her--except in tones of scorn. I caught myself wondering whether the Professor would allude to the incident in his book, and hoping that he would send me a copy. But after all, why should he mention it? To him it was only one of a thousand adventures. As he had said angrily to Andrew, he was nothing to me, nor I to him. How could he realize that this was the first adventure I had had in the fifteen years I had been--what was it he called it?--compiling my anthology. Well, the funny little gingersnap! I kept Bock tied to the back of the van, as I was afraid he might take a notion to go in search of his master. As we jogged on, and the falling sun cast a level light across the way, I got a bit lonely. This solitary vagabonding business was a bit sudden after fifteen years of home life. The road lay close to the water and I watched the Sound grow a deeper blue and then a dull purple. I could hear the surf pounding, and on the end of Long Island a far-away lighthouse showed a ruby spark. I thought of the little gingersnap roaring toward New York on the express, and wondered whether he was travelling in a Pullman or a day coach. A Pullman chair would feel easy after that hard Parnassus seat. By and by we neared a farmhouse which I took to be Mr. Pratt's. It stood close to the road, with a big, red barn behind and a gilt weathervane representing a galloping horse. Curiously enough Peg seemed to recognize the place, for she turned in at the gate and neighed vigorously. It must have been a favourite stopping place for the Professor. Through a lighted window I could see people sitting around a table. Evidently the Pratts were at supper. I drew up in the yard. Some one looked out of a window, and I heard a girl's voice: "Why, Pa, here's Parnassus!" Gingersnap must have been a welcome visitor at that farm, for in an instant the whole family turned out with a great scraping of chairs and clatter of dishes. A tall, sunburnt man, in a clean shirt with no collar, led the group, and then came a stout woman about my own build, and a hired man and three children. "Good evening!" I said. "Is this Mr. Pratt?" "Sure thing!" said he. "Where's the Perfessor?" "On his way to Brooklyn," said I. "And I've got Parnassus. He told me to be sure to call on you. So here we are." "Well, I want to know!" ejaculated Mrs. Pratt. "Think of Parnassus turned suffrage! Ben, you put up the critters, and I'll take Mrs. Mifflin in to supper." "Hold on there," I said. "My name's McGill--Miss McGill. See, it's painted on the wagon. I bought the outfit from Mr. Mifflin. A business proposition entirely." "Well, well," said Mr. Pratt. "We're glad to see any friend of the Perfessor. Sorry he's not here, too. Come right in and have a bite with us." They were certainly good-hearted folk, Mr. and Mrs. Ben Pratt. He put Peg and Bock away in the barn and gave them their supper, while Mrs. Pratt took me up to her spare bedroom and brought me a jug of hot water. Then they all trooped back into the dining-room and the meal began again. I am a connoisseur of farm cooking, I guess, and I've got to hand it to Beulah Pratt that she was an A-1 housewife. Her hot biscuit was perfect; the coffee was real Mocha, simmered, not boiled; the cold sausage and potato salad was as good as any Andrew ever got. And she had a smoking-hot omelet sent in for me, and opened a pot of her own strawberry preserve. The children (two boys and a girl) sat open-mouthed, nudging one another, and Mr. Pratt got out his pipe while I finished up on stewed pears and cream and chocolate cake. It was a regular meal. I wondered what Andrew was eating and whether he had found the nest behind the wood pile where the red hen always drops her eggs. "Well, well," said Mr. Pratt, "tell us about the Perfessor. We was expectin' him here some time this fall. He generally gets here around cider time." "I guess there isn't so much to tell," I said. "He stopped up at our place the other day, and said he wanted to sell his outfit. So I bought him out. He was pining to get back to Brooklyn and write a book." "That book o' his!" said Mrs. Pratt. "He was always talkin' on it, but I don't believe he ever started it yet." "Whereabout do you come from, Miss McGill?" said Pratt. I could see he was mighty puzzled at a woman driving a vanload of books around the country, alone. "Over toward Redfield," I said. "You any kin to that writer that lives up that way?" "You mean Andrew McGill?" I said. "He's my brother." "Do tell!" exclaimed Mrs. Pratt. "Why the Perfessor thought a terrible lot of him. He read us all to sleep with one of his books one night. Said he was the best literature in this State, I do believe." I smiled to myself as I thought of the set-to on the road from Shelby. "Well," said Pratt, "if the Perfessor's got any better friends than us in these parts, I'm glad to meet 'em. He come here first time 'bout four years ago. I was up working in the hayfield that afternoon, and I heard a shout down by the mill pond. I looked over that way and saw a couple o' kids waving their arms and screamin'. I ran down the hill and there was the Perfessor just a pullin' my boy Dick out o' the water. Dick's this one over here." Dick, a small boy of thirteen or so, grew red under his freckles. "The kids had been foolin' around on a raft there, an' first thing you know Dick fell in, right into deep water, over by the dam. Couldn't swim a stroke, neither. And the Perfessor, who jest happened to be comin' along in that 'bus of his, heard the boys yell. Didn't he hop out o' the wagon as spry as a chimpanzee, skin over the fence, an' jump into the pond, swim out there an' tow the boy in! Yes, ma'am, he saved that boy's life then an' no mistake. That man can read me to sleep with poetry any night he has a mind to. He's a plumb fine little firecracker, the Perfessor." Farmer Pratt pulled hard on his pipe. Evidently his friendship for the wandering bookseller was one of the realities of his life. "Yes, ma'am," he went on, "that Perfessor has been a good friend to me, sure enough. We brought him an' the boy back to the house. The boy had gone down three times an' the Perfessor had to dive to find him. They were both purty well all in, an' I tell you I was scared. But we got Dick around somehow--rolled him on a sugar bar'l, an' poured whiskey in him, an' worked his arms, an' put him in hot blankets. By and by he come to. An' then I found that the Perfessor, gettin' over the barb-wire fence so quick (when he lit for the pond) had torn a hole in his leg you could put four fingers in. There was his trouser all stiff with blood, an' he not sayin' a thing. Pluckiest little runt in three States, by Judas! Well, we put _him_ to bed, too, and then the Missus keeled over, an' we put _her_ to bed. Three of them, by time the Doc got here. Great old summer afternoon that was! But bless your heart, we couldn't keep the Perfessor abed long. Next day he was out lookin' fer his poetry books, an' first thing you know he had us all rounded up an' was preachin' good literature at us like any evangelist. I guess we all fell asleep over his poetry, so then he started on readin' that 'Treasure Island' story to us, wasn't it, Mother? By hickory, we none of us fell asleep over that. He started the kids readin' so they been at it ever since, and Dick's top boy at school now. Teacher says she never saw such a boy for readin'. That's what Perfessor done for us! Well, tell us 'bout yerself, Miss McGill. Is there any good books we ought to read? I used to pine for some o' that feller Shakespeare my father used to talk about so much, but Perfessor always 'lowed it was over my head!" It gave me quite a thrill to hear all this about Mifflin. I could readily imagine the masterful little man captivating the simple-hearted Pratts with his eloquence and earnestness. And the story of the mill pond had its meaning, too. Little Redbeard was no mere wandering crank--he was a real man, cool and steady of brain, with the earmarks of a hero. I felt a sudden gush of warmth as I recalled his comical ways. Mrs. Pratt lit a fire in her Franklin stove and I racked my head wondering how I could tread worthily in the Professor's footsteps. Finally I fetched the "Jungle Book" from Parnassus and read them the story of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. There was a long pause when I had finished. "Say, Pa," said Dick shyly, "that mongoose was rather like Professor, wasn't he!" Plainly the Professor was the traditional hero of this family, and I began to feel rather like an impostor! I suppose it was foolish of me, but I had already made up my mind to push on to Woodbridge that night. It could not be more than four miles, and the time was not much after eight. I felt a little twinge of quite unworthy annoyance because I was still treading in the glamour of the Professor's influence. The Pratts would talk of nothing else, and I wanted to get somewhere where I would be estimated at my own value, not merely as his disciple. "Darn the Redbeard," I said to myself, "I think he has bewitched these people!" And in spite of their protests and invitations to stay the night, I insisted on having Peg hitched up. I gave them the copy of the "Jungle Book" as a small return for their hospitality, and finally sold Mr. Pratt a little copy of "Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare" which I thought he could read without brain fever. Then I lit my lantern and after a chorus of good-byes Parnassus rolled away. "Well," I said to myself as I turned into the high road once more, "drat the gingersnap, he seems to hypnotize everybody... he must be nearly in Brooklyn by this time!" It was very quiet along the road, also very dark, for the sky had clouded over and I could see neither moon nor stars. As it was a direct road I should have had no difficulty, and I suppose I must have fallen into a doze during which Peg took a wrong turning. At any rate, I realized about half-past nine that Parnassus was on a much rougher road than the highway had any right to be, and there were no telephone poles to be seen. I knew that they stretched all along the main road, so plainly I had made a mistake. I was reluctant for a moment to admit that I could be wrong, and just then Peg stumbled heavily and stood still. She paid no heed to my exhortations, and when I got out and carried my lantern to see whether anything was in the way, I found that she had cast a shoe and her foot was bleeding. The shoe must have dropped off some way back and she had picked up a nail or something in the quick. I saw no alternative but to stay where I was for the night. This was not very pleasant, but the adventures of the day had put me into a stoical frame of mind, and I saw no good in repining. I unhitched Peg, sponged her foot, and tied her to a tree. I would have made more careful explorations to determine just where I was, but a sharp patter of rain began to fall. So I climbed into my Parnassus, took Bock in with me, and lit the swinging lamp. By this time it was nearly ten o'clock. There was nothing to do but turn in, so I took off my boots and lay down in the bunk. Bock lay quite comfortably on the floor of the van. I meant to read for a while, and so did not turn out the light, but I fell asleep almost immediately. I woke up at half-past eleven and turned out the lamp, which had made the van very warm. I opened the little windows front and back, and would have opened the door, but I feared Bock might slip away. It was still raining a little. To my annoyance I felt very wakeful. I lay for some time listening to the patter of raindrops on the roof and skylight--a very snug sound when one is warm and safe. Every now and then I could hear Peg stamping in the underbrush. I was almost dozing off again when Bock gave a low growl. No woman of my bulk has a right to be nervous, I guess, but instantly my security vanished! The patter of the rain seemed menacing, and I imagined a hundred horrors. I was totally alone and unarmed, and Bock was not a large dog. He growled again, and I felt worse than before. I imagined that I heard stealthy sounds in the bushes, and once Peg snorted as though frightened. I put my hand down to pat Bock, and found that his neck was all bristly, like a fighting cock. He uttered a queer half growl, half whine, which gave me a chill. Some one must be prowling about the van, but in the falling rain I could hear nothing. I felt I must do something. I was afraid to call out lest I betray the fact that there was only a woman in the van. My expedient was absurd enough, but at any rate it satisfied my desire to act. I seized one of my boots and banged vigorously on the floor, at the same time growling in as deep and masculine a voice as I could muster: "What the hell's the matter? What the hell's the matter?" This sounds silly enough, I dare say, but it afforded me some relief. And as Bock shortly ceased growling, it apparently served some purpose. I lay awake for a long time, tingling all over with nervousness. Then I began to grow calmer, and was getting drowsy almost in spite of myself when I was aroused by the unmistakable sound of Bock's tail thumping on the floor--a sure sign of pleasure. This puzzled me quite as much as his growls. I did not dare strike a light, but could hear him sniffing at the door of the van and whining with eagerness. This seemed very uncanny, and again I crept stealthily out of the bunk and pounded on the floor lustily, this time with the frying pan, which made an unearthly din. Peg neighed and snorted, and Bock began to bark. Even in my anxiety I almost laughed. "It sounds like an insane asylum," I thought, and reflected that probably the disturbance was only caused by some small animal. Perhaps a rabbit or a skunk which Bock had winded and wanted to chase. I patted him, and crawled into my bunk once more. But my real excitement was still to come. About half an hour later I heard unmistakable footsteps alongside the van. Bock growled furiously, and I lay in a panic. Something jarred one of the wheels. Then broke out a most extraordinary racket. I heard quick steps, Peg whinneyed, and something fell heavily against the back of the wagon. There was a violent scuffle on the ground, the sound of blows, and rapid breathing. With my heart jumping I peered out of one of the back windows. There was barely any light, but dimly I could see a tumbling mass which squirmed and writhed on the ground. Something struck one of the rear wheels so that Parnassus trembled. I heard hoarse swearing, and then the whole body, whatever it was, rolled off into the underbrush. There was a terrific crashing and snapping of twigs. Bock whined, growled, and pawed madly at the door. And then complete silence. My nerves were quite shattered by this time. I don't think I had been so frightened since childhood days when I awakened from a nightmare. Little trickles of fear crept up and down my spine and my scalp prickled. I pulled Bock on the bunk, and lay with one hand on his collar. He, too, seemed agitated and sniffed gingerly now and then. Finally, however, he gave a sigh and fell asleep. I judged it might have been two o'clock, but I did not like to strike a light. And at last I fell into a doze. When I woke the sun was shining brilliantly and the air was full of the chirping of birds. I felt stiff and uneasy from sleeping in my clothes, and my foot was numb from Bock's weight. I got up and looked out of the window. Parnassus was standing in a narrow lane by a grove of birch trees. The ground was muddy, and smeared with footprints behind the van. I opened the door and looked around. The first thing I saw, on the ground by one of the wheels, was a battered tweed cap. CHAPTER NINE My feelings were as mixed as a crushed nut sundae. So the Professor hadn't gone to Brooklyn after all! What did he mean by prowling after me like a sleuth? Was it just homesickness for Parnassus? Not likely! And then the horrible noises I had heard in the night; had some tramp been hanging about the van in the hope of robbing me? Had the tramp attacked Mifflin? Or had Mifflin attacked the tramp? Who had got the better of it? I picked up the muddy cap and threw it into the van. Anyway, I had problems of my own to tackle, and those of the Professor could wait. Peg whinneyed when she saw me. I examined her foot. Seeing it by daylight the trouble was not hard to diagnose. A long, jagged piece of slate was wedged in the frog of the foot. I easily wrenched it out, heated some water, and gave the hoof another sponging. It would be all right when shod once more. But where was the shoe? I gave the horse some oats, cooked an egg and a cup of coffee for myself at the little kerosene stove, and broke up a dog biscuit for Bock. I marvelled once more at the completeness of Parnassus' furnishings. Bock helped me to scour the pan. He sniffed eagerly at the cap when I showed it to him, and wagged his tail. It seemed to me that the only thing I could do was to leave Parnassus and the animals where they were and retrace my steps as far as the Pratt farm. Undoubtedly Mr. Pratt would be glad to sell me a horse-shoe and send his hired man to do the job for me. I could not drive Peg as she was, with a sore foot and without a shoe. I judged Parnassus would be quite safe: the lane seemed to be a lonely one leading to a deserted quarry. I tied Bock to the steps to act as a guard, took my purse and the Professor's cap with me, locked the door of the van, and set off along the back track. Bock whined and tugged violently when he saw me disappearing, but I could see no other course. The lane rejoined the main road about half a mile back. I must have been asleep or I could never have made the mistake of turning off. I don't see why Peg should have made the turn, unless her foot hurt and she judged the side track would be a good place to rest. She must have been well used to stopping overnight in the open. I strode along pondering over my adventures, and resolved to buy a pistol when I got to Woodbridge. I remember thinking that I could write quite a book now myself. Already I began to feel quite a hardened pioneer. It doesn't take an adaptable person long to accustom one's self to a new way of life, and the humdrum routine of the farm certainly looked prosy compared to voyaging with Parnassus. When I had got beyond Woodbridge, and had crossed the river, I would begin to sell books in earnest. Also I would buy a notebook and jot down my experiences. I had heard of bookselling as a profession for women, but I thought that my taste of it was probably unique. I might even write a book that would rival Andrew's--yes, and Mifflin's. And that brought my thoughts to Barbarossa again. Of all extraordinary people, I thought, he certainly takes the cake--and then, rounding a bend, I saw him sitting on a rail fence, with his head shining in the sunlight. My heart gave a sort of jump. I do believe I was getting fond of the Professor. He was examining something which he held in his hand. "You'll get sunstroke," I said. "Here's your cap." And I pulled it out of my pocket and tossed it to him. "Thanks," he said, as cool as you please. "And here's your horse-shoe. Fair exchange!" I burst out laughing, and he looked disconcerted, as I hoped he would. "I thought you'd be in Brooklyn by now," I said, "at 600 Abingdon Avenue, laying out Chapter One. What do you mean by following me this way? You nearly frightened me to death last night. I felt like one of Fenimore Cooper's heroines, shut up in the blockhouse while the redskins prowled about." He flushed and looked very uncomfortable. "I owe you an apology," he said. "I certainly never intended that you should see me. I bought a ticket for New York and checked my bag through. And then while I was waiting for the train it came over me that your brother was right, and that it was a darned risky thing for you to go jaunting about alone in Parnassus. I was afraid something might happen. I followed along the road behind you, keeping well out of sight." "Where were you while I was at Pratt's?" "Sitting not far down the road eating bread and cheese," he said. "Also I wrote a poem, a thing I very rarely do." "Well, I hope your ears burned," I said, "for those Pratts have certainly raised you to the peerage." He got more uncomfortable than ever. "Well," he said, "I dare say it was all an error, but anyway I _did_ follow you. When you turned off into that lane, I kept pretty close behind you. As it happens, I know this bit of country, and there are very often some hoboes hanging around the old quarry up that lane. They have a cave there where they go into winter quarters. I was afraid some of them might bother you. You could hardly have chosen a worse place to camp out. By the bones of George Eliot, Pratt ought to have warned you. I can't conceive why you didn't stop at his house overnight anyway." "If you must know, I got weary of hearing them sing your praises." I could see that he was beginning to get nettled. "I regret having alarmed you," he said. "I see that Peg has dropped a shoe. If you'll let me fix it for you, after that I won't bother you." We turned back again along the road, and I noticed the right side of his face for the first time. Under the ear was a large livid bruise. "That hobo, or whoever he was," I said, "must have been a better fighter than Andrew. I see he landed on your cheek. Are you always fighting?" His annoyance disappeared. Apparently the Professor enjoyed a fight almost as much as he did a good book. "Please don't regard the last twenty-four hours as typical of me," he said with a chuckle. "I am so unused to being a squire of dames that perhaps I take the responsibilities too seriously." "Did you sleep at all last night?" I asked. I think I began to realize for the first time that the gallant little creature had been out all night in a drizzling rain, simply to guard me from possible annoyance; and I had been unforgivably churlish about it. "I found a very fine haystack in a field overlooking the quarry. I crawled into the middle of it. A haystack is sometimes more comfortable than a boarding-house." "Well," I said penitently, "I can never forgive myself for the trouble I've caused you. It was awfully good of you to do what you did. Please put your cap on and don't catch cold." We walked for several minutes in silence. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. I was afraid he might have caught his death of cold from being out all night in the wet, to say nothing of the scuffle he had had with the tramp; but he really looked as chipper as ever. "How do you like the wild life of a bookseller?" he said. "You must read George Borrow. He would have enjoyed Parnassus." "I was just thinking, when I met you, that I could write a book about my adventures." "Good!" he said. "We might collaborate." "There's another thing we might collaborate on," I said, "and that's breakfast. I'm sure you haven't had any." "No," he said, "I don't think I have. I never lie when I know I shan't be believed." "I haven't had any, either," I said. I thought that to tell an untruth would be the least thing I could do to reward the little man for his unselfishness. "Well," he said, "I really thought that by this time--" He broke off. "Was that Bock barking?" he asked sharply. We had been walking slowly, and had not yet reached the spot where the lane branched from the main road. We were still about three quarters of a mile from the place where I had camped overnight. We both listened carefully, but I could hear nothing but the singing of the telephone wires along the road. "No matter," he said. "I thought I heard a dog." But I noticed that he quickened his pace. "I was saying," he continued, "that I had really thought to have lost Parnassus for good by this morning, but I'm tickled to death to have a chance to see her again. I hope she'll be as good a friend to you as she has been to me. I suppose you'll sell her when you return to the Sage?" "I don't know I'm sure," I said. "I must confess I'm still a little at sea. My desire for an adventure seems to have let me in deeper than I expected. I begin to see that there's more in this bookselling game than I thought. Honestly, it's getting into my blood." "Well, that's fine," he said heartily. "I couldn't have left Parnassus in better hands. You must let me know what you do with her, and then perhaps, when I've finished my book, I can buy her back." We struck off into the lane. The ground was slippery under the trees and we went single file, Mifflin in front. I looked at my watch--it was nine o'clock, just an hour since I had left the van. As we neared the spot Mifflin kept looking ahead through the birch trees in a queer way. "What's the matter?" I said. "We're almost there, aren't we?" "We _are_ there," he said. "Here's the place." Parnassus was gone! CHAPTER TEN We stood in complete dismay--I did, at any rate--for about as long as it takes to peel a potato. There could be no doubt in which direction the van had moved, for the track of the wheels was plain. It had gone farther up the lane toward the quarry. In the earth, which was still soggy, were a number of footprints. "By the bones of Polycarp!" exclaimed the Professor, "those hoboes have stolen the van. I guess they think it'll make a fine Pullman sleeper for them. If I'd realized there was more than one of them I'd have hung around closer. They need a lesson." Good Lord! I thought, here's Don Quixote about to wade into another fight. "Hadn't we better go back and get Mr. Pratt?" I asked. This was obviously the wrong thing to say. It put the fiery little man all the more on his mettle. His beard bristled. "Nothing of the sort!" he said. "Those fellows are cowards and vagabonds anyway. They can't be far off; you haven't been away more than an hour, have you? If they've done anything to Bock, by the bones of Chaucer, I'll harry them. I _thought_ I heard him bark." He hurried up the lane, and I followed in a panicky frame of mind. The track wound along a hillside, between a high bank and a forest of birch trees. I think the distance can't have been more than a quarter of a mile. Anyway, in a very few minutes the road made a sharp twist to the right and we found ourselves looking down into the quarry, over a sheer rocky drop of a hundred feet at least. Below, drawn over to one side of the wall of rock, stood Parnassus. Peg was between the shafts. Bock was nowhere to be seen. Sitting by the van were three disreputable looking men. The smoke of a cooking fire rose into the air; evidently they were making free with my little larder. "Keep back," said the Professor softly. "Don't let them see us." He flattened himself in the grass and crawled to the edge of the cliff. I did the same, and we lay there, invisible from below, but quite able to see everything in the quarry. The three tramps were evidently enjoying an excellent breakfast. "This place is a regular hang-out for these fellows," Mifflin whispered. "I've seen hoboes about here every year. They go into winter quarters about the end of October, usually. There's an old blasted-out section of this quarry that makes a sheltered dormitory for them, and as the place isn't worked any more they're not disturbed here so long as they don't make mischief in the neighbourhood. We'll give them...." "Hands up!" said a rough voice behind us. I looked round. There was a fat, red-faced villainous-looking creature covering us with a shiny revolver. It was an awkward situation. Both the Professor and I were lying full length on the ground. We were quite helpless. "Get up!" said the tramp in a husky, nasty voice. "I guess youse thought we wasn't covering our trail? Well, we'll have to tie you up, I reckon, while we get away with this Crystal Pallis of yourn." I scrambled to my feet, but to my surprise the Professor continued to lie at full length. "Get up, deacon!" said the tramp again. "Get up on them graceful limbs, _if_ you please." I guess he thought himself safe from attack by a woman. At any rate, he bent over as if to grab Mifflin by the neck. I saw my chance and jumped on him from behind. I am heavy, as I have said, and he sprawled on the ground. My doubts as to the pistol being loaded were promptly dissolved, for it went off like a cannon. Nobody was in front of it, however, and Mifflin was on his feet like a flash. He had the ruffian by the throat and kicked the weapon out of his hand. I ran to seize it. "You son of Satan!" said the valiant Redbeard. "Thought you could bully us, did you? Miss McGill, you were as quick as Joan of Arc. Hand me the pistol, please." I gave it to him, and he shoved it under the hobo's nose. "Now," he said, "take off that rag around your neck." The rag was an old red handkerchief, inconceivably soiled. The tramp removed it, grumbling and whining. Mifflin gave me the pistol to hold while he tied our prisoner's wrists together. In the meantime we heard a shout from the quarry. The three vagabonds were gazing up in great excitement. "You tell those fashion plates down there," said Mifflin, as he knotted the tramp's hands together, "that if they make any fight I'll shoot them like crows." His voice was cold and savage and he seemed quite master of the situation, but I must confess I wondered how we could handle four of them. The greasy ruffian shouted down to his pals in the quarry, but I did not hear what he said, as just then the Professor asked me to keep our captive covered while he got a stick. I stood with the pistol pointed at his head while Mifflin ran back into the birchwood to cut a cudgel. The tramp's face became the colour of the under side of a fried egg as he looked into the muzzle of his own gun. "Say, lady," he pleaded, "that gun goes off awful easy, point her somewhere else or you'll croak me by mistake." I thought a good scare wouldn't do him any harm and kept the barrel steadily on him. The rascals down below seemed debating what to do. I don't know whether they were armed or not; but probably they imagined that there were more than two of us. At all events, by the time Mifflin came back with a stout birch staff they were hustling out of the quarry on the lower side. The Professor swore, and looked as if he would gladly give chase, but he refrained. "Here, you," he said in crisp tones to the tramp, "march on ahead of us, down to the quarry." The fat ruffian shambled awkwardly down the trail. We had to make quite a detour to get into the quarry, and by the time we reached there the other three tramps had got clean away. I was not sorry, to tell the truth. I thought the Professor had had enough scrapping for one twenty-four hours. Peg whinneyed loudly as she saw us coming, but Bock was not in sight. "What have you done with the dog, you swine?" said Mifflin. "If you've hurt him I'll make you pay with your own hide." Our prisoner was completely cowed. "No, boss, we ain't hurt the dog," he fawned. "We tied him up so he couldn't bark, that's all. He's in the 'bus." And sure enough, by this time we could hear smothered yelping and whining from Parnassus. I hurried to open the door, and there was Bock, his jaws tied together with a rope-end. He bounded out and made super-canine efforts to express his joy at seeing the Professor again. He paid very little attention to me. "Well," said Mifflin, after freeing the dog's muzzle, and with difficulty restraining him from burying his teeth in the tramp's shin, "what shall we do with this heroic specimen of manhood? Shall we cart him over to the jail in Port Vigor, or shall we let him go?" The tramp burst into a whining appeal that was almost funny, it was so abject. The Professor cut it short. "I ought to pack you into quod," he said. "Are you the Phoebus Apollo I scuffled with down the lane last night? Was it you skulking around this wagon then?" "No, boss, that was Splitlip Sam, honest to Gawd it was. He come back, boss; said he'd been fightin' with a cat-o'-mountain! Say, boss, you sure hit him hard. One of his lamps is a pudding! Boss, I'll swear I ain't had nothin' to do with it." "I don't like your society," said the Professor, "and I'm going to turn you loose. I'm going to count ten, and if you're not out of this quarry by then, I'll shoot. And if I see you again I'll skin you alive. Now get out!" He cut the knotted handkerchief in two. The hobo needed no urging. He spun on his heel and fled like a rabbit. The Professor watched him go, and as the fat, ungainly figure burst through a hedge and disappeared he fired the revolver into the air to frighten him still more. Then he tossed the weapon into the pool near by. "Well, Miss McGill," he said with a chuckle, "if you like to undertake breakfast, I'll fix up Peg." And he drew the horse-shoe from his pocket once more. A brief inspection of Parnassus satisfied me that the thieves had not had time to do any real damage. They had got out most of the eatables and spread them on a flat rock in preparation for a feast; and they had tracked a good deal of mud into the van; but otherwise I could see nothing amiss. So while Mifflin busied himself with Peg's foot it was easy for me to get a meal under way. I found a gush of clean water trickling down the face of the rock. There were still some eggs and bread and cheese in the little cupboard, and an unopened tin of condensed milk. I gave Peg her nose bag of oats, and fed Bock, who was frisking about in high spirits. By that time the shoeing was done, and the Professor and I sat down to an improvised meal. I was beginning to feel as if this gipsy existence were the normal course of my life. "Well, Professor," I said, as I handed him a cup of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs and cheese, "for a man who slept in a wet haystack, you acquit yourself with excellent valour." "Old Parnassus is quite a stormy petrel," he said. "I used to think the chief difficulty in writing a book would be to invent things to happen, but if I were to sit down and write the adventures I'd had with her it would be a regular Odyssey." "How about Peg's foot?" I asked. "Can she travel on it?" "It'll be all right if you go easy. I've scraped out the injured part and put the shoe back. I keep a little kit of tools under the van for emergencies of all sorts." It was chilly, and we didn't dawdle over our meal. I only made a feint of eating, as I had had a little breakfast before, and also as the events of the last few hours had left me rather restless. I wanted to get Parnassus out on the highway again, to jog along in the sun and think things over. The quarry was a desolate, forbidding place anyway. But before we left we explored the cave where the tramps had been preparing to make themselves comfortable for the winter. It was not really a cave, but only a shaft into the granite cliff. A screen of evergreen boughs protected the opening against the weather, and inside were piles of sacking that had evidently been used as beds, and many old grocery boxes for tables and chairs. It amused me to notice a cracked fragment of mirror balanced on a corner of rock. Even these ragamuffins apparently were not totally unconscious of personal appearance. I seized the opportunity, while the Professor was giving Peg's foot a final look, to rearrange my hair, which was emphatically a sight. I hardly think Andrew would have recognized me that morning. We led Peg up the steep incline, back into the lane where I had strayed, and at length we reached the main road again. Here I began to lay down the law to Redbeard. "Now look here, Professor," I said, "I'm not going to have you tramp all the way back to Port Vigor. After the night you've had you need a rest. You just climb into that Parnassus and lie down for a good snooze. I'll drive you into Woodbridge and you can take your train there. Now you get right into that bunk. I'll sit out here and drive." He demurred, but without much emphasis. I think the little fool was just about fagged out, and no wonder. I was a trifle groggy myself. In the end he was quite docile. He climbed into the van, took off his boots, and lay down under a blanket. Bock followed him, and I think they both fell asleep on the instant. I got on the front seat and took the reins. I didn't let Peg go more quickly than a walk as I wanted to spare her sore foot. My, what a morning that was after the rain! The road ran pretty close to the shore, and every now and then I could catch a glimpse of the water. The air was keen--not just the ordinary, unnoticed air that we breathe in and out and don't think about, but a sharp and tingling essence, as strong in the nostrils as camphor or ammonia. The sun seemed focussed upon Parnassus, and we moved along the white road in a flush of golden light. The flat fronds of the cedars swayed gently in the salty air, and for the first time in ten years, I should think, I began amusing myself by selecting words to describe the goodness of the morning. I even imagined myself writing a description of it, as if I were Andrew or Thoreau. The crazy little Professor had inoculated me with his literary bug, I guess. And then I did a dishonourable thing. Just by chance I put my hand into the little pocket beside the seat where Mifflin kept a few odds and ends. I meant to have another look at that card of his with the poem on it. And there I found a funny, battered little notebook, evidently forgotten. On the cover was written, in ink, "Thoughts on the Present Discontents." That title seemed vaguely familiar. I seemed to recall something of the kind from my school days--more than twenty years ago, goodness me! Of course if I had been honourable I wouldn't have looked into it. But in a kind of quibbling self-justification I recalled that I had bought Parnassus and all it contained, "lock, stock, barrel and bung" as Andrew used to say. And so.... The notebook was full of little jottings, written in pencil in the Professor's small, precise hand. The words were rubbed and soiled, but plainly legible. I read this: I don't suppose Bock or Peg get lonely, but by the bones of Ben Gunn, I do. Seems silly when Herrick and Hans Andersen and Tennyson and Thoreau and a whole wagonload of other good fellows are riding at my back. I can hear them all talking as we trundle along. But books aren't a _substantial_ world after all, and every now and then we get hungry for some closer, more human relationships. I've been totally alone now for eight years--except for Runt, and he might be dead and never say so. This wandering about is fine in its way, but it must come to an end some day. A man needs to put down a root somewhere to be really happy. What absurd victims of contrary desires we are! If a man is settled in one place he yearns to wander; when he wanders he yearns to have a home. And yet how bestial is content--all the great things in life are done by discontented people. There are three ingredients in the good life: learning, earning, and yearning. A man should be learning as he goes; and he should be earning bread for himself and others; and he should be yearning, too: yearning to know the unknowable. What a fine old poem is "The Pulley" by George Herbert! Those Elizabethan fellows knew how to write! They were marred perhaps by their idea that poems must be "witty." (Remember how Bacon said that reading poets makes one witty? There he gave a clue to the literature of his time.) Their fantastic puns and conceits are rather out of our fashion nowadays. But Lord! the root of the matter was in them! How gallantly, how reverently, they tackle the problems of life! When God at first made man (says George Herbert) He had a "glass of blessings standing by." So He pours on man all the blessings in His reservoir: strength, beauty, wisdom, honour, pleasure--and then He refrains from giving him the last of them, which is rest, i.e., contentment. God sees that if man is contented he will never win his way to Him. Let man be restless, so that "If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to My breast." Some day I shall write a novel on that theme, and call it "The Pulley." In this tragic, restless world there must be some place where at last we can lay our heads and be at rest. Some people call it death. Some call it God. My ideal of a man is not the Omar who wants to shatter into bits this sorry scheme of things, and then remould it nearer to the heart's desire. Old Omar was a coward, with his silk pajamas and his glass of wine. The real man is George Herbert's "seasoned timber"--the fellow who does handily and well whatever comes to him. Even if it's only shovelling coal into a furnace he can balance the shovel neatly, swing the coal square on the fire and not spill it on the floor. If it's only splitting kindling or running a trolley car he can make a good, artistic job of it. If it's only writing a book or peeling potatoes he can put into it the best he has. Even if he's only a bald-headed old fool over forty selling books on a country road, he can make an ideal of it. Good old Parnassus! It's a great game.... I think I'll have to give her up soon, though: I must get that book of mine written. But Parnassus has been a true glass of blessings to me. There was much more in the notebook; indeed it was half full of jotted paragraphs, memoranda, and scraps of writing--poems I believe some of them were--but I had seen enough. It seemed as if I had stumbled unawares on the pathetic, brave, and lonely heart of the little man. I'm a commonplace creature, I'm afraid, insensible to many of the deeper things in life, but every now and then, like all of us, I come face to face with something that thrills me. I saw how this little, red-bearded pedlar was like a cake of yeast in the big, heavy dough of humanity: how he travelled about trying to fulfil in his own way his ideals of beauty. I felt almost motherly toward him: I wanted to tell him that I understood him. And in a way I felt ashamed of having run away from my own homely tasks, my kitchen and my hen yard and dear old, hot-tempered, absent-minded Andrew. I fell into a sober mood. As soon as I was alone, I thought, I would sell Parnassus and hurry back to the farm. That was my job, that was my glass of blessings. What was I doing--a fat, middle-aged woman--trapesing along the roads with a cartload of books I didn't understand? I slipped the little notebook back into its hiding-place. I would have died rather than let the Professor know I had seen it. CHAPTER ELEVEN We were coming into Woodbridge; and I was just wondering whether to wake the Professor when the little window behind me slid back and he stuck his head out. "Hello!" he said. "I think I must have been asleep!" "Well, I should hope so," I said. "You needed it." Indeed he looked much better, and I was relieved to see it. I had been really afraid he would be ill after sleeping out all night, but I guess he was tougher than I thought. He joined me on the seat, and we drove into the town. While he went to the station to ask about the trains I had a fine time selling books. I was away from the locality where I was known, and had no shyness in attempting to imitate Mifflin's methods. I even went him one better by going into a hardware store where I bought a large dinner bell. This I rang lustily until a crowd gathered, then I put up the flaps and displayed my books. As a matter of fact, I sold only one, but I enjoyed myself none the less. By and by Mifflin reappeared. I think he had been to a barber: at any rate he looked very spry: he had bought a clean collar and a flowing tie of a bright electric blue which really suited him rather well. "Well," he said, "the Sage is going to get back at me for that punch on the nose! I've been to the bank to cash your check. They telephoned over to Redfield, and apparently your brother has stopped payment on it. It's rather awkward: they seem to think I'm a crook." I was furious. What right had Andrew to do that? "The brute!" I said. "What on earth shall I do?" "I suggest that you telephone to the Redfield Bank," he said, "and countermand your brother's instructions--that is, unless you think you've made a mistake? I don't want to take advantage of you." "Nonsense!" I said. "I'm not going to let Andrew spoil my holiday. That's always his way: if he gets an idea into his head he's like a mule. I'll telephone to Redfield, and then we'll go to see the bank here." We put Parnassus up at the hotel, and I went to the telephone. I was thoroughly angry at Andrew, and tried to get him on the wire first. But Sabine Farm didn't answer. Then I telephoned to the bank in Redfield, and got Mr. Shirley. He's the cashier, and I know him well. I guess he recognized my voice, for he made no objection when I told him what I wanted. "Now you telephone to the bank in Woodbridge," I said, "and tell them to let Mr. Mifflin have the money. I'll go there with him to identify him. Will that be all right?" "Perfectly," he said. The deceitful little snail! If I had only known what he was concocting! Mifflin said there was a train at three o'clock which he could take. We stopped at a little lunch room for a bite to eat, then he went again to the bank, and I with him. We asked the cashier whether they had had a message from Redfield. "Yes," he said. "We've just heard." And he looked at me rather queerly. "Are you Miss McGill?" he said. "I am," I said. "Will you just step this way a moment?" he asked politely. He led me into a little sitting-room and asked me to sit down. I supposed that he was going to get some paper for me to sign, so I waited quite patiently for several minutes. I had left the Professor at the cashier's window, where they would give him his money. I waited some time, and finally I got tired of looking at the Life Insurance calendars. Then I happened to glance out of the window. Surely that was the Professor, just disappearing round the corner with another man? I returned to the cashier's desk. "What's the matter?" I said. "Your mahogany furniture is charming, but I'm tired of it. Do I have to sit here any longer? And where's Mr. Mifflin? Did he get his money?" The cashier was a horrid little creature with side whiskers. "I'm sorry you had to wait, Madam," he said. "The transaction is just concluded. We gave Mr. Mifflin what was due him. There is no need for you to stay longer." I thought this was very extraordinary. Surely the Professor would not leave without saying good-bye? However, I noticed that the clock said three minutes to three, so I thought that perhaps he had had to run to catch his train. He was such a strange little man, anyway.... Well, I went back to the hotel, quite a little upset by this sudden parting. At least I was glad the little man had got his money all right. Probably he would write from Brooklyn, but of course I wouldn't get the letter till I returned to the farm as that was the only address he would have. Perhaps that wouldn't be so long after all: but I did not feel like going back now, when Andrew had been so horrid. I drove Parnassus on the ferry, and we crossed the river. I felt lost and disagreeable. Even the fresh movement through the air gave me no pleasure. Bock whined dismally inside the van. It didn't take me long to discover that Parnassing all alone had lost some of its charms. I missed the Professor: missed his abrupt, direct way of saying things, and his whimsical wit. And I was annoyed by his skipping off without a word of good-bye. It didn't seem natural. I partially appeased my irritation by stopping at a farmhouse on the other side of the river and selling a cook book. Then I started along the road for Bath--about five miles farther on. Peg's foot didn't seem to bother her so I thought it would be safe to travel that far before stopping for the night. Counting up the days (with some difficulty: it seemed as though I had been away from home a month), I remembered that this was Saturday night. I thought I would stay in Bath over Sunday and get a good rest. We jogged sedately along the road, and I got out a copy of "Vanity Fair." I was so absorbed in Becky Sharp that I wouldn't even interrupt myself to sell books at the houses we passed. I think reading a good book makes one modest. When you see the marvellous insight into human nature which a truly great book shows, it is bound to make you feel small--like looking at the Dipper on a clear night, or seeing the winter sunrise when you go out to collect the morning eggs. And anything that makes you feel small is mighty good for you. "What do you mean by a great book?" said the Professor--I mean, I imagined him saying it. It seemed to me as if I could see him sitting there, with his corncob pipe in his hand and that quizzical little face of his looking sharply at me. Somehow, talking with the Professor had made me think. He was as good as one of those Scranton correspondence courses, I do believe, and no money to pay for postage. Well, I said to the Professor--to myself I mean--let's see: what _is_ a good book? I don't mean books like Henry James's (he's Andrew's great idol. It always seemed to me that he had a kind of rush of words to the head and never stopped to sort them out properly). A good book ought to have something simple about it. And, like Eve, it ought to come from somewhere near the third rib: there ought to be a heart beating in it. A story that's all forehead doesn't amount to much. Anyway, it'll never get over at a Dorcas meeting. That was the trouble with Henry James. Andrew talked so much about him that I took one of his books to read aloud at our sewing circle over at Redfield. Well, after one try we had to fall back on "Pollyanna." I haven't been doing chores and running a farmhouse for fifteen years without getting some ideas about life--and even about books. I wouldn't set my lit'ry views up against yours, Professor (I was still talking to Mifflin in my mind), no, nor even against Andrew's--but as I say, I've got some ideas of my own. I've learned that honest work counts in writing books just as much as it does in washing dishes. I guess Andrew's books must be some good after all because he surely does mull over them without end. I can forgive his being a shiftless farmer so long as he really does his literary chores up to the hilt. A man can be slack in everything else, if he does one thing as well as he possibly can. And I guess it won't matter my being an ignoramus in literature so long as I'm rated A-1 in the kitchen. That's what I used to think as I polished and scoured and scrubbed and dusted and swept and then set about getting dinner. If I ever sat down to read for ten minutes the cat would get into the custard. No woman in the country sits down for fifteen consecutive minutes between sunrise and sunset, anyway, unless she has half a dozen servants. And nobody knows anything about literature unless he spends most of his life sitting down. So there you are. The cultivation of philosophic reflection was a new experience for me. Peg ambled along contentedly and the dog trailed under Parnassus where I had tied him. I read "Vanity Fair" and thought about all sorts of things. Once I got out to pick some scarlet maple leaves that attracted me. The motors passing annoyed me with their dust and noise, but by and by one of them stopped, looked at my outfit curiously, and then asked to see some books. I put up the flaps for them and we pulled off to one side of the road and had a good talk. They bought two or three books, too. By the time I neared Bath the hands of my watch pointed to supper. I was still a bit shy of Mifflin's scheme of stopping overnight at farmhouses, so I thought I'd go right into the town and look for a hotel. The next day was Sunday, so it seemed reasonable to give the horse a good rest and stay in Bath two nights. The Hominy House looked clean and old-fashioned, and the name amused me, so in I went. It was a kind of high-class boarding-house, with mostly old women around. It looked to me almost literary and Elbert Hubbardish compared to the Grand Central in Shelby. The folks there stared at me somewhat suspiciously and I half thought they were going to say they didn't take pedlars; but when I flashed a new five-dollar bill at the desk I got good service. A five-dollar bill is a patent of nobility in New England. My! how I enjoyed that creamed chicken on toast, and buckwheat cakes with syrup! After you get used to cooking all your own grub, a meal off some one else's stove is the finest kind of treat. After supper I was all prepared to sit out on the porch with my sweater on and give a rocking chair a hot box, but then I remembered that it was up to me to carry on the traditions of Parnassus. I was there to spread the gospel of good books. I got to thinking how the Professor never shirked carrying on his campaign, and I determined that I would be worthy of the cause. When I think back about the experience, it seems pretty crazy, but at the time I was filled with a kind of evangelistic zeal. I thought if I was going to try to sell books I might as well have some fun out of it. Most of the old ladies were squatting about in the parlour, knitting or reading or playing cards. In the smoking-room I could see two dried-up men. Mrs. Hominy, the manager of the place, was sitting at her desk behind a brass railing, going over accounts with a quill pen. I thought that the house probably hadn't had a shock since Walt Whitman wrote "Leaves of Grass." In a kind of do-or-die spirit I determined to give them a rouse. In the dining-room I had noticed a huge dinner bell that stood behind the door. I stepped in there, and got it. Standing in the big hall I began ringing it as hard as I could shake my arm. You might have thought it was a fire alarm. Mrs. Hominy dropped her pen in horror. The colonial dames in the parlour came to life and ran into the hall like cockroaches. In a minute I had gathered quite a respectable audience. It was up to me to do the spellbinding. "Friends," I said (unconsciously imitating the Professor's tricks of the trade, I guess), "this bell which generally summons you to the groaning board now calls you to a literary repast. With the permission of the management, and with apologies for disturbing your tranquillity, I will deliver a few remarks on the value of good books. I see that several of you are fond of reading, so perhaps the topic will be congenial?" They gazed at me about as warmly as a round of walnut sundaes. "Ladies and Gentlemen," I continued, "of course you remember the story of Abe Lincoln when he said, 'if you call a leg a tail, how many tails has a dog?' 'Five,' you answer. Wrong; because, as Mr. Lincoln said, calling a leg a tail...." I still think it was a good beginning. But that was as far as I got. Mrs. Hominy came out of her trance, hastened from the cage, and grabbed my arm. She was quite red with anger. "Really!" she said. "Well, really!... I must ask you to continue this in some other place. We do not allow commercial travellers in this house." And within fifteen minutes they had hitched up Peg and asked me to move on. Indeed I was so taken aback by my own zeal that I could hardly protest. In a kind of daze I found myself at the Moose Hotel, where they assured me that they catered to mercantile people. I went straight to my room and fell asleep as soon as I reached the straw mattress. That was my first and only public speech. CHAPTER TWELVE The next day was Sunday, October sixth. I well remember the date. I woke up as chipper as any Robert W. Chambers heroine. All my doubts and depressions of the evening before had fled, and I was single-heartedly delighted with the world and everything in it. The hotel was a poor place, but it would have taken more than that to mar my composure. I had a bitterly cold bath in a real country tin tub, and then eggs and pancakes for breakfast. At the table was a drummer who sold lightning rods, and several other travelling salesmen. I'm afraid my conversation was consciously modelled along the line of what the Professor would have said if he had been there, but at any rate I got along swimmingly. The travelling men, after a moment or two of embarrassed diffidence, treated me quite as one of themselves and asked me about my "line" with interest. I described what I was doing and they all said they envied me my freedom to come and go independently of trains. We talked cheerfully for a long time, and almost without intending to, I started preaching about books. In the end they insisted on my showing them Parnassus. We all went out to the stable, where the van was quartered, and they browsed over the shelves. Before I knew it I had sold five dollars' worth, although I had decided not to do any business at all on Sunday. But I couldn't refuse to sell them the stuff as they all seemed so keen on getting something really good to read. One man kept on talking about Harold Bell Wright, but I had to admit that I hadn't heard of him. Evidently the Professor hadn't stocked any of his works. I was tickled to see that after all little Redbeard didn't know _everything_ about literature. After that I debated whether to go to church or to write letters. Finally I decided in favour of the letters. First I tackled Andrew. I wrote: The Moose Hotel, Bath, Sunday morning. DEAR ANDREW: It seems absurd to think that it's only three days since I left Sabine Farm. Honestly, more has happened to me in these three days than in three years at home. I'm sorry that you and Mr. Mifflin disagreed but I quite understood your feelings. But I'm very angry that you should have tried to stop that check I gave him. It was none of your business, Andrew. I telephoned Mr. Shirley and made him send word to the bank in Woodbridge to give Mifflin the money. Mr. Mifflin did not swindle me into buying Parnassus. I did it of my own free will. If you want to know the truth, it was your fault! I bought it because I was scared _you_ would if I didn't. And I didn't want to be left all alone on the farm from now till Thanksgiving while you went off on another trip. So I decided to do the thing myself. I thought I'd see how you would like being left all alone to run the house. I thought it'd be pretty nice for me to get things off my mind a while and have an adventure of my own. Now, Andrew, here are some directions for you: 1. Don't forget to feed the chickens twice a day, and collect _all_ the eggs. There's a nest behind the wood pile, and some of the Wyandottes have been laying under the ice house. 2. Don't let Rosie touch grandmother's blue china, because she'll break it as sure as fate if she lays her big, thick Swedish fingers on it. 3. Don't forget your warmer underwear. The nights are getting chilly. 4. I forgot to put the cover on the sewing machine. Please do that for me or it'll get all dusty. 5. Don't let the cat run loose in the house at night: he always breaks something. 6. Send your socks and anything else that needs darning over to Mrs. McNally, she can do it for you. 7. Don't forget to feed the pigs. 8. Don't forget to mend the weathervane on the barn. 9. Don't forget to send that barrel of apples over to the cider mill or you won't have any cider to drink when Mr. Decameron comes up to see us later in the fall. 10. Just to make ten commandments, I'll add one more: You might 'phone to Mrs. Collins that the Dorcas will have to meet at some one else's house next week, because I don't know just when I'll get back. I may be away a fortnight more. This is my first holiday in a long time and I'm going to chew it before I swallow it. The Professor (Mr. Mifflin, I mean) has gone back to Brooklyn to work on his book. I'm sorry you and he had to mix it up on the high road like a couple of hooligans. He's a nice little man and you'd like him if you got to know him. I'm spending Sunday in Bath: to-morrow I'm going on toward Hastings. I've sold five dollars' worth of books this morning even if it is Sunday. Your affte sister HELEN McGiLL. P.S. Don't forget to clean the separator after using it, or it'll get in a fearful state. After writing to Andrew I thought I would send a message to the Professor. I had already written him a long letter in my mind, but somehow when I began putting it on paper a sort of awkwardness came over me. I didn't know just how to begin. I thought how much more fun it would be if he were there himself and I could listen to him talk. And then, while I was writing the first few sentences, some of the drummers came back into the room. "Thought you'd like to see a Sunday paper," said one of them. I picked up the newspaper with a word of thanks and ran an eye over the headlines. The ugly black letters stood up before me, and my heart gave a great contraction. I felt my fingertips turn cold. DISASTROUS WRECK ON THE SHORE LINE EXPRESS RUNS INTO OPEN SWITCH -- TEN LIVES LOST, AND MORE THAN A SCORE INJURED -- FAILURE OF BLOCK SIGNALS The letters seemed to stand up before me as large as a Malted Milk signboard. With a shuddering apprehension I read the details. Apparently the express that left Providence at four o'clock on Saturday afternoon had crashed into an open siding near Willdon about six o'clock, and collided with a string of freight empties. The baggage car had been demolished and the smoker had turned over and gone down an embankment. There were ten men killed... my head swam. Was that the train the Professor had taken? Let me see. He left Woodbridge on a local train at three. He had said the day before that the express left Port Vigor at five.... If he had changed to the express..... In a kind of fascinated horror my eye caught the list of the dead. I ran down the names. Thank God, no, Mifflin was not among them. Then I saw the last entry: UNIDENTIFIED MAN, MIDDLE-AGED. What if that should be the Professor? And I suddenly felt dizzy, and for the first time in my life I fainted. Thank goodness, no one else was in the room. The drummers had gone outside again, and no one heard me flop off the chair. I came to in a moment, my heart whirling like a spinning top. At first I did not realize what was wrong. Then my eye fell on the newspaper again. Feverishly I re-read the account, and the names of the injured, too, which I had missed before. Nowhere was there a name I knew. But the tragic words "unidentified man" danced before my eyes. Oh! if it were the Professor.... In a wave the truth burst upon me. I loved that little man: I loved him, I loved him. He had brought something new into my life, and his brave, quaint ways had warmed my fat old heart. For the first time, in an intolerable gush of pain, I seemed to know that my life could never again be endurable without him. And now--what was I to do? How could I learn the truth? Certainly if he _had_ been on the train, and had escaped from the wreck unhurt, he would have sent a message to Sabine Farm to let me know. At any rate, that was a possibility. I rushed to the telephone to call up Andrew. Oh! the agonizing slowness of telephone connections when urgent hurry is needed! My voice shook as I said "Redfield 158 J" to the operator. Throbbing with nervousness I waited to hear the familiar click of the receiver at the other end. I could hear the Redfield switchboard receive the call, and put in the plug to connect with our wire. In imagination I could see the telephone against the wall in the old hallway at Sabine Farm. I could see the soiled patch of plaster where Andrew rests his elbow when he talks into the 'phone, and the place where he jots numbers down in pencil and I rub them off with bread crumbs. I could see Andrew coming out of the sitting-room to answer the bell. And then the operator said carelessly, "Doesn't answer." My forehead was wet as I came out of the booth. I hope I may never have to re-live the horrors of the next hour. In spite of my bluff and hearty ways, in times of trouble I am as reticent as a clam. I was determined to hide my agony and anxiety from the well-meaning people of the Moose Hotel. I hurried to the railway station to send a telegram to the Professor's address in Brooklyn, but found the place closed. A boy told me it would not be open until the afternoon. From a drugstore I called "information" in Willdon, and finally got connected with some undertaker to whom the Willdon operator referred me. A horrible, condoling voice (have you ever talked to an undertaker over the telephone?) answered me that no one by the name of Mifflin had been among the dead, but admitted that there was one body still unidentified. He used one ghastly word that made me shudder--unrecognizable. I rang off. I knew then for the first time the horror of loneliness. I thought of the poor little man's notebook that I had seen. I thought of his fearless and lovable ways--of his pathetic little tweed cap, of the missing button of his jacket, of the bungling darns on his frayed sleeve. It seemed to me that heaven could mean nothing more than to roll creaking along country roads, in Parnassus, with the Professor beside me on the seat. What if I had known him only--how long was it? He had brought the splendour of an ideal into my humdrum life. And now--had I lost it forever? Andrew and the farm seemed faint and far away. I was a homely old woman, mortally lonely and helpless. In my perplexity I walked to the outskirts of the village and burst into tears. Finally I got a grip on myself again. I am not ashamed to say that I now admitted frankly what I had been hiding from myself. I was in love--in love with a little, red-bearded bookseller who seemed to me more splendid than Sir Galahad. And I vowed that if he would have me, I would follow him to the other end of nowhere. I walked back to the hotel. I thought I would make one more try to get Andrew on the telephone. My whole soul quivered when at last I heard the receiver click. "Hello?" said Andrew's voice. "Oh, Andrew," I said, "this is Helen." "Where are you?" (His voice sounded cross.) "Andrew, is there any--any message from Mr. Mifflin? That wreck yesterday--he might have been on that train--I've been so frightened; do you think he was--hurt?" "Stuff and nonsense," said Andrew. "If you want to know about Mifflin, he's in jail in Port Vigor." And then I think Andrew must have been surprised. I began to laugh and cry simultaneously, and in my agitation I set down the receiver. CHAPTER THIRTEEN My first impulse was to hide myself in some obscure corner where I could vent my feelings without fear or favour. I composed my face as well as I could before leaving the 'phone booth; then I sidled across the lobby and slipped out of the side door. I found my way into the stable, where good old Peg was munching in her stall. The fine, homely smell of horseflesh and long-worn harness leather went right to my heart, and while Bock frisked at my knees I laid my head on Peg's neck and cried. I think that fat old mare understood me. She was as tubby and prosaic and middle-aged as I--but she loved the Professor. Suddenly Andrew's words echoed again in my mind. I had barely heeded them before, in the great joy of my relief, but now their significance came to me. "In jail." The Professor in jail! That was the meaning of his strange disappearance at Woodbridge. That little brute of a man Shirley must have telephoned from Redfield, and when the Professor came to the Woodbridge bank to cash that check they had arrested him. That was why they had shoved me into that mahogany sitting-room. Andrew must be behind this. The besotted old fool! My face burned with anger and humiliation. I never knew before what it means to be really infuriated. I could feel my brain tingle. The Professor in jail! The gallant, chivalrous little man, penned up with hoboes and sneak thieves suspected of being a crook... as if I couldn't take care of myself! What did they think he was, anyway? A kidnapper? Instantly I decided I would hurry back to Port Vigor without delay. If Andrew had had the Professor locked up, it could only be on the charge of defrauding me. Certainly it couldn't be for giving him a bloody nose on the road from Shelby. And if I appeared to deny the charge, surely they would have to let Mr. Mifflin go. I believe I must have been talking to myself in Peg's stall--at any rate, just at this moment the stableman appeared and looked very bewildered when he saw me, with flushed face and in obvious excitement, talking to the horse. I asked him when was the next train to Port Vigor. "Well, ma'am," he said, "they say that all the local trains is held up till the wreck at Willdon's cleared away. This being Sunday, I don't think you'll get anything from here until to-morrow morning." I reflected. It wasn't so awfully far back to Port Vigor. A flivver from the local garage could spin me back there in a couple of hours at the most. But somehow it seemed more fitting to go to the Professor's rescue in his own Parnassus, even if it would take longer to get there. To tell the truth, while I was angry and humiliated at the thought of his being put in jail by Andrew, I couldn't help, deep down within me, being rather thankful. Suppose he had been in the wreck? The Sage of Redfield had played the part of Providence after all. And if I set out right away with Parnassus, I could get to Port Vigor--well, by Monday morning anyway. The good people of the Moose Hotel were genuinely surprised at the hurry with which I dispatched my lunch. But I gave them no explanations. Goodness knows, my head was full of other thoughts and the apple sauce might have been asbestos. You know, a woman only falls in love once in her life, and if it waits until she's darn near forty--well, it _takes!_ You see I hadn't even been vaccinated against it by girlish flirtations. I began to be a governess when I was just a kid, and a governess doesn't get many chances to be skittish. So now when it came, it hit me hard. That's when a woman finds herself--when she's in love. I don't care if she _is_ old or fat or homely or prosy. She feels that little flutter under her ribs and she drops from the tree like a ripe plum. I didn't care if Roger Mifflin and I were as odd a couple as old Dr. Johnson and his wife, I only knew one thing: that when I saw that little red devil again I was going to be all his--if he'd have me. That's why the old Moose Hotel in Bath is always sacred to me. That's where I learned that life still held something fresh for me--something better than baking champlain biscuits for Andrew. * * * * * * * * * That Sunday was one of those mellow, golden days that we New Englanders get in October. The year really begins in March, as every farmer knows, and by the end of September or the beginning of October the season has come to its perfect, ripened climax. There are a few days when the world seems to hang still in a dreaming, sweet hush, at the very fulness of the fruit before the decline sets in. I have no words (like Andrew) to describe it, but every autumn for years I have noticed it. I remember that sometimes at the farm I used to lean over the wood pile for a moment just before supper to watch those purple October sunsets. I would hear the sharp ting of Andrew's little typewriter bell as he was working in his study. And then I would try to swallow down within me the beauty and wistfulness of it all, and run back to mash the potatoes. Peg drew Parnassus along the backward road with a merry little rumble. I think she knew we were going back to the Professor. Bock careered mightily along the wayside. And I had much time for thinking. On the whole, I was glad; for I had much to ponder. An adventure that had started as a mere lark or whim had now become for me the very gist of life itself. I was fanciful, I guess, and as romantic as a young hen, but by the bones of George Eliot, I'm sorry for the woman that never has a chance to be fanciful. Mifflin was in jail; aye, but he might have been dead and--unrecognizable! My heart refused to be altogether sad. I was on my way to deliver him from durance vile. There seemed a kinship between the season and myself, I mused, seeing the goldenrod turning bronze and droopy along the way. Here was I, in the full fruition of womanhood, on the verge of my decline into autumn, and lo! by the grace of God, I had found my man, my master. He had touched me with his own fire and courage. I didn't care what happened to Andrew, or to Sabine Farm, or to anything else in the world. Here were my hearth and my home--Parnassus, or wherever Roger should pitch his tent. I dreamed of crossing the Brooklyn Bridge with him at dusk, watching the skyscrapers etched against a burning sky. I believed in calling things by their true names. Ink is ink, even if the bottle is marked "commercial fluid." I didn't try to blink the fact that I was in love. In fact, I gloried in it. As Parnassus rolled along the road, and the scarlet maple leaves eddied gently down in the blue October air, I made up a kind of chant which I called Hymn for a Middle-Aged Woman (Fat) Who Has Fallen into Love O God, I thank Thee who sent this great adventure my way! I am grateful to have come out of the barren land of spinsterhood, seeing the glory of a love greater than myself. I thank Thee for teaching me that mixing, and kneading, and baking are not all that life holds for me. Even if he doesn't love me, God, I shall always be his. I was crooning some such babble as this to myself when, near Woodbridge, I came upon a big, shiny motor car stranded by the roadside. Several people, evidently intelligent and well-to-do, sat under a tree while their chauffeur fussed with a tire. I was so absorbed in my own thoughts that I think I should have gone by without paying them much heed, but suddenly I remembered the Professor's creed--to preach the gospel of books in and out of season. Sunday or no Sunday, I thought I could best honour Mifflin by acting on his own principle. I pulled up by the side of the road. I noticed the people turn to one another in a kind of surprise, and whisper something. There was an elderly man with a lean, hard-worked face; a stout woman, evidently his wife; and two young girls and a man in golfing clothes. Somehow the face of the older man seemed familiar. I wondered whether he were some literary friend of Andrew's whose photo I had seen. Bock stood by the wheel with his long, curly tongue running in and out over his teeth. I hesitated a moment, thinking just how to phrase my attack, when the elderly gentleman called out: "Where's the Professor?" I was beginning to realize that Mifflin was indeed a public character. "Heavens!" I said. "Do you know him, too?" "Well, I should think so," he said. "Didn't he come to see me last spring about an appropriation for school libraries, and wouldn't leave till I'd promised to do what he wanted! He stayed the night with us and we talked literature till four o'clock in the morning. Where is he now? Have you taken over Parnassus?" "Just at present," I said, "Mr. Mifflin is in the jail at Port Vigor." The ladies gave little cries of astonishment, and the gentleman himself (I had sized him up as a school commissioner or something of that sort) seemed not less surprised. "In jail!" he said. "What on earth for? Has he sandbagged somebody for reading Nick Carter and Bertha M. Clay? That's about the only crime he'd be likely to commit." "He's supposed to have cozened me out of four hundred dollars," I said, "and my brother has had him locked up. But as a matter of fact he wouldn't swindle a hen out of a new-laid egg. I bought Parnassus of my own free will. I'm on my way to Port Vigor now to get him out. Then I'm going to ask him to marry me--if he will. It's not leap year, either." He looked at me, his thin, lined face working with friendliness. He was a fine-looking man--short, gray hair brushed away from a broad, brown forehead. I noticed his rich, dark suit and the spotless collar. This was a man of breeding, evidently. "Well, Madam," he said, "any friend of the Professor is a friend of ours." (His wife and the girls chimed in with assent.) "If you would like a lift in our car to speed you on your errand, I'm sure Bob here would be glad to drive Parnassus into Port Vigor. Our tire will soon be mended." The young man assented heartily, but as I said before, I was bent on taking Parnassus back myself. I thought the sight of his own tabernacle would be the best balm for Mifflin's annoying experience. So I refused the offer, and explained the situation a little more fully. "Well," he said, "then let me help in any way I can." He took a card from his pocket-book and scribbled something on it. "When you get to Port Vigor," he said, "show this at the jail and I don't think you'll have any trouble. I happen to know the people there." So after a hand-shake all round I went on again, much cheered by this friendly little incident. It wasn't till I was some way along the road that I thought of looking at the card he had given me. Then I realized why the man's face had been familiar. The card read quite simply: RALEIGH STONE STAFFORD The Executive Mansion, Darlington. It was the Governor of the State! CHAPTER FOURTEEN I couldn't help chuckling, as Parnassus came over the brow of the hill, and I saw the river in the distance once more. How different all this was from my girlhood visions of romance. That has been characteristic of my life all along--it has been full of homely, workaday happenings, and often rather comic in spite of my best resolves to be highbrow and serious. All the same I was something near to tears as I thought of the tragic wreck at Willdon and the grief-laden hearts that must be mourning. I wondered whether the Governor was now returning from Willdon after ordering an inquiry. On his card he had written: "Please release R. Mifflin at once and show this lady all courtesies." So I didn't anticipate any particular trouble. This made me all the more anxious to push on, and after crossing the ferry we halted in Woodbridge only long enough for supper. I drove past the bank where I had waited in the anteroom, and would have been glad of a chance to horsewhip that sneaking little cashier. I wondered how they had transported the Professor to Port Vigor, and thought ironically that it was only that Saturday morning when he had suggested taking the hoboes to the same jail. Still I do not doubt that his philosophic spirit had made the best of it all. Woodbridge was as dead as any country town is on Sunday night. At the little hotel where I had supper there was no topic of conversation except the wreck. But the proprietor, when I paid my bill, happened to notice Parnassus in the yard. "That's the bus that pedlar sold you, ain't it?" he asked with a leer. "Yes," I said, shortly. "Goin' back to prosecute him, I guess?" he suggested. "Say, that feller's a devil, believe _me_. When the sheriff tried to put the cuffs on him he gave him a black eye and pretty near broke his jaw. Some scrapper fer a midget!" My own brave little fighter, I thought, and flushed with pride. The road back to Port Vigor seemed endless. I was a little nervous, remembering the tramps in Pratt's quarry, but with Bock sitting beside me on the seat I thought it craven to be alarmed. We rumbled gently through the darkness, between aisles of inky pines where the strip of starlight ran like a ribbon overhead, then on the rolling dunes that overlook the water. There was a moon, too, but I was mortally tired and lonely and longed only to see my little Redbeard. Peg was weary, too, and plodded slowly. It must have been midnight before we saw the red and green lights of the railway signals and I knew that Port Vigor was at hand. I decided to camp where I was. I guided Peg into a field beside the road, hitched her to a fence, and took the dog into the van with me. I was too tired to undress. I fell into the bunk and drew the blankets over me. As I did so, something dropped down behind the bunk with a sharp rap. It was a forgotten corncob pipe of the Professor's, blackened and sooty. I put it under my pillow, and fell asleep. Monday, October seventh. If this were a novel about some charming, slender, pansy-eyed girl, how differently I would have to describe the feelings with which I woke the next morning. But these being only a few pages from the life of a fat, New England housewife, I must be candid. I woke feeling dull and sour. The day was gray and cool: faint shreds of mist sifting up from the Sound and a desolate mewing of seagulls in the air. I was unhappy, upset, and--yes--shy. Passionately I yearned to run to the Professor, to gather him into my arms, to be alone with him in Parnassus, creaking up some sunny by-road. But his words came back to me: I was nothing to him. What if he didn't love me after all? I walked across two fields, down to the beach where little waves were slapping against the shingle. I washed my face and hands in salt water. Then I went back to Parnassus and brewed some coffee with condensed milk. I gave Peg and Bock their breakfasts. Then I hitched Peg to the van again, and felt better. As I drove into the town I had to wait at the grade crossing while a wrecking train rumbled past, on its way back from Willdon. That meant that the line was clear again. I watched the grimy men on the cars, and shuddered to think what they had been doing. The Vigor county jail lies about a mile out of the town, an ugly, gray stone barracks with a high, spiked wall about it. I was thankful that it was still fairly early in the morning, and I drove through the streets without seeing any one I knew. Finally I reached the gate in the prison wall. Here some kind of a keeper barred my way. "Can't get in, lady," he said. "Yesterday was visitors' day. No more visitors till next month." "I _must_ get in," I said. "You've got a man in there on a false charge." "So they all say," he retorted, calmly, and spat halfway across the road. "You wouldn't believe any of our boarders had a right to be here if you could hear their friends talk." I showed him Governor Stafford's card. He was rather impressed by this, and retired into a sentry-box in the wall--to telephone, I suppose. Presently he came back. "The sheriff says he'll see you, ma'am. But you'll have to leave this here dynamite caboose behind." He unlocked a little door in the immense iron gate, and turned me over to another man inside. "Take this here lady to the sheriff," he said. Some of Vigor county's prisoners must have learned to be pretty good gardeners, for certainly the grounds were in good condition. The grass was green and trimly mowed; there were conventional beds of flowers in very ugly shapes; in the distance I saw a gang of men in striped overalls mending a roadway. The guide led me to an attractive cottage to one side of the main building. There were two children playing outside, and I remember thinking that within the walls of a jail was surely a queer place to bring up youngsters. But I had other things to think about. I looked up at that grim, gray building. Behind one of those little barred windows was the Professor. I should have been angry at Andrew, but somehow it all seemed a kind of dream. Then I was taken into the hallway of the sheriff's cottage and in a minute I was talking to a big, bull-necked man with a political moustache. "You have a prisoner here called Roger Mifflin?" I said. "My dear Madam, I don't keep a list of all our inmates in my head. If you will come to the office we will look up the records." I showed him the Governor's card. He took it and kept looking at it as though he expected to see the message written there change or fade away. We walked across a strip of lawn to the prison building. There, in a big bare office, he ran over a card index. "Here we are," he said. "Roger Mifflin; age, 41; face, oval; complexion, florid; hair, red but not much of it; height, 64 inches; weight, stripped, 120; birthmark...." "Never mind," I said. "That's the man. What's he here for?" "He's held in default of bail, pending trial. The charge is attempt to defraud one Helen McGill, spinster, age..." "Rubbish!" I said. "I'm Helen McGill, and the man made no attempt to defraud me." "The charge was entered and warrant applied for by your brother, Andrew McGill, acting on your behalf." "I never authorized Andrew to act on my behalf." "Then do you withdraw the charge?" "By all means," I said. "I've a great mind to enter a counter-charge against Andrew and have _him_ arrested." "This is all very irregular," said the sheriff, "but if the prisoner is known to the Governor, I suppose there is no alternative. I cannot annul the warrant without some recognizance. According to the laws of this State the next of kin must stand surety for the prisoner's good behaviour after release. There is no next of kin...." "Surely there is!" I said. "I am the prisoner's next of kin." "What do you mean?" he said. "In what relationship do you stand to this Roger Mifflin?" "I intend to marry him just as soon as I can get him away from here." He burst into a roar of laughter. "I guess there's no stopping you," he said. He pinned the Governor's card to a blue paper on the desk, and began filling in some blanks. "Well, Miss McGill," he went on, "don't take away more than one of my prisoners or I'll lose my job. The turnkey will take you up to the cell. I'm exceedingly sorry: you can see that the mistake was none of our fault. Tell the Governor that, will you, when you see him?" I followed the attendant up two flights of bare, stone stairs, and down a long, whitewashed corridor. It was a gruesome place; rows and rows of heavy doors with little, barred windows. I noticed that each door had a combination knob, like a safe. My knees felt awfully shaky. But it wasn't really so heart-throbby as I had expected. The jailer stopped at the end of a long passageway. He spun the clicking dial, while I waited in a kind of horror. I think I expected to see the Professor with shaved head (they couldn't shave much off his head, poor lamb!) and striped canvas suit, and a ball and chain on his ankle. The door swung open heavily. There was a narrow, clean little room with a low camp bed, and under the barred window a table strewn with sheets of paper. It was the Professor in his own clothes, writing busily, with his back toward me. Perhaps he thought it was only an attendant with food, or perhaps he didn't even hear the interruption. I could hear his pen running busily. I might have known you never would get any heroics out of that man! Trust him to make the best of it! "Lemon sole and a glass of sherry, please, James," said the Professor over his shoulder, and the warder, who evidently had joked with him before, broke into a cackle of laughter. "A lady to see yer Lordship," he said. The Professor turned round. His face went quite white. For the first time in my experience of him he seemed to be at a loss for speech. "Miss--Miss McGill," he stammered. "You _are_ the good Samaritan. I'm doing the John Bunyan act, see? Writing in prison. I've really started my book at last. And I find the fellows here know nothing whatever about literature. There isn't even a library in the place." For the life of me, I couldn't utter the tenderness in my heart with that gorilla of a jailer standing behind us. Somehow we made our way downstairs, after the Professor had gathered together the sheets of his manuscript. It had already reached formidable proportions, as he had written fifty pages in the thirty-six hours he had been in prison. In the office we had to sign some papers. The sheriff was very apologetic to Mifflin, and offered to take him back to town in his car, but I explained that Parnassus was waiting at the gate. The Professor's eyes brightened when he heard that, but I had to hurry him away from an argument about putting good books in prisons. The sheriff walked with us to the gate and there shook hands again. Peg whickered as we came up to her, and the Professor patted her soft nose. Bock tugged at his chain in a frenzy of joy. At last we were alone. CHAPTER FIFTEEN I never knew just how it happened. Instead of driving back through Port Vigor, we turned into a side road leading up over the hill and across the heath where the air came fresh and sweet from the sea. The Professor sat very silent, looking about him. There was a grove of birches on the hill, and the sunlight played upon their satin boles. "It feels good to be out again," he said calmly. "The Sage cannot be so keen a lover of open air as his books would indicate, or he wouldn't be so ready to clap a man into quod. Perhaps I owe him another punch on the nose for that." "Oh, Roger," I said--and I'm afraid my voice was trembly--"I'm _sorry_. I'm _sorry_." Not very eloquent, was it? And then, somehow or other, his arm was around me. "Helen," he said. "Will you marry me? I'm not rich, but I've saved up enough to live on. We'll always have Parnassus, and this winter we'll go and live in Brooklyn and write the book. And we'll travel around with Peg, and preach the love of books and the love of human beings. Helen--you're just what I need, God bless you. Will you come with me and make me the happiest bookseller in the world?" Peg must have been astonished at the length of time she had for cropping the grass, undisturbed. I know that Roger and I sat careless of time. And when he told me that ever since our first afternoon together he had determined to have me, sooner or later, I was the proudest woman in New England. I told Roger about the ghastly wreck, and my agony of apprehension. I think it was the wreck that made us both feel inclined to forgive Andrew. We had a light luncheon together there on the dunes above the Sound. By taking a short cut over the ridge we struck into the Shelby road without going down into Port Vigor again. Peg pulled us along toward Greenbriar, and we talked as we went. Perhaps the best of it was that a cold drizzle of rain began to fall as we moved along the hill road. The Professor--as I still call him, by force of habit--curtained in the front of the van with a rubber sheet. Bock hopped up and curled himself aginst his master's leg. Roger got out his corncob pipe, and I sat close to him. In the gathering gloom we plodded along, as happy a trio--or quartet, if you include fat, cheery old Peg--as any on this planet. Summer was over, and we were no longer young, but there were great things before us. I listened to the drip of the rain, and the steady creak of Parnassus on her axles. I thought of my "anthology" of loaves of bread and vowed to bake a million more if Roger wanted me to. It was after supper time when we got to Greenbriar. Roger had suggested that we take a shorter road that would have brought us through to Redfield sooner, but I begged him to go by way of Shelby and Greenbriar, just as we had come before. I did not tell him why I wanted this. And when finally we came to a halt in front of Kirby's store at the crossroads it was raining heavily and we were ready for a rest. "Well, sweetheart," said Roger, "shall we go and see what sort of rooms the hotel has?" "I can think of something better than that," said I. "Let's go up to Mr. Kane and have him marry us. Then we can get back to Sabine Farm afterward, and give Andrew a surprise." "By the bones of Hymen!" said Roger. "You're right!" It must have been ten o'clock when we turned in at the red gate of Sabine Farm. The rain had stopped, but the wheels sloshed through mud and water at every turn. The light was burning in the sitting-room, and through the window I could see Andrew bent over his work table. We climbed out, stiff and sore from the long ride. I saw Roger's face set in a comical blend of sternness and humour. "Well, here goes to surprise the Sage!" he whispered. We picked our way between puddles and rapped on the door. Andrew appeared, carrying the lamp in one hand. When he saw us he grunted. "Let me introduce my wife," said Roger. "Well, I'll be damned," said Andrew. But Andrew isn't quite so black as I've painted him. When he's once convinced of the error of his ways, he is almost pathetically eager to make up. I remember only one remark in the subsequent conversation, because I was so appalled by the state of everything at Sabine Farm that I immediately set about putting the house to rights. The two men, however, as soon as Parnassus was housed in the barn and the animals under cover, sat down by the stove to talk things over. "I tell you what," said Andrew--"do whatever you like with your wife; she's too much for me. But I'd like to buy that Parnassus." "Not on your life!" said the Professor. 
16129	----	IN LUCK AT LAST. BY WALTER BESANT. NEW YORK: GEORGE MUNRO'S SONS, PUBLISHERS, 17 TO 27 VANDEWATER STREET. CHAPTER I. WITHIN THREE WEEKS If everyone were allowed beforehand to choose and select for himself the most pleasant method of performing this earthly pilgrimage, there would be, I have always thought, an immediate run upon that way of getting to the Delectable Mountains which is known as the Craft and Mystery of Second-hand Bookselling. If, further, one were allowed to select and arrange the minor details--such, for instance, as the "pitch" and the character of the shop, it would seem desirable that, as regards the latter, the kind of bookselling should be neither too lofty nor too mean--that is to say, that one's ambition would not aspire to a great collector's establishment, such as one or two we might name in Piccadilly, the Haymarket, or New Bond Street; these should be left to those who greatly dare and are prepared to play the games of Speculation and of Patience; nor, on the other hand, would one choose an open cart at the beginning of the Whitechapel Road, or one of the shops in Seven Dials, whose stock-in-trade consists wholly of three or four boxes outside the door filled with odd volumes at twopence apiece. As for "pitch" or situation, one would wish it to be somewhat retired, but not too much; one would not, for instance, willingly be thrown away in Hoxton, nor would one languish in the obscurity of Kentish Town; a second-hand bookseller must not be so far removed from the haunts of men as to place him practically beyond the reach of the collector; nor, on the other hand, should he be planted in a busy thoroughfare--the noise of many vehicles, the hurry of quick footsteps, the swift current of anxious humanity are out of harmony with the atmosphere of a second-hand bookshop. Some suggestion of external repose is absolutely necessary; there must be some stillness in the air; yet the thing itself belongs essentially to the city--no one can imagine a second-hand bookshop beside green fields--so that there should be some murmur and perceptible hum of mankind always present in the ear. Thus there are half-a-dozen bookshops in King William Street, Strand, which seem to enjoy every possible advantage of position, for they are in the very heart of London, but yet are not exposed to the full noise and tumult of that overflowing tide which surges round Charing Cross. Again, there are streets north of Holborn and Oxford Street most pleasantly situated for the second-hand bookseller, and there are streets where he ought not to be, where he has no business, and where his presence jars. Could we, for instance, endure to see the shop of a second-hand bookseller established in Cheapside? Perhaps, however, the most delightful spot in all London for a second-hand bookshop is that occupied by Emblem's in the King's Road, Chelsea. It stands at the lower end of the road, where one begins to realize and thoroughly feel the influences of that ancient and lordly suburb. At this end of the road there are rows of houses with old-fashioned balconies; right and left of it there are streets which in the summer and early autumn are green, yellow, red, and golden with their masses of creepers; squares which look as if, with the people living in them, they must belong to the year eighteen hundred; neither a day before nor a day after; they lie open to the road, with their gardens full of trees. Cheyne Walk and the old church, with its red-brick tower, and the new Embankment, are all so close that they seem part and parcel of the King's Road. The great Hospital is within five minutes' walk, and sometimes the honest veterans themselves may be seen wandering in the road. The air is heavy with associations and memories. You can actually smell the fragrance of the new-made Chelsea buns, fresh from the oven, just as you would a hundred years ago. You may sit with dainty damsels, all hoops and furbelows, eating custards at the Bun-house; you may wander among the rare plants of the Botanic Gardens. The old great houses rise, shadowy and magnificent, above the modern terraces; Don Saltero's Coffee-House yet opens its hospitable doors; Sir Thomas More meditates again on Cheyne Walk; at dead of night the ghosts of ancient minuet tunes may be heard from the Rotunda of Ranelagh Gardens, though the new barracks stand upon its site; and along the modern streets you may fancy that if you saw the ladies with their hoop petticoats, and the gentlemen with their wigs and their three-cornered hats and swords, you would not be in the least astonished. Emblem's is one of two or three shops which stand together, but it differs from its neighbors in many important particulars. For it has no plate-glass, as the others have; nor does it stand like them with open doors; nor does it flare away gas at night; nor is it bright with gilding and fresh paint; nor does it seek to attract notice by posters and bills. On the contrary, it retains the old, small, and unpretending panes of glass which it has always had; in the evening it is dimly lighted, and it closes early; its door is always shut, and although the name over the shop is dingy, one feels that a coat of paint, while it would certainly freshen up the place, would take something from its character. For a second-hand bookseller who respects himself must present an exterior which has something of faded splendor, of worn paint and shabbiness. Within the shop, books line the walls and cumber the floor. There are an outer and an inner shop; in the former a small table stands among the books, at which Mr. James, the assistant, is always at work cataloguing, when he is not tying up parcels; sometimes even with gum and paste repairing the slighter ravages of time--foxed bindings and close-cut margins no man can repair. In the latter, which is Mr. Emblem's sanctum, there are chairs and a table, also covered with books, a writing-desk, a small safe, and a glass case, wherein are secured the more costly books in stock. Emblem's, as must be confessed, is no longer quite what it was in former days; twenty, thirty, or forty years ago that glass case was filled with precious treasures. In those days, if a man wanted a book of county history, or of genealogy, or of heraldry, he knew where was his best chance of finding it, for Emblem's, in its prime and heyday, had its specialty. Other books treating on more frivolous subjects, such as science, belles lettres, art, or politics, he would consider, buy, and sell again; but he took little pride in them. Collectors of county histories, however, and genealogy-hunters and their kind, knew that at Emblem's, where they would be most likely to get what they wanted, they would have to pay the market price for it. There is no patience like the patience of a book-collector; there is no such industry given to any work comparable with the thoughtful and anxious industry with which he peruses the latest catalogues; there is no care like unto that which rends his mind before the day of auction or while he is still trying to pick up a bargain; there are no eyes so sharp as those which pry into the contents of a box full of old books, tumbled together, at sixpence apiece. The bookseller himself partakes of the noble enthusiasm of the collector, though he sells his collection; like the amateur, the professional moves heaven and earth to get a bargain: like him, he rejoices as much over a book which has been picked up below its price, as over a lost sheep which has returned into the fold. But Emblem is now old, and Emblem's shop is no longer what it was to the collector of the last generation. It was an afternoon in late September, and in this very year of grace, eighteen hundred and eighty-four. The day was as sunny and warm as any of the days of its predecessor Augustus the Gorgeous, but yet there was an autumnal feeling in the air which made itself felt even in streets where there were no red and yellow Virginia creepers, no square gardens with long trails of mignonette and banks of flowering nasturtiums. In fact, you cannot anywhere escape the autumnal feeling, which begins about the middle of September. It makes old people think with sadness that the grasshopper is a burden in the land, and that the almond-tree is about to flourish; but the young it fills with a vinous and intoxicated rejoicing, as if the time of feasting, fruits, harvests, and young wine, strong and fruity, was upon the world. It made Mr. James--his surname has never been ascertained, but man and boy, Mr. James has been at Emblem's for twenty-five years and more--leave his table where he was preparing the forthcoming catalogue, and go to the open door, where he wasted a good minute and a half in gazing up at the clear sky and down the sunny street. Then he stretched his arms and returned to his work, impelled by the sense of duty rather than by the scourge of necessity, because there was no hurry about the catalogue and most of the books in it were rubbish, and at that season of the year few customers could be expected, and there were no parcels to tie up and send out. He went back to his work, therefore, but he left the door partly open in order to enjoy the sight of the warm sunshine. Now for Emblem's to have its door open, was much as if Mr. Emblem himself should so far forget his self-respect as to sit in his shirt-sleeves. The shop had been rather dark, the window being full of books, but now through the open door there poured a little stream of sunshine, reflected from some far off window. It fell upon a row of old eighteenth century volumes, bound in dark and rusty leather, and did so light up and glorify the dingy bindings and faded gold, that they seemed fresh from the binder's hands, and just ready for the noble purchaser, long since dead and gone, whose book plate they bore. Some of this golden stream fell also upon the head of the assistant--it was a red head, with fiery red eyes, red eyebrows, bristly and thick, and sharp thin features to match--and it gave him the look of one who is dragged unwillingly into the sunlight. However, Mr. James took no notice of the sunshine, and went on with his cataloguing almost as if he liked that kind of work. There are many people who seem to like dull work, and they would not be a bit more unhappy if they were made to take the place of Sisyphus, or transformed into the damsels who are condemned to toil continually at the weary work of pouring water into a sieve. Perhaps Sisyphus does not so much mind the continual going up and down hill. "After all," he might say, "this is better than the lot of poor Ixion. At all events, I have got my limbs free." Ixion, on the other hand, no doubt, is full of pity for his poor friend Sisyphus. "I, at least," he says, "have no work to do. And the rapid motion of the wheel is in sultry weather sometimes pleasant." Behind the shop, where had been originally the "back parlor," in the days when every genteel house in Chelsea had both its front and back parlor--the latter for sitting and living in, the former for the reception of company--sat this afternoon the proprietor, the man whose name had stood above the shop for fifty years, the original and only Emblem. He was--nay, he is--for you may still find him in his place, and may make his acquaintance over a county history any day in the King's Road--he is an old man now, advanced in the seventies, who was born before the battle of Waterloo was fought, and can remember Chelsea when it was full of veterans wounded in battles fought long before the Corsican Attila was let loose upon the world. His face wears the peaceful and wise expression which belongs peculiarly to his profession. Other callings make a man look peaceful, but not all other callings make him look wise. Mr. Emblem was born by nature of a calm temperament,--otherwise he would not have been happy in his business; a smile lies generally upon his lips, and his eyes are soft and benign; his hair is white, and his face, once ruddy, is pale, yet not shrunk and seamed with furrows as happens to so many old men, but round and firm; like his chin and lips it is clean shaven; he wears a black coat extraordinarily shiny in the sleeve, and a black silk stock just as he used to wear in the thirties when he was young, and something of a dandy, and would show himself on a Saturday evening in the pit of Drury Lane; and the stock is fastened behind with a silver buckle. He is, in fact, a delightful old gentleman to look at and pleasant to converse with, and on his brow every one who can read may see, visibly stamped, the seal of a harmless and honest life. At the contemplation of such a man, one's opinion of humanity is sensibly raised, and even house-agents, plumbers, and suburban builders, feel that, after all, virtue may bring with, it some reward. The quiet and warmth of the afternoon, unbroken to his accustomed ear, as it would be to a stranger, by the murmurous roll of London, made him sleepy. In his hand he held a letter which he had been reading for the hundredth time, and of which he knew by heart every word; and as his eyes closed he went back in imagination to a passage in the past which it recalled. He stood, in imagination, upon the deck of a sailing-ship--an emigrant ship. The year was eighteen hundred and sixty-four, a year when very few were tempted to try their fortunes in a country torn by civil war. With him were his daughter and his son-in-law, and they were come to bid the latter farewell. "My dear--my dear," cried the wife, in her husband's arms, "come what may, I will join you in a year." Her husband shook his head sadly. "They do not want me here," he said; "the work goes into stronger and rougher hands. Perhaps over there we may get on better, and besides, it seems an opening." If the kind of work which he wanted was given to stronger and rougher hands than his in England, far more would it be the case in young and rough America. It was journalistic work--writing work--that he wanted; and he was a gentleman, a scholar, and a creature of retired and refined tastes and manners. There are, perhaps, some still living who have survived the tempestuous life of the ordinary Fleet Street "newspaper man" of twenty or thirty years ago; perhaps one or two among these remember Claude Aglen--but he was so short a time with them that it is not likely; those who do remember him will understand that the way to success, rough and thorny for all, for such as Aglen was impossible. "But you will think every day of little Iris?" said his wife. "Oh, my dear, if I were only going with you! And but for me you would be at home with your father, well and happy." Then in his dream, which was also a memory, the old man saw how the young husband kissed and comforted his wife. "My dear," said Claude, "if it were not for you, what happiness could I have in the world? Courage, my wife, courage and hope. I shall think of you and Iris all day and all night until we meet again." And so they parted and the ship sailed away. The old man opened his eyes and looked about him. It was a dream. "It was twenty years ago," he said, "and Iris was a baby in arms. Twenty years ago, and he never saw his wife again. Never again! Because she died," he added after a pause; "my Alice died." He shed no tears, being so old that the time of tears was well-nigh past--at seventy-five the eyes are drier than at forty, and one is no longer surprised or disappointed, and seldom even angry, whatever happens. But he opened the letter in his hand and read it again mechanically. It was written on thin foreign paper, and the creases of the folds had become gaping rents. It was dated September, 1866, just eighteen years back. "When you read these lines," the letter said, "I shall be in the silent land, whither Alice, my wife, has gone before me. It would be a strange thing only to think upon this journey which lies before me, and which I must take alone, had I time left for thinking. But I have not. I may last a week, or I may die in a few hours. Therefore, to the point. "In one small thing we deceived you, Alice and I--my name is not Aglen at all; we took that name for certain reasons. Perhaps we were wrong, but we thought that as we were quite poor, and likely to remain poor, it would be well to keep our secret to ourselves. Forgive us both this suppression of the truth. We were made poor by our own voluntary act and deed, and because I married the only woman I loved. "I was engaged to a girl whom I did not love. We had been brought up like brother and sister together, but I did not love her, though I was engaged to her. In breaking this engagement I angered my father. In marrying Alice I angered him still more. "I now know that he has forgiven me; he forgave me on his death-bed; he revoked his former will and made me his sole heir--just as if nothing had happened to destroy his old affection--subject to one condition--viz., that the girl to whom I was first engaged should receive the whole income until I, or my heirs, should return to England in order to claim the inheritance. "It is strange. I die in a wooden shanty, in a little Western town, the editor of a miserable little country paper. I have not money enough even to bury me, and yet, if I were at home, I might be called a rich man, as men go. My little Iris will be an heiress. At the very moment when I learn that I am my father's heir, I am struck down by fever; and now I know that I shall never get up again. "It is strange. Yet my father sent me his forgiveness, and my wife is dead, and the wealth that has come is useless to me. Wherefore, nothing now matters much to me, and I know that you will hold my last wishes sacred. "I desire that Iris shall be educated as well and thoroughly as you can afford; keep her free from rough and rude companions; make her understand that her father was a gentleman of ancient family; this knowledge will, perhaps, help to give her self-respect. If any misfortune should fall upon you, such as the loss of health or wealth, give the papers inclosed to a trustworthy solicitor, and bid him act as is best in the interests of Iris. If, as I hope, all will go well with you, do not open the papers until my child's twenty-first birthday; do not let her know until then that she is going to be rich; on her twenty-first birthday, open the papers and bid her claim her own. "To the woman I wronged--I know not whether she has married or not--bid Iris carry my last message of sorrow at what has happened. I do not regret, and I have never regretted, that I married Alice. But, I gave her pain, for which I have never ceased to grieve. I have been punished for this breach of faith. You will find among the papers an account of all the circumstances connected with this engagement. There is also in the packet my portrait, taken when I was a lad of sixteen; give her that as well; there is the certificate of my marriage, my register of baptism, that of Iris's baptism, my signet ring--" "His arms"--the old man interrupted his reading--"his arms were: quarterly: first and fourth, two roses and a boar's head, erect; second and third, gules and fesse between--between--but I cannot remember what it was between--" He went on reading: "My father's last letter to me; Alice's letters, and one or two from yourself. If Iris should unhappily die before her twenty-first birthday, open these papers, find out from them the owner's name and address, seek her out, and tell her that she will never now be disturbed by any claimants to the estate." The letter ended here abruptly, as if the writer had designed to add more, but was prevented by death. For there was a postscript, in another hand, which stated: "Mr. Aglen died November 25th, 1866, and is buried in the cemetery of Johnson City, Ill." The old man folded the letter carefully, and laid it on the table. Then he rose and walked across the room to the safe, which stood with open door in the corner furthest from the fireplace. Among its contents was a packet sealed and tied up in red tape, endorsed: "For Iris. To be given to her on her twenty-first birthday. From her father." "It will be her twenty-first birthday," he said, "in three weeks. Then I must give her the packet. So--so--with the portrait of her father, and his marriage-certificate." He fell into a fit of musing, with the papers in his hand. "She will be safe, whatever happens to me; and as for me, if I lose her--of course I shall lose her. Why, what will it matter? Have I not lost all, except Iris? One must not be selfish. Oh, Iris, what a surprise--what a surprise I have in store for you!" He placed the letter he had been reading within the tape which fastened the bundle, so that it should form a part of the communication to be made on Iris's birthday. "There," he said, "now I shall read this letter no more. I wonder how many times I have read it in the last eighteen years, and how often I have wondered what the child's fortune would be? In three weeks--in three short weeks. Oh, Iris, if you only knew!" He put back the letters and the packet, locked the safe, and resumed his seat. The red-eyed assistant, still gumming and pasting his slips with punctilious regard to duty, had been following his master's movements with curiosity. "Counting his investments again as usual," Mr. James murmured. "Ah! and adding 'em up! Always at it. Oh, what a trade it must have been once!" Just then there appeared in the door a gentleman. He was quite shabby, and even ragged in his dress, but he was clearly a gentleman. He was no longer young; his shoulders were bent, and he had the unmistakable stamp and carriage of a student. "Guv'nor's at home," said the assistant briefly. The visitor walked into the sanctum. He had under his arm half-a-dozen volumes, which, without a word, he laid before Mr. Emblem, and untied the string. "You ought to know this book," he said without further introduction. Mr. Emblem looked doubtfully at the visitor. "You sold it to me twenty-five years ago," he went on, "for five pounds." "I did. And I remember now. You are Mr. Frank Farrar. Why, it is twenty-five years ago!" "I have bought no more books for twenty years and more," he replied. "Sad--sad! Dear me--tut, tut!--bought no books? And you, Mr. Farrar, once my best customer. And now--you do not mean to say that you are going to sell--that you actually want to sell--this precious book?" "I am selling, one by one, all my books," replied the other with a sigh. "I am going down hill, Emblem, fast." "Oh, dear, dear!" replied the bookseller. "This is very sad. One cannot bear to think of the libraries being dispersed and sold off. And now yours, Mr. Farrar? Really, yours? Must it be?" "'Needs must,'" Mr. Farrar said with a sickly smile, "needs must when the devil drives. I have parted with half my books already. But I thought you might like to have this set, because they were once your own." "So I should"--Mr. Emblem laid a loving hand upon the volumes--"so I should, Mr. Farrar, but not from you; not from you, sir. Why, you were almost my best customer--I think almost my very best--thirty years ago, when my trade was better than it is now. Yes, you gave me five pounds--or was it five pounds ten?--for this very work. And it is worth twelve pounds now--I assure you it is worth twelve pounds, if it is worth a penny." "Will you give me ten pounds for it, then?" cried the other eagerly; "I want the money badly." "No, I can't; but I will send you to a man who can and will. I do not speculate now; I never go to auctions. I am old, you see. Besides, I am poor. I will not buy your book, but I will send you to a man who will give you ten pounds for it, I am sure, and then he will sell it for fifteen." He wrote the address on a slip of paper. "Why, Mr. Farrar, if an old friend, so to speak, can put the question, why in the world--" "The most natural thing," replied Mr. Farrar with a cold laugh; "I am old, as I told you, and the younger men get all the work. That is all. Nobody wants a genealogist and antiquary." "Dear me, dear me! Why, Mr. Farrar, I remember now; you used to know my poor son-in-law, who is dead eighteen years since. I was just reading the last letter he ever wrote to me, just before he died. You used to come here and sit with him in the evening. I remember now. So you did." "Thank you for your good will," said Mr. Farrar. "Yes, I remember your son-in-law. I knew him before his marriage." "Did you? Before his marriage? Then--" He was going to add, "Then you can tell me his real name," but he paused, because it is a pity ever to acknowledge ignorance, and especially ignorance in such elementary matters as your son-in-law's name. So Mr. Emblem checked himself. "He ought to have been a rich man," Mr. Farrar continued; "but he quarreled with his father, who cut him off with a shilling, I suppose." Then the poor scholar, who could find no market for his learned papers, tied up his books again and went away with hanging head. "Ugh!" Mr. James, who had been listening, groaned as Mr. Farrar passed through the door. "Ugh! Call that a way of doing business? Why, if it had been me, I'd have bought the book off of that old chap for a couple o' pounds, I would. Ay, or a sov, so seedy he is, and wants money so bad. And I know who'd have given twelve pound for it, in the trade too. Call that carrying on business? He may well add up his investments every day, it he can afford to chuck such chances. Ah, but he'll retire soon." His fiery eyes brightened, and his face glowed with the joy of anticipation. "He must retire before long." There came another visitor. This time it was a lanky boy, with, a blue bag over his shoulder and a notebook and pencil-stump in his hand. He nodded to the assistant as to an old friend with whom one may be at ease, set down his bag, opened his notebook, and nibbled his stump. Then he read aloud, with a comma or semicolon between each, a dozen or twenty titles. They were the names of the books which his employer wished to pick up. The red-eyed assistant listened, and shook his head. Then the boy, without another word, shouldered his bag and departed, on his way to the next second-hand book-shop. He was followed, at a decent interval, by another caller. This time it was an old gentleman who opened the door, put in his head, and looked about him with a quick and suspicious glance. At sight of the assistant he nodded and smiled in the most friendly way possible, and came in. "Good-morning, Mr. James; good-morning, my friend. Splendid weather. Pray don't disturb yourself. I am just having a look round--only a look round, you know. Don't move, Mr. James." He addressed Mr. James, but he was looking at the shelves as he spoke, and, with the habit of a book-hunter, taking down the volumes, looking at the title-pages and replacing them; under his arm he carried a single volume in old leather binding. Mr. James nodded his head, but did disturb himself; in fact, he rose with a scowl upon his face, and followed this polite old gentlemen all round the shop, placing himself close to his elbow. One might almost suppose that he suspected him, so close and assiduous was his assistance. But the visitor, accepting these attentions as if they were customary, and the result of high breeding, went slowly round the shelves, taking down book after book, but buying none. Presently he smiled again, and said that he must be moving on, and very politely thanked Mr. James for his kindness. "Nowhere," he was so good as to say, "does one get so much personal kindness and attention as at Emblem's. Good-morning, Mr. James; good-morning, my friend." Mr. James grunted; and closed the door after him. "Ugh!" he said with disgust, "I know you; I know your likes. Want to make your set complete--eh? Want to sneak one of our books to do it with, don't you? Ah!" He looked into the back shop before he returned to his paste and his slips. "That was Mr. Potts, the great Queen Anne collector, sir. Most notorious book-snatcher in all London, and the most barefaced. Wanted our fourth volume of the 'Athenian Oracle.' I saw his eyes reached out this way, and that way, and always resting on that volume. I saw him edging along to the shelf. Got another odd volume just like it in his wicked old hand, ready to change it when I wasn't looking." "Ah," said Mr. Emblem, waking up from his dream of Iris and her father's letter; "ah, they will try it on. Keep your eyes open, James." "No thanks, as usual," grumbled Mr. James as he returned to his gum and his scissors. "Might as well have left him to snatch the book." Here, however, James was wrong, because it is the first duty of an assistant to hinder and obstruct the book-snatcher, who carries on his work by methods of crafty and fraudulent exchange rather than by plain theft, which is a mere brutal way. For, first, the book-snatcher marks his prey; he finds the shop which has a set containing the volume which is missing in his own set; next, he arms himself with a volume which closely resembles the one he covets, and then, on pretense of turning over the leaves, he watches his opportunity to effect an exchange, and goes away rejoicing, his set complete. No collector, as is very well known, whether of books, coins, pictures, medals, fans, scarabs, book-plates, autographs, stamps, or anything else, has any conscience at all. Anybody can cut out slips and make a catalogue, but it requires a sharp assistant, with eyes all over his head like a spider, to be always on guard against this felonious and unscrupulous collector. Next, there came two schoolboys together, who asked for and bought a crib to "Virgil;" and then a girl who wanted some cheap French reading-book. Just as the clock began to strike five, Mr. Emblem lifted his head and looked up. The shop-door opened, and there stepped in, rubbing his shoes on the mat as if he belonged to the house, an elderly gentleman of somewhat singular appearance. He wore a fez cap, but was otherwise dressed as an Englishman--in black frock coat, that is, buttoned up--except that his feet were incased in black cloth shoes, so that he went noiselessly. His hair was short and white, and he wore a small white beard; his skin was a rather dark brown; he was, in fact, a Hindoo, and his name was Lala Roy. He nodded gravely to Mr. James and walked into the back shop. "It goes well," he asked, "with the buying and the selling?" "Surely, Lala, surely." "A quiet way of buying and selling; a way fit for one who meditates," said the Hindoo, looking round. "Tell me, my friend, what ails the child? Is she sick?" "The child is well, Lala." "Her mind wandered this morning. She failed to perceive a simple method which I tried to teach her. I feared she might be ill." "She is not ill, my friend, but I think her mind is troubled." "She is a woman. We are men. There is nothing in the world that is able to trouble the mind of the philosopher." "Nothing," said Mr. Emblem manfully, as if he, too, was a disciple. "Nothing; is there now?" The stoutness of the assertion was sensibly impaired by the question. "Not poverty, which is a shadow; nor pain, which passes; nor the loss of woman's love, which is a gain; nor fall from greatness--nothing. Nevertheless," his eyes did look anxious in spite of his philosophy, "this trouble of the child--will it soon be over?" "I hope this evening," said Mr. Emblem. "Indeed I am sure that it will be finished this evening." "If the child had a mother, or a brother, or any protectors but ourselves, my friend, we might leave her to them. But she has nobody except you and me. I am glad that she is not ill." He left Mr. Emblem, and passing through the door of communication between house and shop, went noiselessly up the stairs. One more visitor--unusual for so many to call on a September afternoon. This time it was a youngish man of thirty or so, who stepped into the shop with an air of business, and, taking no notice at all of the assistant, walked swiftly into the back shop and shut the door behind him. "I thought so," murmured Mr. James. "After he's been counting up his investments, his lawyer calls. More investments." Mr. David Chalker was a solicitor and, according to his friends, who were proud of him, a sharp practitioner. He was, in fact, one of those members of the profession who, starting with no connection, have to make business for themselves. This, in London, they do by encouraging the county court, setting neighbors by the ears, lending money in small sums, fomenting quarrels, charging commissions, and generally making themselves a blessing and a boon to the district where they reside. But chiefly Mr. Chalker occupied himself with lending money. "Now, Mr. Emblem," he said, not in a menacing tone, but as one who warns; "now, Mr. Emblem." "Now, Mr. Chalker," the bookseller repeated mildly. "What are you going to do for me?" "I got your usual notice," the old bookseller began, hesitating, "six months ago." "Of course you did. Three fifty is the amount. Three fifty, exactly." "Just so. But I am afraid I am not prepared to pay off the bill of sale. The interest, as usual, will be ready." "Of course it will. But this time the principal must be ready too." "Can't you get another client to find the money?" "No, I can't. Money is tight, and your security, Mr. Emblem, isn't so good as it was." "The furniture is there, and so is the stock." "Furniture wears out; as for the stock--who knows what that is worth? All your books together may not be worth fifty pounds, for what I know." "Then what am I to do?" "Find the money yourself. Come, Mr. Emblem, everybody knows--your grandson himself told me--all the world knows--you've been for years saving up for your granddaughter. You told Joe only six months ago--you can't deny it--that whatever happened to you she would be well off." Mr. Emblem did not deny the charge. But he ought not to have told this to his grandson, of all people in the world. "As for Joe," Mr. Chalker went on, "you are going to do nothing for him. I know that. But is it business like, Mr. Emblem, to waste good money which you might have invested for your granddaughter?" "You do not understand. Mr. Chalker. You really do not, and I cannot explain. But about this bill of sale--never mind my granddaughter." "You the aforesaid Richard Emblem"--Mr. Chalker began to recite, without commas--"have assigned to me David Chalker aforesaid his executors administrators and assigns all and singular the several chattels and things specifically described in the schedule hereto annexed by way of security for the payment of the sum of three hundred and fifty pounds and interest thereon at the rate of eight per cent. per annum." "Thank you, Mr. Chalker. I know all that." "You can't complain, I'm sure. It is five years since you borrowed the money." "It was fifty pounds and a box of old law books out of your office, and I signed a bill for a hundred." "You forget the circumstances." "No, I do not. My grandson was a rogue. One does not readily forget that circumstance. He was also your friend, I remember." "And I held my tongue." "I have had no more money from you, and the sum has become three hundred and fifty." "Of course you don't understand law, Mr. Emblem. How should you! But we lawyers don't work for nothing. However it isn't what you got, but what I am to get. Come, my good sir, it's cutting off your nose to spite your face. Settle and have done with it, even if it does take a little slice off your granddaughter's fortune? Now look here"--his voice became persuasive--"why not take me into your confidence? Make a friend of me. You want advice; let me advise you. I can get you good investments--far better than you know anything of--good and safe investments--at six certain, and sometimes seven and even eight per cent. Make me your man of business--come now. As for this trumpery bill of sale--this trifle of three fifty, what is it to you? Nothing--nothing. And as for your intention to enrich your granddaughter, and cut off your grandson with a shilling, why I honor you for it--there, though he was my friend. For Joe deserves it thoroughly. I've told him so, mind. You ask him. I've told him so a dozen times. I've said: 'The old man's right, Joe.' Ask him if I haven't." This was very expansive, but somehow Mr. Emblem did not respond. Presently, however, he lifted his head. "I have three weeks still." "Three weeks still." "And if I do not find the money within three weeks?" "Why--but of course you will--but if you do not--I suppose there will be only one thing left to do--realize the security, sell up--sticks and books and all." "Thank you, Mr. Chalker. I will look round me, and--and--do my best. Good day, Mr. Chalker." "The best you can do, Mr. Emblem," returned the solicitor, "is to take me as your adviser. You trust David Chalker." "Thank you. Good-day, Mr. Chalker." On his way out, Mr. Chalker stopped for a moment and looked round the shop. "How's business?" he asked the assistant. "Dull, sir," replied Mr. James. "He throws it all away, and neglects his chances. Naturally, being so rich--" "So rich, indeed," the solicitor echoed. "It will be bad for his successor," Mr. James went on, thinking how much he should himself like to be that successor. "The goodwill won't be worth half what it ought to be, and the stock is just falling to pieces." Mr. Chalker looked about him again thoughtfully, and opened his mouth as if about to ask a question, but said nothing. He remembered, in time, that the shopman was not likely to know the amount of his master's capital or investments. "There isn't a book even in the glass-case that's worth a five-pound note," continued Mr. James, whispering, "and he don't look about for purchases any more. Seems to have lost his pluck." Mr. Chalker returned to the back-shop. "Within three weeks, Mr. Emblem," he repeated, and then departed. Mr. Emblem sat in his chair. He had to find three hundred and fifty pounds in three weeks. No one knew better than himself that this was impossible. Within three weeks! But, in three weeks, he would open the packet of letters, and give Iris her inheritance. At least, she would not suffer. As for himself--He looked round the little back shop, and tried to recall the fifty years he had spent there, the books he had bought and sold, the money which had slipped through his fingers, the friends who had come and gone. Why, as for the books, he seemed to remember them every one--his joy in the purchase, his pride in possession, and his grief at letting them go. All the friends gone before him, his trade sunk to nothing. "Yet," he murmured, "I thought it would last my time." But the clock struck six. It was his tea-time. He rose mechanically, and went upstairs to Iris. CHAPTER II. FOX AND WOLF. Mr. James, left to himself, attempted, in accordance with his daily custom, to commit a dishonorable action. That is to say, he first listened carefully to the retreating footsteps of his master, as he went up the stairs; then he left his table, crept stealthily into the back shop, and began to pull the drawers, turn the handle of the safe, and try the desk. Everything was carefully locked. Then he turned over all the papers on the table, but found nothing that contained the information he looked for. It was his daily practice thus to try the locks, in hope that some day the safe, or the drawers, or the desk would be left open by accident, when he might be able to solve a certain problem, the doubt and difficulty of which sore let and hindered him--namely, of what extent, and where placed, were those great treasures, savings, and investments which enabled his master to be careless over his business. It was, further, customary with him to be thus frustrated and disappointed. Having briefly, therefore, also in accordance with his usual custom, expressed his disgust at this want of confidence between master and man, Mr. James returned to his paste and scissors. About a quarter past six the shop door was cautiously opened, and a head appeared, which looked round stealthily. Seeing nobody about except Mr. James, the head nodded, and presently followed by its body, stepped into the shop. "Where's the admiral, Foxy?" asked the caller. "Guv'nor's upstairs, Mr. Joseph, taking of his tea with Miss Iris," replied Mr. James, not at all offended by the allusion to his craftiness. Who should resemble the fox if not the second-hand bookseller? In no trade, perhaps, can the truly admirable qualities of that animal--his patience, his subtlety and craft, his pertinacity, his sagacity--be illustrated more to advantage. Mr. James felt a glow of virtue--would that he could grow daily and hourly, and more and more toward the perfect fox. Then, indeed, and not till then would he be able to live truly up to his second-hand books. "Having tea with Iris; well--" The speaker looked as if it required some effort to receive this statement with resignation. "He always does at six o'clock. Why shouldn't he?" asked Mr. James. "Because, James, he spends the time in cockering up that gal whom he's ruined and spoiled--him and the old nigger between them--so that her mind is poisoned against her lawful relations, and nothing will content her but coming into all the old man's money, instead of going share and share alike, as a cousin should, and especially a she-cousin, while there's a biscuit left in the locker and a drop of rum in the cask." "Ah!" said Mr. James with a touch of sympathy, called forth, perhaps, by mention of the rum, which is a favorite drink with second-hand booksellers' assistants. "Nothing too good for her," the other went on; "the best of education, pianos to play upon, and nobody good enough for her to know. Not on visiting terms, if you please, with her neighbors; waiting for duchesses to call upon her. And what is she, after all? A miserable teacher!" Mr. Joseph Gallop was a young man somewhere between twenty and thirty, tall, large-limbed, well set-up, and broad-shouldered. A young man who, at first sight, would seem eminently fitted to push his own fortunes. Also, at first sight, a remarkably handsome fellow, with straight, clear-cut features and light, curly hair. When he swung along the street, his round hat carelessly thrown back, and his handsome face lit up by the sun, the old women murmured a blessing upon his comely head--as they used to do, a long time ago, upon the comely and curly head of Absalom--and the young women looked meaningly at one another--as was also done in the case of Absalom--and the object of their admiration knew that they were saying to each other, in the feminine way, where a look is as good as a whisper, "There goes a handsome fellow." Those who knew him better, and had looked more closely into his face, said that his mouth was bad and his eyes shifty. The same opinion was held by the wiser sort as regards his character. For, on the one hand, some averred that to their certain knowledge Joe Gallop had shown himself a monster of ingratitude toward his grandfather, who had paid his debts and done all kinds of things for him; on the other hand there were some who thought he had been badly treated; and some said that no good would ever come of a young fellow who was never able to remain in the same situation more than a month or so; and others said that he had certainly been unfortunate, but that he was a quick and clever young man, who would some day find the kind of work that suited him, and then he would show everybody of what stuff he was composed. As for us, we have only to judge of him by his actions. "Perhaps, Mr. Joseph," said Mr. James, "perhaps Miss Iris won't have all bequeathed to her?" "Do you know anything?" Joe asked quickly. "Has he made a new will lately?" "Not that I know of. But Mr. Chalker has been here off and on a good bit now." "Ah! Chalker's a close one, too. Else he'd tell me, his old friend. Look here, Foxy," he turned a beaming and smiling face upon the assistant. "If you should see anything or find anything out, tell me, mind. And, remember, I'll make it worth your while." Mr. James looked as it he was asking himself how Joseph could make it worth his while, seeing that he got nothing more from his grandfather, and by his own showing never would have anything more. "It's only his will I'm anxious to know about; that, and where he's put away all his money. Think what a dreadful thing it would be for his heirs if he were to go and die suddenly, and none of us to know where his investments are. As for the shop, that is already disposed of, as I dare say you know." "Disposed of? The shop disposed of! Oh, Lord!" The assistant turned pale. "Oh, Mr. Joseph," he asked earnestly, "what will become of the shop? And who is to have it?" "I am to have it," Mr. Joseph replied calmly. This was the lie absolute, and he invented it very cleverly and at the right moment--a thing which gives strength and life to a lie, because he already suspected the truth and guessed the secret hope and ambition which possesses every ambitious assistant in this trade--namely, to get the succession. Mr. James looked upon himself as the lawful and rightful heir to the business. But sometimes he entertained grievous doubts, and now indeed his heart sunk into his boots. "I am to have it," Joe repeated. "Oh, I didn't know. You are to have it, then? Oh!" If Mr. James had been ten years younger, I think he would have burst into tears. But at the age of forty weeping no longer presents itself as a form of relief. It is more usual to seek consolation in a swear. He stammered, however, while he turned pale, and then red, and then pale again. "Yes, quite proper, Mr. Joseph, I'm sure, and a most beautiful business may be made again here by one who understands the way. Oh, you are a lucky man, Mr. Joseph. You are indeed, sir, to get such a noble chance." "The shop," Joe went on, "was settled--settled upon me, long ago." The verb "to settle" is capable of conveying large and vague impressions. "But after all, what's the good of this place to a sailor?" "The good--the good of this place?" Mr. James's cheek flushed. "Why, to make money, to be sure--to coin money in. If I had this place to myself--why--why, in two years I would be making as much as two hundred a year. I would indeed." "You want to make money. Bah! That's all you fellows think of. To sit in the back shop all day long and to sell moldy books! We jolly sailor boys know better than that, my lad." There really was something nautical about the look of the man. He wore a black-silk tie, in a sailor's running-knot, the ends loose; his waistcoat was unbuttoned, and his coat was a kind of jacket; not to speak of his swinging walk and careless pose. In fact, he had been a sailor; he had made two voyages to India and back as assistant-purser, or purser's clerk, on board a P. and O. boat, but some disagreement with his commanding officer concerning negligence, or impudence, or drink, or laziness--he had been charged in different situations and at different times with all these vices, either together or separately--caused him to lose his rating on the ship's books. However, he brought away from his short nautical experience, and preserved, a certain nautical swagger, which accorded well with his appearance, and gave him a swashbuckler air, which made those who knew him well lament that he had not graced the Elizabethan era, when he might have become a gallant buccaneer, and so got himself shot through the head; or that he had not flourished under the reign of good Queen Anne, when he would probably have turned pirate and been hanged; or that, being born in the Victorian age, he had not gone to the Far West, where he would, at least, have had the chance of getting shot in a gambling-saloon. "As for me, when I get the business," he continued, "I shall look about for some one to carry it on until I am able to sell it for what it will fetch. Books at a penny apiece all round, I suppose"--James gasped--"shop furniture thrown in"--James panted--"and the goodwill for a small lump sum." James wondered how far his own savings, and what he could borrow, might go toward that lump sum, and how much might "remain." "My grandfather, as you know, of course, is soon going to retire from business altogether." This was another lie absolute, as Mr. Emblem had no intention whatever of retiring. "Soon, Mr. Joseph? He has never said a word to me about it." "Very soon, now--sooner than you expect. At seventy-five, and with all his money, why should he go on slaving any longer? Very soon, indeed. Any day." "Mr. Joseph," the assistant positively trembled with eagerness and apprehension. "What is it, James? Did you really think that a man like me was going to sit in a back shop among these moldy volumes all day? Come, that's too good. You might have given me credit for being one cut above a counter, too. I am a gentleman, James, if you please; I am an officer and a gentleman." He then proceeded to explain, in language that smacked something of the sea, that his ideas soared far above trade, which was, at best, a contemptible occupation, and quite unworthy of a gentleman, particularly an officer and a gentleman; and that his personal friends would never condescend even to formal acquaintance, not to speak of friendship, with trade. This discourse may be omitted. When one reads about such a man as Joe Gallop, when we are told how he looked and what he said and how he said it, with what gestures and in what tone, we feel as if it would be impossible for the simplest person in the world to be mistaken as to his real character. My friends, especially my young friends, so far from the discernment of character being easy, it is, on the contrary, an art most difficult, and very rarely attained. Nature's indications are a kind of handwriting the characters in which are known to few, so that, for instance, the quick, enquiring glance of an eye, in which one may easily read--who knows the character--treachery, lying, and deception, just as in the letter Beth was originally easily discerned the effigies of a house, may very easily pass unread by the multitude. The language, or rather the alphabet, is much less complicated than the cuneiform of the Medes and Persians, yet no one studies it, except women, most of whom are profoundly skilled in this lore, which makes them so fearfully and wonderfully wise. Thus it is easy for man to deceive his brother man, but not his sister woman. Again, most of us are glad to take everybody on his own statements; there are, or may be, we are all ready to acknowledge, with sorrow for erring humanity, somewhere else in the world, such things as pretending, swindling, acting a part, and cheating, but they do not and cannot belong to our own world. Mr. James, the assistant, very well knew that Mr. Emblem's grandson had already, though still young, as bad a record as could be desired by any; that he had been turned out of one situation after another; that his grandfather had long since refused to help him any more; that he was always to be found in the Broad Path which leadeth to destruction. When he had money he ran down that path as fast as his legs could carry him; when he had none, he only walked and wished he could run. But he never left it, and never wished to leave it. Knowing all this, the man accepted and believed every word of Joe's story. James believed it, because he hoped it. He listened respectfully to Joe's declamation on the meanness of trade, and then he rubbed his hands, and said humbly that he ventured to hope, when the sale of the business came on, Mr. Joseph would let him have a chance. "You?" asked Joe. "I never thought of you. But why not? Why not, I say? Why not you as well as anybody else?" "Nobody but me, Mr. Joseph, knows what the business is, and how it might be improved; and I could make arrangements for paying by regular instalments." "Well, we'll talk about it when the time comes. I won't forget. Sailors, you know, can't be expected to understand the value of shops. Say, James, what does the commodore do all day?" "Sits in there and adds up his investments." "Always doing that--eh? Always adding 'em up? Ah, and you've never got a chance of looking over his shoulder, I suppose?" "Never." "You may find that chance, one of these days. I should like to know, if only for curiosity, what they are and where they are. He sits in there and adds 'em up. Yes--I've seen him at it. There must be thousands by this time." "Thousands," said the assistant, in the belief that the more you add up a sum the larger it grows. Joe walked into the back shop and tried the safe. "Where are the keys?" he asked. "Always in his pocket or on the table before him. He don't leave them about." "Or you'd ha' known pretty sharp all there is to know--eh, my lad? Well, you're a foxy one, you are, if ever there was one. Let's be pals, you and me. When the old man goes, you want the shop--well, I don't see why you shouldn't have the shop. Somebody must have the shop; and it will be mine to do what I please with. As for his savings, he says they are all for Iris--well, wills have been set aside before this. Do you think now, seriously, do you think, James that the old man is quite right--eh? Don't answer in a hurry. Do you think, now, that he is quite right in his chump?" James laughed. "He's right enough, though he throws away his chances." "Throws away his chances. How the deuce can he be all right then? Did you ever hear of a bookseller in his right mind throwing away his chances?" "Why--no--for that matter--" "Very well, then; for that matter, don't forget that you've seen him throw away all his chances--all his chances, you said. You are ready to swear to that. Most important evidence, that, James." James had not said "all," but he grunted, and the other man went on: "It may come in useful, this recollection. Keep your eyes wide-open, my red haired pirate. As for the moldy old shop, you may consider it as good as your own. Why, I suppose you'll get somebody else to handle the paste-brush and the scissors, and tie up the parcels, and water the shop--eh? You'll be too proud to do that for yourself, you will." Mr. James grinned and rubbed his hands. "All your own--eh? Well, you'll wake 'em up a bit, won't you?" Mr. James grinned again--he continued grinning. "Go on, Mr. Joseph," he said; "go on--I like it." "Consider the job as settled, then. As for terms they shall be easy; I'm not a hard man. And--I say, Foxy, about that safe?" Mr. James suddenly ceased grinning, because he observed a look in his patron's eyes which alarmed him. "About that safe. You must find out for me where the old man has put his money, and what it is worth. Do you hear? Or else--" "How can I find out? He won't tell me any more than you." "Or else you must put me in the way of finding out." Mr. Joseph lowered his voice to a whisper. "He keeps the keys on the table before him. When a customer takes him out here, he leaves the keys behind him. Do you know the key of the safe?" "Yes, I know it." "What is to prevent a clever, quick-eyed fellow like you, mate, stepping in with a bit of wax--eh? While he is talking, you know. You could rush it in a moment." "It's--it's dangerous, Mr. Joseph." "So it is--rather dangerous--not much. What of that?" "I would do anything I could to be of service to you, Mr. Joseph; but that's not honest, and it's dangerous." "Dangerous! There's danger in the briny deep and shipwreck on the blast, if you come to danger. Do we, therefore, jolly mariners afloat ever think of that? Never. As to honesty, don't make a man sick." "Look here, Mr. Joseph. If you'll give me a promise in writing, that I'm to have the shop, as soon as you get it, at a fair valuation and easy terms--say ten per cent down, and--" "Stow it, mate; write what you like, and I'll sign it. Now about that key?" "Supposing you was to get a duplicate key, and supposing you was to get into trouble about it, Mr. Joseph, should you--should you--I only put it to you--should you up and round upon the man as got you that key?" "Foxy, you are as suspicious as a Chinaman. Well, then, do it this way. Send it me in a letter, and then who is to know where the letter came from?" The assistant nodded. "Then I think I can do the job, though not, perhaps, your way. But I think I can do it. I won't promise for a day or two." "There you spoke like an honest pal and a friendly shipmate. Dangerous! Of course it is. When the roaring winds do blow--Hands upon it, brother. Foxy, you've never done a better day's work. You are too crafty for any sailor--you are, indeed. Here, just for a little key--" "Hush, Mr. Joseph! Oh, pray--pray don't talk so loud! You don't know who may be listening. There's Mr. Lala Roy. You never hear him coming." "Just for a trifle of a key, you are going to get possession of the best book-shop in all Chelsea. Well, keep your eyes skinned and the wax ready, will you? And now, James, I'll be off." "Oh, I say, Mr. Joseph, wait a moment!" James was beginning to realize what he had promised. "If anything dreadful should come of this? I don't know what is in the safe. There may be money as well as papers." "James, do you think I would steal? Do you mean to insinuate that I am a thief, sir? Do you dare to suspect that I would take money?" James certainly looked as if he had thought even that possible. "I shall open the safe, take out the papers, read them, and put them back just as I found them. Will that do for you?" He shook hands again, and took himself off. At seven o'clock Mr. Emblem came down-stairs again. "Has any one been?" he asked as usual. "Only Mr. Joseph." "What might Mr. Joseph want?" "Nothing at all." "Then," said his grandfather, "Mr. Joseph might just as well have kept away." * * * * * Let us anticipate a little. James spent the next day hovering about in the hope that an opportunity would offer of getting the key in his possession for a few moments. There was no opportunity. The bunch of keys lay on the table under the old man's eyes all day, and when he left the table he carried them with him. But the day afterward he got his chance. One of the old customers called to talk over past bargains and former prizes. Mr. Emblem came out of the back shop with his visitor, and continued talking with him as far as the door. As he passed the table--James's table--he rested the hand which carried the keys on it, and left them there. James pounced upon them and slipped them into his pocket noiselessly. Mr. Emblem returned to his own chair and thought nothing of the keys for an hour and a half by the clock, and during this period James was out on business. When Mr. Emblem remembered his keys, he felt for them in their usual place and missed them, and then began searching about and cried out to James that he had lost his bunch of keys. "Why, sir," said James, bringing them to him, after a little search, and with a very red face, "here they are; you must have left them on my table." And in this way the job was done. CHAPTER III. IRIS THE HERALD. By a somewhat remarkable coincidence it was on this very evening that Iris first made the acquaintance of her pupil, Mr. Arnold Arbuthnot. These coincidences, I believe, happen oftener in real life than they do even on the stage, where people are always turning up at the very nick of time and the critical moment. I need little persuasion to make me believe that the first meeting of Arnold Arbuthnot and Iris, on the very evening when her cousin was opening matters with the Foxy one, was nothing short of Providential. You shall see, presently, what things might have happened if they had not met. The meeting was, in fact, the second of the three really important events in the life of a girl. The first, which is seldom remembered with the gratitude which it deserves, is her birth; the second, the first meeting with her future lover; the third, her wedding-day; the other events of a woman's life are interesting, perhaps, but not important. Certain circumstances, which will be immediately explained, connected with this meeting, made it an event of very considerable interest to Iris, even though she did not suspect its immense importance. So much interest that she thought of nothing else for a week beforehand; that as the appointed hour drew near she trembled and grew pale; that when her grandfather came up for his tea, she, who was usually so quick to discern the least sign of care or anxiety in his face, actually did not observe the trouble, plainly written in his drooping head and anxious eyes, which was due to his interview with Mr. David Chalker. She poured out the tea, therefore, without one word of sympathy. This would have seemed hard if her grandfather had expected any. He did not, however, because he did not know that the trouble showed in his face, and was trying to look as if nothing had happened. Yet in his brain were ringing and resounding the words, "Within three weeks--within three weeks," with the regularity of a horrid clock at midnight, when one wants to go to sleep. "Oh," cried Iris, forced, as young people always are, to speak of her own trouble, "oh, grandfather, he is coming to-night." "Who is coming to-night, my dear?" and then he listened again for the ticking of the clock: "Within three weeks--within three weeks." "Who is coming to-night, my dear?" He took the cup of tea from her, and sat down with an old man's deliberation, which springs less from wisdom and the fullness of thought that from respect to rheumatism. The iteration of that refrain, "Within three weeks," made him forget everything, even the trouble of his granddaughter's mind. "Oh, grandfather, you cannot have forgotten!" She spoke with the least possible touch of irritation, because she had been thinking of this thing for a week past, day and night, and it was a thing of such stupendous interest to her, that it seemed impossible that anyone who knew of it could forget what was coming. "No, no." The old man was stimulated into immediate recollection by the disappointment in her eyes. "No, no, my dear, I have not forgotten. Your pupil is coming. Mr. Arbuthnot is coming. But, Iris, child, don't let that worry you. I will see him for you, if you like." "No; I must see him myself. You see, dear, there is the awful deception. Oh, how shall I tell him?" "No deception at all," he said stoutly. "You advertised in your own initials. He never asked if the initials belonged to a man or to a woman. The other pupils do not know. Why should this one? What does it matter to him if you have done the work for which he engaged your services?" "But, oh, he is so different! And the others, you know, keep to the subject." "So should he, then. Why didn't he?" "But he hasn't. And I have been answering him, and he must think that I was drawing him on to tell me more about himself; and now--oh, what will he think? I drew him on and on--yet I didn't mean to--till at last he writes to say that he regards me as the best friend and the wisest adviser he has ever had. What will he think and say? Grandfather, it is dreadful!" "What did you tell him for, Iris, my dear? Why couldn't you let things go on? And by telling him you will lose your pupil." "Yes, of course; and, worse still, I shall lose his letters. We live so quietly here that his letters have come to me like news of another world. How many different worlds are there all round one in London? It has been pleasant to read of that one in which ladies go about beautifully dressed always, and where the people have nothing to do but to amuse themselves. He has told me about this world in which he lives, and about his own life, so that I know everything he does, and where he goes; and"--here she sighed heavily--"of course it could not go on forever; and I should not mind so much if it had not been carried on under false pretenses." "No false pretenses at all, my dear. Don't think it." "I sent back his last check," she said, trying to find a little consolation for herself. "But yet--" "Well, Iris," said her grandfather, "he wanted to learn heraldry, and you have taught him." "For the last three months"--the girl blushed as if she was confessing her sins--"for the last three months there has not been a single word in his letters about heraldry. He tells me that he writes because he is idle, or because he wants to talk, or because he is alone in his studio, or because he wants his unknown friend's advice. I am his unknown friend, and I have been giving him advice." "And very good advice, too," said her grandfather benevolently. "Who is so wise as my Iris?" "I have answered all his letters, and never once told him that I am only a girl." "I am glad you did not tell him, Iris," said her grandfather; but he did not say why he was glad. "And why can't he go on writing his letters without making any fuss?" "Because he says he must make the acquaintance of the man--the man, he says--with whom he has been in correspondence so long. This is what he says." She opened a letter which lay upon a table covered with papers, but her grandfather stopped her. "Well, my dear, I do not want to know what he says. He wishes to make your acquaintance. Very good, then. You are going to see him, and to tell him who you are. That is enough. But as for deceiving"--he paused, trying to understand this extreme scrupulosity of conscience--"if you come to deceiving--well, in a kind sort of a way you did allow him to think his correspondent a man. I admit that. What harm is done to him? None. He won't be so mean, I suppose, as to ask for his money back again." "I think he ought to have it all back," said Iris; "yes, all from the very beginning. I am ashamed that I ever took any money from him. My face burns when I think of it." To this her grandfather made no reply. The returning of money paid for services rendered was, to his commercial mind, too foolish a thing to be even talked about. At the same time, Iris was quite free to manage her own affairs. And then there was that roll of papers in the safe. Why, what matter if she sent away all her pupils? He changed the subject. "Iris, my dear," he said, "about this other world, where the people amuse themselves; the world which lives in the squares and in the big houses on the Chelsea Embankment here, you know--how should you like, just for a change, to belong to that world and have no work to do?" "I don't know," she replied carelessly, because the question did not interest her. "You would have to leave me, of course. You would sever your connection, as they say, with the shop." "Please, don't let us talk nonsense, grandfather." "You would have to be ashamed, perhaps, of ever having taught for your living." "Now that I never should be--never, not if they made me a duchess." "You would go dressed in silk and velvet. My dear, I should like to see you dressed up just for once, as we have seen them at the theater." "Well, I should like one velvet dress in my life. Only one. And it should be crimson--a beautiful, deep, dark crimson." "Very good. And you would drive in a carriage instead of an omnibus; you would sit in the stalls instead of the upper circle; you would give quantities of money to poor people; and you would buy as many second hand books as you pleased. There are rich people, I believe, ostentatious people, who buy new books. But you, my dear, have been better brought up. No books are worth buying till they have stood the criticism of a whole generation at least. Never buy new books, my dear." "I won't," said Iris. "But, you dear old man, what have you got in your head to-night? Why in the world should we talk about getting rich?" "I was only thinking," he said, "that perhaps, you might be so much happier--" "Happier? Nonsense! I am as happy as I can be. Six pupils already. To be sure I have lost one," she sighed; "and the best among them all." When her grandfather left her, Iris placed candles on the writing-table, but did not light them, though it was already pretty dark. She had half an hour to wait; and she wanted to think, and candles are not necessary for meditation. She sat at the open window and suffered her thoughts to ramble where they pleased. This is a restful thing to do, especially if your windows look upon a tolerably busy but not noisy London road. For then, it is almost as good as sitting beside a swiftly-running stream; the movement of the people below is like the unceasing flow of the current; the sound of the footsteps is like the whisper of the water along the bank; the echo of the half heard talk strikes your ear like the mysterious voices wafted to the banks from the boats as they go by; and the lights of the shops and the street presently become spectral and unreal like lights seen upon the river in the evening. Iris had a good many pupils--six, in fact, as she had boasted; why, then, was she so strangely disturbed on account of one? An old tutor by correspondence may be, and very likely is, indifferent about his pupils, because he has had so many; but Iris was a young tutor, and had as yet known few. One of her pupils, for instance, was a gentleman in the fruit and potato line, in the Borough. By reason of his early education, which had not been neglected so much as entirely omitted, he was unable to personally conduct his accounts. Now a merchant without his accounts is as helpless as a tourist without his Cook. So that he desired, in his mature age, to learn book keeping, compound addition, subtraction, and multiplication. He had no partners, so that he did not want division. But it is difficult--say, well-nigh impossible--for a middle-aged merchant, not trained in the graces of letter-writing, to inspire a young lady with personal regard, even though she is privileged to follow the current of his thoughts day by day, and to set him his sums. Next there was a young fellow of nineteen or twenty, who was beginning life as an assistant-teacher in a commercial school at Lower Clapton. This way is a stony and a thorny path to tread; no one walks upon it willingly; those who are compelled to enter upon it speedily either run away and enlist, or they go and find a secluded spot in which to hang themselves. The smoother ways of the profession are only to be entered by one who is the possessor of a degree, and it was the determination of this young man to pass the London University Examinations, and to obtain the degree of Bachelor. In this way his value in the educational market would be at once doubled, and he could command a better place and lighter work. He showed himself, in his letters, to be an eminently practical, shrewd, selfish, and thick-skinned young man, who would quite certainly get on in the world, and was resolved to lose no opportunities, and, with that view, he took as much work out of his tutor as he could get for the money. Had he known that the "I.A." who took such a wonderful amount of trouble with his papers was only a woman, he would certainly have extorted a great deal more work for his money. All this Iris read in his letters and understood. There is no way in which a man more surely and more naturally reveals his true character than in his correspondence, so that after awhile, even though the subject of the letters be nothing more interesting than the studies in hand, those who write the letters may learn to know each other if they have but the mother wit to read between the lines. Certainly this young schoolmaster did not know Iris, nor did he desire to discover what she was like, being wholly occupied with the study of himself. Strange and kindly provision of Nature. The less desirable a man actually appears to others, the more fondly he loves and believes in himself. I have heard it whispered that Narcissus was a hunchback. Then there was another pupil, a girl who was working her very hardest in order to become, as she hoped, a first-class governess, and who, poor thing! by reason of her natural thickness would never reach even the third rank. Iris would have been sorry for her, because she worked so fiercely, and was so stupid, but there was something hard and unsympathetic in her nature which forbade pity. She was miserably poor, too, and had an unsuccessful father, no doubt as stupid as herself, and made pitiful excuses for not forwarding the slender fees with regularity. Everybody who is poor should be, on that ground alone, worthy of pity and sympathy. But the hardness and stupidity, and the ill-temper, all combined and clearly shown in her letters, repelled her tutor. Iris, who drew imaginary portraits of her pupils, pictured the girl as plain to look upon, with a dull eye, a leathery, pallid cheek, a forehead without sunshine upon it, and lips which seldom parted with a smile. Then there was, besides, a Cambridge undergraduate. He was neither clever, nor industrious, nor very ambitious; he thought that a moderate place was quite good enough for him to aim at, and he found that his unknown and obscure tutor by correspondence was cheap and obliging, and willing to take trouble, and quite as efficacious for his purposes as the most expensive Cambridge coach. Iris presently discovered that he was lazy and luxurious, a deceiver of himself, a dweller in Fool's Paradise and a constant shirker of work. Therefore, she disliked him. Had she actually known him and talked with him, she might have liked him better in spite of these faults and shortcomings, for he was really a pleasant, easygoing youth, who wallowed in intellectual sloth, but loved physical activity; who will presently drop easily, and comfortably, and without an effort or a doubt, into the bosom of the Church, and will develop later on into an admirable country parson, unless they disestablish the Establishment: in which case, I do not know what he will do. But this other man, this man who was coming for an explanation, this Mr. Arnold Arbuthnot, was, if you please, a very different kind of pupil. In the first place he was a gentleman, a fact which he displayed, not ostentatiously, in every line of his letters; next, he had come to her for instruction--the only pupil she had in that science, in heraldry, which she loved. It is far more pleasant to be describing a shield and settling questions in the queer old language of this queer old science, than in solving and propounding problems in trigonometry and conic sections. And then--how if your pupil begins to talk round the subject and to wander into other things? You cannot very well talk round a branch of mathematics, but heraldry is a subject surrounded by fields, meadows, and lawns, so to speak, all covered with beautiful flowers. Into these the pupil wandered, and Iris not unwillingly followed. Thus the teaching of heraldry by correspondence became the most delightful interchange of letters imaginable, set off and enriched with a curious and strange piquancy, derived from the fact that one of them, supposed to be an elderly man, was a young girl, ignorant of the world except from books, and the advice given her by two old men, who formed all her society. Then, as was natural, what was at first a kind of play, became before long a serious and earnest confidence on the one side, and a hesitating reception on the other. Latterly he more than once amused himself by drawing an imaginary portrait of her; it was a pleasing portrait, but it made her feel uneasy. "I know you," he said, "from your letters, but yet I want to know you in person. I think you are a man advanced in years." Poor Iris! and she not yet twenty-one. "You sit in your study and read; you wear glasses, and your hair is gray; you have a kind heart and a cheerful voice; you are not rich--you have never tried to make yourself rich; you are therefore little versed in the ways of mankind; you take your ideas chiefly from books; the few friends you have chosen are true and loyal; you are full of sympathy, and quick to read the thoughts of those in whom you take an interest." A very fine character, but it made Iris's cheek to burn and her eyes to drop. To be sure she was not rich, nor did she know the world; so far her pupil was right, but yet she was not gray nor old. And, again, she was not, as he thought, a man. Letter-writing is not extinct, as it is a commonplace to affirm, and as people would have us believe. Letters are written still--the most delightful letters--letters as copious, as charming, as any of the last century; but men and women no longer write their letters as carefully as they used to do in the old days, because they were then shown about, and very likely read aloud. Our letters, therefore, though their sentences are not so balanced nor their periods so rounded, are more real, more truthful, more spontaneous, and more delightful than the laborious productions of our ancestors, who had to weigh every phrase, and to think out their bon mots, epigrams, and smart things for weeks beforehand, so that the letter might appear full of impromptu wit. I should like, for instance, just for once, to rob the outward or the homeward mail, in order to read all the delightful letters which go every week backward and forward between the folk in India and the folk at home. "I shall lose my letters," Iris recollected, and her heart sunk. Not only did her correspondent begin to draw these imaginary portraits of her, but he proceeded to urge upon her to come out of her concealment, and to grant him an interview. This she might have refused, in her desire to continue a correspondence which brightened her monotonous life. But there came another thing, and this decided her. He began to give, and to ask, opinions concerning love, marriage, and such topics--and then she perceived it could not possibly be discussed with him, even in domino and male disguise. "As for love," her pupil wrote, "I suppose it is a real and not a fancied necessity of life. A man, I mean, may go on a long time without it, but there will come a time--do not you think so?--when he is bound to feel the incompleteness of life without a woman to love. We ought to train our boys and girls from the very beginning to regard love and marriage as the only things really worth having, because without them there is no happiness. Give me your own experience. I am sure you must have been in love at some time or other in your life." Anybody will understand that Iris could not possibly give her own experience in love-matters, nor could she plunge into speculative philosophy of this kind with her pupil. Obviously the thing must come to an end. Therefore she wrote a letter to him, telling him that "I.A." would meet him, if he pleased, that very evening at the hour of eight. It is by this time sufficiently understood that Iris Aglen professed to teach--it is an unusual combination--mathematics and heraldry; she might also have taught equally well, had she chosen, sweetness of disposition, goodness of heart, the benefits conferred by pure and lofty thoughts on the expression of a girl's face, and the way to acquire all the other gracious, maidenly virtues; but either there is too limited a market for these branches of culture, or--which is perhaps the truer reason--there are so many English girls, not to speak of Americans, who are ready and competent to teach them, and do teach them to their brothers, and their lovers, and to each other, and to their younger sisters all day long. As for her heraldry, it was natural that she should acquire that science, because her grandfather knew as much as any Pursuivant or King-at-Arms, and thought that by teaching the child a science which is nowadays cultivated by so few, he was going to make her fortune. Besides, ever mindful of the secret packet, he thought that an heiress ought to understand heraldry. It was, indeed, as you shall see, in this way that her fortune was made; but yet not quite in the way he proposed to make it. Nobody ever makes a fortune quite in the way at first intended for him. As for her mathematics, it is no wonder that she was good in this science, because she was a pupil of Lala Roy. This learned Bengalee condescended to acknowledge the study of mathematics as worthy even of the Indian intellect, and amused himself with them when he was not more usefully engaged in chess. He it was who, being a lodger in the house, taught Iris almost as soon as she could read how letters placed side by side may be made to signify and accomplish stupendous things, and how they may disguise the most graceful and beautiful curves, and how they may even open a way into boundless space, and there disclose marvels. This wondrous world did the philosopher open to the ready and quick-witted girl; nor did he ever lead her to believe that it was at all an unusual or an extraordinary thing for a girl to be so quick and apt for science as herself, nor did he tell her that if she went to Newnham or to Girton, extraordinary glories would await her, with the acclamations of the multitude in the Senate House and the praise of the Moderators. Iris, therefore, was not proud of her mathematics, which seemed part of her very nature. But of her heraldry she was, I fear, extremely proud--proud even to sinfulness. No doubt this was the reason why, through her heraldry, the humiliation of this evening fell upon her. "If he is young," she thought, "if he is young--and he is sure to be young--he will be very angry at having opened his mind to a girl"--it will be perceived that, although she knew so much mathematics, she was really very ignorant of the opposite sex, not to know that a young man likes nothing so much as the opening of his mind to a young lady. "If he is old, he will be more humiliated still"--as if any man at any age was ever humiliated by confessing himself to a woman. "If he is a proud man, he will never forgive me. Indeed, I am sure that he can never forgive me, whatever kind of man he is. But I can do no more than tell him I am sorry. If he will not forgive me then, what more can I say? Oh, if he should be vindictive!" When the clock began to strike the hour of eight, Iris lighted her candles, and before the pulsation of the last stroke had died away, she heard the ringing of the house-bell. The door was opened by her grandfather himself, and she heard his voice. "Yes," he said, "you will find your tutor, in the first floor front, alone. If you are inclined to be vindictive, when you hear all, please ring the bell for me." The visitor mounted the stairs, and Iris, hearing his step, began to tremble and to shake for fear. When the door opened she did not at first look up. But she knew that her pupil was there, and that he was looking for his tutor. "Pardon me"--the voice was not unpleasant--"pardon me. I was directed to this room. I have an appointment with my tutor." "If," said Iris, rising, for the time for confession had at length arrived, "if you are Mr. Arnold Arbuthnot, your appointment is, I believe, with me." "It is with my tutor," he said. "I am your tutor. My initials are I.A." The room was only lighted by two candles, but they showed him the hanging head and the form of a woman, and he thought she looked young, judging by the outline. Her voice was sweet and clear. "My tutor? You?" "If you really are Mr. Arnold Arbuthnot, the gentleman who has corresponded with I.A. for the last two years on heraldry, and--and other things, I am your tutor." She had made the dreaded confession. The rest would be easy. She even ventured to raise her eyes, and she perceived, with a sinking of the heart, that her estimate of her pupil's age was tolerably correct. He was a young man, apparently not more than five or six and twenty. It now remained to be seen if he was vindictive. As for the pupil, when he recovered a little from the blow of this announcement, he saw before him a girl, quite young, dressed in a simple gray or drab colored stuff, which I have reason to believe is called Carmelite. The dress had a crimson kerchief arranged in folds over the front, and a lace collar, and at first sight it made the beholder feel that, considered merely as a setting of face and figure, it was remarkably effective. Surely this is the true end and aim of all feminine adornment, apart from the elementary object of keeping one warm. "I--I did not know," the young man said, after a pause, "I did not know at all that I was corresponding with a lady." Here she raised her eyes again, and he observed that the eyes were very large and full of light--"eyes like the fishpools of Heshbon"--dove's eyes. "I am very sorry," she said meekly. "It was my fault." He observed other things now, having regained the use of his senses. Thus he saw that she wore her hair, which was of a wonderful chestnut brown color, parted at the side like a boy's, and that she had not committed the horrible enormity of cutting it short. He observed, too, that while her lips were quivering and her cheek was blushing, her look was steadfast. Are dove's eyes, he asked himself, always steadfast? "I ought to have told you long ago, when you began to write about--about yourself and other things, when I understood that you thought I was a man--oh, long ago I ought to have told you the truth!" "It is wonderful!" said the young man, "it is truly wonderful!" He was thinking of the letters--long letters, full of sympathy, and a curious unworldly wisdom, which she had sent him in reply to his own, and he was comparing them with her youthful face, as one involuntarily compares a poet's appearance with his poetry--generally a disappointing thing to do, and always a foolish thing. "I am very sorry," she repeated. "Have you many pupils, like myself?" "I have several pupils in mathematics. It does not matter to them whether they are taught by a man or a woman. In heraldry I had only one--you." He looked round the room. One end was occupied by shelves, filled with books; in one of the windows was a table, covered with papers and adorned with a type-writer, by means of which Iris carried on her correspondence. For a moment the unworthy thought crossed his mind that he had been, perhaps, artfully lured on by a siren for his destruction. Only for a moment, however, because she raised her face and met his gaze again, with eyes so frank and innocent, that he could not doubt them. Besides, there was the clear outline of her face, so truthful and so honest. The young man was an artist, and therefore believed in outline. Could any sane and intelligent creature doubt those curves of cheek and chin? "I have put together," she said, "all your letters for you. Here they are. Will you, please, take them back? I must not keep them any longer." He took them, and bowed. "I made this appointment, as you desired, to tell you the truth, because I have deceived you too long: and to beg you to forgive me; and to say that, of course, there is an end to our correspondence." "Thank you. It shall be as you desire. Exactly," he repeated, "as you desire." He ought to have gone at once. There was nothing more to say. Yet he lingered, holding the letters in his hand. "To write these letters," he said, "has been for a long time one of my greatest pleasures, partly because I felt that I was writing to a friend, and so wrote in full trust and confidence; partly because they procured me a reply--in the shape of your letters. Must I take back these letters of mine?" She made no answer. "It is hard, is it not, to lose a friend so slowly acquired, thus suddenly and unexpectedly?" "Yes," she said, "it is hard. I am very sorry. It was my fault." "Perhaps I have said something, in my ignorance--something which ought not to have been said or written--something careless--something which has lowered me in your esteem--" "Oh, no--no!" said Iris quickly. "You have never said anything that a gentleman should not have said." "And if you yourself found any pleasure in answering my letters--" "Yes," said Iris with frankness, "it gave me great pleasure to read and to answer your letters, as well as I could." "I have not brought back your letters. I hope you will allow me to keep them. And, if you will, why should we not continue our correspondence as before?" But he did not ask the question confidently. "No," said Iris decidedly "it can never be continued as before. How could it, when once we have met, and you have learned the truth?" "Then," he continued, "if we cannot write to each other any more, can we not talk?" She ought to have informed him on the spot that the thing was quite impossible, and not to be thought of for one moment. She should have said, coldly, but firmly--every right-minded and well-behaved girl would have said--"Sir, it is not right that you should come alone to a young lady's study. Such things are not to be permitted. It we meet in society, we may, perhaps, renew our acquaintance." But girls do go on sometimes as if there was no such thing as propriety at all, and such cases are said to be growing more frequent. Besides, Iris was not a girl who was conversant with social convenances. She looked at her pupil thoughtfully and frankly. "Can we?" she asked. She who hesitates is lost, a maxim which cannot be too often read, said, and studied. It is one of the very few golden rules omitted from Solomon's Proverbs. "Can we? It would be pleasant." "It you will permit me," he blushed and stammered, wondering at her ready acquiescence, "if you will permit me to call upon you sometimes--here, if you will allow me, or anywhere else. You know my name. I am by profession an artist, and I have a studio close at hand in Tite Street." "To call upon me here?" she repeated. Now, when one is a tutor, and has been reading with a pupil for two years, one regards that pupil with a feeling which may not be exactly parental, but which is unconventional. If Arnold had said, "Behold me! May I, being a young man, call upon you, a young woman?" she would have replied: "No, young man, that can never be." But when he said, "May I, your pupil, call sometimes upon you, my tutor?" a distinction was at once established by which the impossible became possible. "Yes," she said, "I think you may call. My grandfather has his tea with me every evening at six. You may call then if it will give you any pleasure." "You really will let me come here?" The young man looked as if the permission was likely to give him the greatest pleasure. "Yes; if you wish it." She spoke just exactly like an Oxford Don giving an undergraduate permission to take an occasional walk with him, or to call for conversation and advice at certain times in his rooms. Arnold noticed the manner, and smiled. "Still," he said, "as your pupil." He meant to set her at her ease concerning the propriety of these visits. She thought he meant a continuation of a certain little arrangement as to fees, and blushed. "No," she said; "I must not consider you as a pupil any longer. You have put an end to that yourself." "I do not mind, if only I continue your friend." "Oh," she said, "but we must not pledge ourselves rashly to friendship. Perhaps you will not like me when you once come to know me." "Then I remain your disciple." "Oh no," she flushed again, "you must already think me presumptuous enough in venturing to give you advice. I have written so many foolish things--" "Indeed, no," he interrupted, "a thousand times no. Let me tell you once for all, if I may, that you have taught me a great deal--far more than you can ever understand, or than I can explain. Where did you get your wisdom? Not from the Book of Human Life. Of that you cannot know much as yet." "The wisdom is in your imagination, I think. You shall not be my pupil nor my disciple, but--well--because you have told me so much, and I seem to have known you so long, and, besides, because you must never feel ashamed of having told me so much, you shall come, if you please, as my brother." It was not till afterward that she reflected on the vast responsibilities she incurred in making this proposal, and on the eagerness with which her pupil accepted it. "As your brother!" he cried, offering her his hand. "Why, it is far--far more than I could have ventured to hope. Yes, I will come as your brother. And now, although you know so much about me, you have told me nothing about yourself--not even your name." "My name is Iris Aglen." "Iris! It is a pretty name!" "It was, I believe, my grandmother's. But I never saw her, and I do not know who or what my father's relations are." "Iris Aglen!" he repeated. "Iris was the Herald of the Gods, and the rainbow was constructed on purpose to serve her for a way from Heaven to the Earth." "Mathematicians do not allow that," said the girl, smiling. "I don't know any mathematics. But now I understand in what school you learned your heraldry. You are Queen-at-Arms at least, and Herald to the Gods of Olympus." He wished to add something about the loveliness of Aphrodite, and the wisdom of Athene, but he refrained, which was in good taste. "Thank you, Mr. Arbuthnot," Iris replied. "I learned my heraldry of my grandfather, who taught himself from the books he sells. And my mathematics I learned of Lala Roy, who is our lodger, and a learned Hindoo gentleman. My father is dead--and my mother as well--and I have no friends in the world except these two old men, who love me, and have done their best to spoil me." Her eyes grew humid and her voice trembled. No other friends in the world! Strange to say, this young man felt a little sense of relief. No other friends. He ought to have sympathized with the girl's loneliness; he might have asked her how she could possibly endure life without companionship, but he did not; he only felt that other friends might have been rough and ill-bred; this girl derived her refinement, not only from nature, but also from separation from the other girls who might in the ordinary course have been her friends and associates. And if no other friends, then no lover. Arnold was only going to visit the young lady as her brother; but lovers do not generally approve the introduction of such novel effects as that caused by the appearance of a brand-new and previously unsuspected brother. He was glad, on the whole, that there was no lover. Then he left her, and went home to his studio, where he sat till midnight, sketching a thousand heads one after the other with rapid pencil. They were all girls' heads, and they all had hair parted on the left side, with a broad, square forehead, full eyes, and straight, clear-cut features. "No," he said, "it is no good. I cannot catch the curve of her mouth--nobody could. What a pretty girl! And I am to be her brother! What will Clara say? And how--oh, how in the world can she be, all at the same time, so young, so pretty, so learned, so quick, so sympathetic, and so wise?" CHAPTER IV. THE WOLF AT HOME. There is a certain music-hall, in a certain street, leading out of a certain road, and this is quite clear and definite enough. Its distinctive characteristics, above any of its fellows, is a vulgarity so profound, that the connoisseur or student in that branch of mental culture thinks that here at last he has reached the lowest depths. For this reason one shrinks from actually naming it, because it might become fashionable, and then, if it fondly tried to change its character to suit its changed audience, it might entirely lose its present charm, and become simply commonplace. Joe Gallop stood in the doorway of this hall, a few days after the Tempting of Mr. James. It was about ten o'clock, when the entertainments were in full blast. He had a cigarette between his lips, as becomes a young man of fashion, but it had gone out, and he was thinking of something. To judge from the cunning look in his eyes, it was something not immediately connected with the good of his fellow-creatures. Presently the music of the orchestra ceased, and certain female acrobats, who had been "contorting" themselves fearfully and horribly for a quarter of an hour upon the stage, kissed their hands, which were as hard as ropes, from the nature of their profession, and smiled a fond farewell. There was some applause, but not much, because neither man nor woman cares greatly for female acrobats, and the performers themselves are with difficulty persuaded to learn their art, and generally make haste to "go in" again as soon as they can, and try henceforward to forget that they have ever done things with ropes and bars. Joe, when they left the stage, ceased his meditations, whatever may have been their subject, lit a fresh cigarette, and assumed an air of great expectation, as if something really worth seeing and hearing were now about to appear. And when the chairman brought down the hammer with the announcement that Miss Carlotta Claradine, the People's Favorite, would now oblige, it was Joe who loudly led the way for a tumultuous burst of applause. Then the band, which at this establishment, and others like unto it, only plays two tunes, one for acrobats, and one for singers, struck up the second air, and the People's Favorite appeared. She may have had by nature a sweet and tuneful voice; perhaps it was in order to please her friends, the people, that, she converted it into a harsh and rasping voice, that she delivered her words with even too much gesture, and that she uttered a kind of shriek at the beginning of every verse, which was not in the composer's original music, but was thrown in to compel attention. She was dressed with great simplicity, in plain frock, apron, and white cap, to represent a fair young Quakeress, and she sung a song about her lover with much "archness"--a delightful quality in woman. "Splendid, splendid! Bravo!" shouted Joseph at the end of the first verse. "That fetches 'em, don't it, sir? Positively drags 'em, in, sir." He addressed his words, without turning his head, to a man who had just come in, and was gazing at him with unbounded astonishment. "You here, Joe??" he said. Joe started. "Why, Chalker, who'd have thought to meet you in this music-hall?" "It's a good step, isn't it? And what are you doing, Joe? I heard you'd left the P. and O. Company." "Had to," said Joe. "A gentleman has no choice but to resign. Ought never to have gone there. There's no position, Chalker--no position at all in the service. That is what I felt. Besides, the uniform, for a man of my style, is unbecoming. And the captain was a cad." "Humph! and what are you doing then? Living on the old man again?" "Never you mind, David Chalker," replied Joe with dignity; "I am not likely to trouble you any more after the last time I called upon you." "Well, Joe," said the other, without taking offense, "it is not my business to lend money without a security, and all you had to offer was your chance of what your grandfather might leave you--or might not." "And a very good security too, if he does justice to his relations." "Yes; but how did I know whether he was going to do justice? Come, Joe, don't be shirty with an old friend." There was a cordiality in the solicitor's manner which boded well. Joe was pretty certain that Mr. Chalker was not a man to cultivate friendship unless something was to be got out of it. It is only the idle and careless who can waste time over unprofitable friendships. With most men friendship means assisting in each other's little games, so that every man must become, on occasion, bonnet, confederate, and pal, for his friend, and may expect the same kindly office for himself. If Chalker wished to keep up his old acquaintance with Joe Gallop, there must be some good reason. Now the only reason which suggested itself to Joe at that moment was that Chalker had lately drawn a new will for the old man, and that he himself might be in it. Here he was wrong. The only reason of Mr. Chalker's friendly attitude was curiosity to know what Joe was doing, and how he was living. "Look here, Chalker," Joe whispered, "you used to pretend to be a pal. What's the good of being a pal if you won't help a fellow? You see my grandfather once a week or so; you shut the door and have long talks with him. If you know what he's going to do with his money, why not tell a fellow? Let's make a business matter of it." "How much do you know, Joe, and what is your business proposal worth?" "Nothing at all; that's the honest truth--I know nothing. The old man's as tight as wax. But there's other business in the world besides his. Suppose I know of something a precious sight better than his investments, and suppose--just suppose--that I wanted a lawyer to manage it for me?" "Well, Joe?" "Encore! Bravo! Encore! Bravo!" Joe banged his stick on the floor and shouted because the singer ended her first song. He looked so fierce and big, that all the bystanders made haste to follow his example. "Splendid, isn't she?" he said. "Hang the singer! What do you mean by other business?" "Perhaps it's nothing. Perhaps there will be thousands in it. And perhaps I can get on without you, after all." "Very well, Joe. Get on without me if you like." "Look here, Chalker," Joe laid a persuasive hand on the other's arm, "can't we two be friendly? Why don't you give a fellow a lift? All I want to know is where the old man's put his money, and how he's left it." "Suppose I do know," Mr. Chalker replied, wishing ardently that he did, "do you think I am going to betray trust--a solicitor betray trust--and for nothing? But if you want to talk real business, Joe, come to my office. You know where that is." Joe knew very well; in fact, there had been more than one difficulty which had been adjusted through Mr. Chalker's not wholly disinterested aid. Then the singer appeared again attired in a new and startling dress, and Joe began once more to applaud again with voice and stick. Mr. Chalker, surprised at this newly-developed enthusiasm for art, left him and walked up the hall, and sat down beside the chairman, whom he seemed to know. In fact, the chairman was also the proprietor of the show, and Mr. Chalker was acting for him in his professional capacity, much as he had acted for Mr. Emblem. "Who is your new singer?" he asked. "She calls herself Miss Carlotta Claradine. She's a woman, let me tell you, Mr. Chalker, who will get along. Fine figure, plenty of cheek, loud voice, flings herself about, and don't mind a bit when the words are a leetle strong. That's the kind of singer the people like. That's her husband, at the far end of the room--the big, good-looking chap with the light mustache and the cigarette in his mouth." "Whew!" Mr. Chalker whistled the low note which indicates Surprise. "That's her husband, is it? The husband of Miss Carlotta Claradine, is it? Oho! oho! Her husband! Are you sure he is her husband?" "Do you know him, then?" "Yes, I know him. What was the real name of the girl?" "Charlotte Smithers. This is her first appearance on any stage--and we made up the name for her when we first put her on the posters. I made it myself--out of Chlorodyne, you know, which is in the advertisements. Sounds well, don't it? Carlotta Claradine." "Very well, indeed. By Jove! Her husband, is he?" "And, I suppose," said the chairman, "lives on his wife's salary. Bless you, Mr. Chalker, there's a whole gang about every theater and music hall trying to get hold of the promising girls. It's a regular profession. Them as have nothing but their good looks may do for the mashers, but these chaps look out for the girls who'll bring in the money. What's a pretty face to them compared with the handling of a big salary every week? That's the sort Carlotta's husband belongs to." "Well, the life will suit him down to the ground." "And jealous with it, if you please. He comes here every night to applaud and takes her home himself. Keeps himself sober on purpose." And then the lady appeared again in a wonderful costume of blue silk and tights, personating the Lion Masher. It was her third and last song. In the applause which followed, Mr. Chalker could discern plainly the stick as well as the voice of his old friend. And he thought how beautiful is the love of husband unto wife, and he smiled, thinking that when Joe came next to see him, he might, perhaps, hear truths which he had thought unknown, and, for certain reasons, wished to remain unknown. Presently he saw the singer pass down the hall, and join her husband, who now, his labors ended, was seeking refreshment at the bar. She was a good-looking girl--still only a girl, and apparently under twenty--quietly dressed, yet looking anything but quiet. But that might have been due to her fringe, which was, so to speak, a prominent-feature in her face. She was tall and well-made, with large features, an ample cheek, a full eye, and a wide mouth. A good-natured-looking girl, and though her mouth was wide, it suggested smiles. The husband was exchanging a little graceful badinage with the barmaid when she joined him, and perhaps this made her look a little cross. "She's jealous, too," said Mr. Chalker, observant; "all the better." Yet a face which, on the whole, was prepossessing and good natured, and betokened a disposition to make the best of the world. "How long has she been married?" Mr. Chalker asked the proprietor. "Only about a month or so." "Ah!" Mr. Chalker proceeded to talk business, and gave no further hint of any interest in the newly-married pair. "Now, Joe," said the singer, with a freezing glance at the barmaid, "are you going to stand here all night?" Joe drank off his glass and followed his wife into the street. They walked side by side in silence, until they reached their lodgings. Then she threw off her hat and jacket, and sat down on the horsehair sofa and said abruptly: "I can't do it, Joe; and I won't. So don't ask me." "Wait a bit--wait a bit, Lotty, my love. Don't be in a hurry, now. Don't say rash things, there's a good girl." Joe spoke quite softly, as if he were not the least angry, but, perhaps, a little hurt. "There's not a bit of a hurry. You needn't decide to-day, nor yet to-morrow." "I couldn't do it," she said. "Oh, it's a dreadful, wicked thing even to ask me. And only five weeks to-morrow since we married!" "Lotty, my dear, let us be reasonable." He still spoke quite softly. "If we are not to go on like other people; if we are to be continually bothering our heads about honesty, and that rubbish, we shall be always down in the world. How do other people make money and get on? By humbug, my dear. By humbug. As for you, a little play-acting is nothing." "But I am not the man's daughter, and my own father's alive and well." "Look here, Lotty. You are always grumbling about the music-halls." "Well, and good reason to grumble. If you heard those ballet girls talk, and see how they go on at the back, you'd grumble. As for the music--" She laughed, as if against her will. "If anybody had told me six months ago--me, that used to go to the Cathedral Service every afternoon--that I should be a Lion Masher at a music-hall and go on dressed in tights, I should have boxed his ears for impudence." "Why, you don't mean to tell me, Lotty, that you wish you had stuck to the moldy old place, and gone on selling music over the counter?" "Well, then, perhaps I do." "No, no, Lotty; your husband cannot let you say that." "My husband can laugh and talk with barmaids. That makes him happy." "Lotty," he said, "you are a little fool. And think of the glory. Posters with your name in letters a foot and a half long--'The People's Favorite.' Why, don't they applaud you till their hands drop off?" She melted a little. "Applaud! As if that did any good! And me in tights!" "As for the tights," Joe replied with dignity, "the only person whom you need consult on that subject is your husband; and since I do not object, I should like to see the man who does. Show me that man, Lotty, and I'll straighten him out for you. You have my perfect approval, my dear. I honor you for the tights." "My husband's approval!" She repeated his words again in a manner which had been on other occasions most irritating to him. But to-night he refused to be offended. "Of course," he went on, "as soon as I get a berth on another ship I shall take you off the boards. It is the husband's greatest delight, especially if he is a jolly sailor, to brave all dangers for his wife. Think, Lotty, how pleasant it would be not to do any more work." "I should like to sing sometimes, to sing good music, at the great concerts. That's what I thought I was going to do." "You shall; you shall sing as little or as often as you like. 'A sailor's wife a sailor's star should be.' You shall be a great lady, Lotty, and you shall just command your own line. Wait a bit, and you shall have your own carriage, and your own beautiful house, and go to as many balls as you like among the countesses and the swells." "Oh, Joe!" she laughed. "Why, if we were as rich as anything, I should never get ladies to call upon me. And as for you, no one would ever take you to be a gentleman, you know." "Why, what do you call me, now?" He laughed, but without much enjoyment. No one likes to be told that he is not a gentleman, whatever his own suspicions on the subject may be. "Never mind. I know a gentleman when I see one. Go on with your nonsense about being rich." "I shall make you rich, Lotty, whether you like it or not," he said, still with unwonted sweetness. She shook her head. "Not by wickedness," she said stoutly. "I've got there," he pulled a bundle of papers out of his pockets, "all the documents wanted to complete the case. All I want now is for the rightful heiress to step forward." "I'm not the rightful heiress, and I'm not the woman to step forward, Joe; so don't you think it." "I've been to-day," Joe continued, "to Doctors' Commons, and I've seen the will. There's no manner of doubt about it; and the money--oh, Lord, Lotty, if you only knew how much it is!" "What does it matter, Joe, how much it is, if it is neither yours nor mine?" "It matters this: that it ought all to be mine." "How can that be, if it was not left to you?" Joe was nothing if not a man of resource. He therefore replied without hesitation or confusion: "The money was left to a certain man and to his heirs. That man is dead. His heiress should have succeeded, but she was kept out of her rights. She is dead, and I am her cousin, and entitled to all her property, because she made no will." "Is that gospel truth, Joe? Is she dead? Are you sure?" "Quite sure," he replied. "Dead as a door-nail." "Is that the way you got the papers?" "That's the way, Lotty." "Then why not go to a lawyer and make him take up the case for you, and honestly get your own?" "You don't know law, my dear, or you wouldn't talk nonsense about lawyers. There are two ways. One is to go myself to the present unlawful possessor and claim the whole. It's a woman; she would be certain to refuse, and then we should go to law, and very likely lose it all, although the right is on our side. The other way is for some one--say you--to go to her and say: 'I am that man's daughter. Here are my proofs. Here are all his papers. Give me back my own.' That you could do in the interests of justice, though I own it is not the exact truth." "And if she refuses then?" "She can't refuse, with the man's daughter actually standing before her. She might make a fuss for a bit. But she would have to give in at last." "Joe, consider. You have got some papers, whatever they may contain. Suppose that it is all true that you have told me--" "Lotty, my dear, when did I ever tell you an untruth?" "When did you ever tell me the truth, my dear? Don't talk wild. Suppose it is all true, how are you going to make out where your heiress has been all this time, and what she has been doing?" "Trust me for that." "I trust you for making up something or other, but--oh, Joe, you little think, you clever people, how seldom you succeed in deceiving any one." "I've got such a story for you, Lotty, as would deceive anybody. Listen now. It's part truth, and part--the other thing. Your father--" "My father, poor dear man," Lotty interrupted, "is minding his music-shop in Gloucester, and little thinking what wickedness his daughter is being asked to do." "Hang it! the girl's father, then. He died in America, where he went under another name, and you were picked up by strangers and reared under that name, in complete ignorance of your own family. All which is true and can be proved." "Who brought her up?" "People in America. I'm one of 'em." "Who is to prove that?" "I am. I am come to England on purpose. I am her guardian." "Who is to prove that you are the girl's guardian?" "I shall find somebody to prove that." His thoughts turned to Mr. Chalker, a gentleman whom he judged capable of proving anything he was paid for. "And suppose they ask me questions?" "Don't answer 'em. You know very little. The papers were only found the other day. You are not expected to know anything." "Where was the real girl?" "With her grandfather." "Where was the grandfather?" "What does that matter?" he replied; "I will tell you afterward." "When did the real girl die?" "That, too, I will tell you afterward." Lotty leaned her cheek upon her hand, and looked at her husband thoughtfully. "Let us be plain, Joe." "You can never be plain, my dear," he replied with the smile of a lover, not a husband; "never in your husband's eyes; not even in tights." But she was not to be won by flattery. "Fine words," she said, "fine words. What do they amount to? Oh, Joe, little I thought when you came along with your beautiful promises, what sort of a man I was going to marry." "A very good sort of a man," he said. "You've got a jolly sailor--an officer and a gentleman. Come now, what have you got to say to this? Can't you be satisfied with an officer and a gentleman?" He drew himself up to his full height. Well, he was a handsome fellow: there was no denying it. "Good looks and fine words," his wife went on. "Well, and now I've got to keep you, and if you could make me sing in a dozen halls every night, you would, and spend the money on yourself--joyfully you would." "We would spend it together, my dear. Don't turn rusty, Lotty." He was not a bad-tempered man, and this kind of talk did not anger him at all. So long as his wife worked hard and brought in the coin for him to spend, what mattered for a few words now and then? Besides, he wanted her assistance. "What are you driving at?" he went on. "I show you a bit of my hand, and you begin talking round and round. Look here, Lotty. Here's a splendid chance for us. I must have a woman's help. I would rather have your help than any other woman's--yes, than any other woman's in the world. I would indeed. If you won't help me, why, then, of course, I must go to some other woman." His wife gasped and choked. She knew already, after only five weeks' experience, how bad a man he was--how unscrupulous, false, and treacherous, how lazy and selfish. But, after a fashion, she loved him; after a woman's fashion, she was madly jealous of him. Another woman! And only the other night she had seen him giving brandy-and-soda to one of the music-hall ballet-girls. Another woman! "If you do, Joe," she said; "oh, if you do--I will kill her and you too!" He laughed. "If I do, my dear, you don't think I shall be such a fool as to tell you who she is. Do you suppose that no woman has ever fallen in love with me before you? But then, my pretty, you see I don't talk about them; and do you suppose--oh, Lotty, are you such a fool as to suppose that you are the first girl I ever fell in love with?" "What do you want me to do? Tell me again." "I have told you already. I want you to become, for the time, the daughter of the man who died in America; you will claim your inheritance; I will provide you with all the papers; I will stand by you; I will back you up with such a story as will disarm all suspicion. That is all." "Yes. I understand. Haven't people been sent to prison for less, Joe?" "Foolish people have. Not people who are well advised and under good management. Mind you, this business is under my direction. I am boss." She made no reply, but took her candle and went off to bed. In the dead of night she awakened her husband. "Joe," she said, "is it true that you know another girl who would do this for you?" "More than one, Lotty," he replied, this man of resource, although he was only half awake. "More than one. A great many more. Half-a-dozen, I know, at least." She was silent. Half an hour afterward she woke him up again. "Joe," she said, "I've made up my mind. You sha'n't say that I refused to do for you what any other girl in the world would have done." As a tempter it will be seen that Joe was unsurpassed. It was now a week since he had received, carefully wrapped in wool, and deposited in a wooden box dispatched by post, a key, newly made. It was, also, very nearly a week since he had used that key. It was used during Mr. Emblem's hour for tea, while James waited and watched outside in an agony of terror. But Joe did not find what he wanted. There were in the safe one or two ledgers, a banker's book, a check-book, and a small quantity of money. But there were not any records at all of monies invested. There were no railway certificates, waterwork shares, transfers, or notes of stock, mortgages, loans, or anything at all. The only thing that he saw was a roll of papers tied up with red tape. On the roll was written: "For Iris. To be given to her on her twenty-first birthday." "What the deuce is this, I wonder?" Joe took this out and looked at it suspiciously. "Can he be going to give her all his money before he dies? Is he going to make her inherit it at once?" The thought was so exasperating that he slipped the roll into his pocket. "At all events," he said, "she sha'n't have them until I have read them first. I dare say they won't be missed for a day or two." He calculated that he could read and master the contents that night, and put back the papers in the safe in the morning while James was opening the shop. "There's nothing, James," he whispered as he went out, the safe being locked again. "There is nothing at all. Look here, my lad, you must try another way of finding out where the money is." "I wish I was sure that he hasn't carried off something in his pocket," James murmured. Joe spent the whole evening alone, contrary to his usual practice, which was, as we have seen, to spend it at a certain music-hall. He read the papers over and over again. "I wish," he said at length, "I wish I had known this only two months ago. I wish I had paid more attention to Iris. What a dreadful thing it is to have a grandfather who keeps secrets from his grandson. What a game we might have had over this job! What a game we might have still if--" And here he stopped, for the first germ or conception of a magnificent coup dawned upon him, and fairly dazzled him so that his eyes saw a bright light and nothing else. "If Lotty would," he said. "But I am afraid she won't hear of it." He sprung to his feet and caught sight of his own face in the looking glass over the fireplace. He smiled. "I will try," he said, "I think I know by this time, how to get round most of 'em. Once they get to feel there are other women in the world besides themselves, they're pretty easy worked. I will try." One has only to add to the revelations already made that Joe paid a second visit to the shop, this time early in the morning. The shutters were only just taken down. James was going about with that remarkable watering-pot only used in shops, which has a little stream running out of it, and Mr. Emblem was upstairs slowly shaving and dressing in his bedroom. He walked in, nodded to his friend the assistant, opened the safe, and put back the roll. "Now," he murmured, "if the old man has really been such a dunder-headed pump as not to open the packet all these years, what the devil can he know? The name is different; he hasn't got any clew to the will; he hasn't got the certificate of his daughter's marriage, or of the child's baptism--both in the real name. He hasn't got anything. As for the girl here, Iris, having the same christian-name, that's nothing. I suppose there is more than one woman with such a fool of a name as that about in the world. "Foxy," he said cheerfully, "have you found anything yet about the investments? Odd, isn't it? Nothing in the safe at all. You can have your key back." He tossed him the key carelessly and went away. The question of his grandfather's savings was grown insignificant beside this great and splendid prize which lay waiting for him. What could the savings be? At best a few thousands; the slowly saved thrift of fifty years; nobody knew better than Joe himself how much his own profligacies had cost his grandfather; a few thousands, and those settled on his Cousin Iris, so that, to get his share, he would have to try every kind of persuasion unless he could get up a case for law. But the other thing--why, it was nearly all personal estate, so far as he could learn by the will, and he had read it over and over again in the room at Somerset House, with the long table in it, and the watchful man who won't let anybody copy anything. What a shame, he thought, not to let wills be copied! Personalty sworn under a hundred and twenty thousand, all in three per cents, and devised to a certain young lady, the testator's ward, in trust, for the testator's son, or his heirs, when he or they should present themselves. Meantime, the ward was to receive for her own use and benefit, year by year, the whole income. "It is unfortunate," said Joe, "that we can't come down upon her for arrears. Still, there's an income, a steady income, of three thousand six hundred a year when the son's heirs present themselves. I should like to call myself a solicitor, but that kite won't fly, I'm afraid. Lotty must be the sole heiress. Dressed quiet, without any powder, and her fringe brushed flat, she'd pass for a lady anywhere. Perhaps it's lucky, after all, that I married her, though if I had had the good sense to make up to Iris, who's a deuced sight prettier, she'd have kept me going almost as well with her pupils, and set me right with the old man and handed me over this magnificent haul for a finish. If only the old man hasn't broken the seals and read the papers!" The old man had not, and Joe's fears were, therefore, groundless. CHAPTER V. AS A BROTHER. Arnold immediately began to use the privilege accorded to him with a large and liberal interpretation. If, he argued, a man is to be treated as a brother, there should be the immediate concession of the exchange of christian-names, and he should be allowed to call as often as he pleases. Naturally he began by trying to read the secret of a life self-contained, so dull, and yet so happy, so strange to his experience. "Is this, Iris?" he asked, "all your life? Is there nothing more?" "No," she said; "I think you have seen all. In the morning I have my correspondence; in the afternoon I do my sewing, I play a little, I read, or I walk, sometimes by myself, and sometimes with Lala Roy; in the evening I play again, or I read again, or I work at the mathematics, while my grandfather and Lala Roy have their chess. We used to go to the theater sometimes, but of late my grandfather has not gone. At ten we go to bed. That is all my life." "But, Iris, have you no friends at all, and no relations? Are there no girls of your own age who come to see you?" "No, not one; I have a cousin, but he is not a good man at all. His father and mother are in Australia. When he comes here, which is very seldom, my grandfather falls ill only with thinking about him and looking at him. But I have no other relations, because, you see, I do not know who my father's people were." "Then," said Arnold, "you may be countess in your own right; you may have any number of rich people and nice people for your cousins. Do you not sometimes think of that?" "No" said Iris; "I never think about things impossible." "If I were you, I should go about the streets, and walk round the picture-galleries looking for a face like your own. There cannot be many. Let me draw your face, Iris, and then we will send it to the Grosvenor, and label it, 'Wanted, this young lady's cousins.' You must have cousins, if you could only find them out." "I suppose I must. But what if they should turn out to be rough and disagreeable people?" "Your cousins could not be disagreeable, Iris," said Arnold. She shook her head. "One thing I should like," she replied. "It would be to find that my cousins, if I have any, are clever people--astronomers, mathematicians, great philosophers, and writers. But what nonsense it is even to talk of such things; I am quite alone, except for my grandfather and Lala Roy." "And they are old," murmured Arnold. "Do not look at me with such pity," said the girl. "I am very happy. I have my own occupation; I am independent; I have my work to fill my mind; and I have these two old gentlemen to care for and think of. They have taken so much care of me that I ought to think of nothing else but their comfort; and then there are the books down-stairs--thousands of beautiful old books always within my reach." "But you must have some companions, if only to talk and walk with." "Why, the books are my companions; and then Lala Roy goes for walks with me; and as for talking, I think it is much more pleasant to think." "Where do you walk?" "There is Battersea Park; there are the squares; and if you take an omnibus, there are the Gardens and Hyde Park." "But never alone, Iris?" "Oh, yes, I am often alone. Why not?" "I suppose," said Arnold, shirking the question, because this is a civilized country, and in fact, why not? "I suppose that it is your work which keeps you from feeling life dull and monotonous." "No life," she said, looking as wise as Newton, if Newton was ever young and handsome--"no life can be dull when one is thinking about mathematics all day. Do you study mathematics?" "No; I was at Oxford, you know." "Then perhaps you prefer metaphysics? Though Lala Roy says that the true metaphysics, which he has tried to teach me, can only be reached by the Hindoo intellect." "No, indeed; I have never read any metaphysics whatever. I have only got the English intellect." This he said with intent satirical, but Iris failed to understand it so, and thought it was meant for a commendable humility. "Physical science, perhaps?" "No, Iris. Philosophy, mathematics, physics, metaphysics, or science of any kind have I never learned, except only the science of Heraldry, which you have taught me, with a few other things." "Oh!" She wondered how a man could exist at all without learning these things. "Not any science at all? How can any one live without some science?" "I knew very well," he said, "that as soon as I was found out I should be despised." "Oh, no, not despised. But it seems such a pity--" "There is another kind of life, Iris, which you do not know. You must let me teach you. It is the life of Art. If you would only condescend to show the least curiosity about me, Iris, I would try to show you something of the Art life." "How can I show curiosity about you, Arnold? I feel none." "No; that is just the thing which shames me. I have felt the most lively curiosity about you, and I have asked you thousands of impertinent questions." "Not impertinent, Arnold. If you want to ask any more, pray do. I dare say you cannot understand my simple life." "And you ask me nothing at all about myself. It isn't fair, Iris." "Why should I? I know you already." "You know nothing at all about me." "Oh, yes, I know you very well indeed. I knew you before you came here. You showed me yourself in your letters. You are exactly like the portrait I drew of you. I never thought, for instance, that you were an old gentleman, as you thought me." He laughed. It was a new thing to see Iris using, even gently, the dainty weapons of satire. "But you do not know what I am, or what is my profession, or anything at all about me." "No; I do not care to know. All that is not part of yourself. It is outside you." "And because you thought you knew me from those letters, you suffer me to come here and be your disciple still? Yet you gave me back my letters?" "That was because they were written to me under a wrong impression." "Will you have them back again?" She shook her head. "I know them all by heart," she said simply. There was not the slightest sign of coquetry or flattery in her voice, or in her eyes, which met his look with clear and steady gaze. "I cannot ask you to read my portrait to me as you drew it from those pictures." "Why not?" She began to read him his portrait as readily as if she were stating the conclusion of a problem. "I saw that you were young and full of generous thoughts; sometimes you were indignant with things as they are, but generally you laughed at them and accepted them. It is, it seems, the nature of your friends to laugh a great deal at things which they ought to remedy if they could; not laugh at them. I thought that you wanted some strong stimulus to work; anybody could see that you were a man of kindly nature and good-breeding. You were careful not to offend by anything that you wrote, and I was certain that you were a man of honor. I trusted you, Arnold, before I saw your face, because I knew your soul." "Trust me still, Iris," he said in rather a husky voice. "Of course I did not know, and never thought, what sort of a man you were to look at. Yet I ought to have known that you were handsome. I should have guessed that from the very tone of your letters. A hunchback or a cripple could not have written in so light-hearted a strain, and I should have discovered, if I had thought of such a thing, that you were very well satisfied with your personal appearance. Young men should always be that, at least, if only to give them confidence." "Oh, Iris--oh! Do you really think me conceited?" "I did not say that. I only said that you were satisfied with yourself. That, I understand now, was clear, from many little natural touches in your letters." "What else did you learn?" "Oh, a great deal--much more than I can tell you. I knew that you go into society, and I learned from you what society means; and though you tried to be sarcastic, I understood easily that you liked social pleasure." "Was I sarcastic?" "Was it not sarcastic to tell me how the fine ladies, who affect so much enthusiasm for art, go to see the galleries on the private-view day, and are never seen in them again? Was it not sarcastic--" "Spare me, Iris. I will never do it again. And knowing so much, do you not desire to know more?" "No, Arnold. I am not interested in anything else." "But my position, my profession, my people--are you not curious to know them?" "No. They are not you. They are accidents of yourself." "Philosopher! But you must know more about me. I told you I was an artist. But you have never inquired whether I was a great artist or a little one." "You are still a little artist," she said. "I know that, without being told. But perhaps you may become great when you learn to work seriously." "I have been lazy," he replied with something like a blush, "but that is all over now. I am going to work. I will give up society. I will take my profession seriously, if only you will encourage me." Did he mean what he said? When he came away he used at this period to ask himself that question, and was astonished at the length he had gone. With any other girl in the world, he would have been taken at his word, and either encouraged to go on, or snubbed on the spot. But Iris received these advances as if they were a confession of weakness. "Why do you want me to encourage you?" she asked. "I know nothing about Art. Can't you encourage yourself, Arnold?" "Iris, I must tell you something more about myself. Will you listen for a moment? Well, I am the son of a clergyman who now holds a colonial appointment. I have got the usual number of brothers and sisters, who are doing the usual things. I will not bore you with details about them." "No," said Iris, "please do not." "I am the adopted son, or ward, or whatever you please, of a certain cousin. She is a single lady with a great income, which she promises to bequeath to me in the future. In the meantime, I am to have whatever I want. Do you understand the position, Iris?" "Yes, I think so. It is interesting, because it shows why you will never be a great artist. But it is very sad." "A man may rise above his conditions, Iris," said Arnold meekly. "No," she went on; "it is only the poor men who do anything good. Lala Roy says so." "I will pretend to be poor--indeed, I am poor. I have nothing. If it were not for my cousin, I could not even profess to follow Art." "What a pity," she said, "that you are rich! Lala Roy was rich once." Arnold repressed an inclination to desire that Lala Roy might be kept out of the conversation. "But he gave up all his wealth and has been happy, and a philosopher, ever since." "I can't give up my wealth, Iris, because I haven't got any--I owe my cousin everything. But for her, I should never even have known you." He watched her at her work in the morning when she sat patiently answering questions, working out problems, and making papers. She showed him the letters of her pupils, exacting, excusing, petulant--sometimes dissatisfied and even ill-tempered, he watched her in the afternoon while she sewed or read. In the evening he sat with her while the two old men played their game of chess. Regularly every evening at half-past nine the Bengalee checkmated Mr. Emblem. Up to that hour he amused himself with his opponent, formed ingenious combinations, watched openings, and gradually cleared the board until he found himself as the hour of half-past nine drew near, able to propose a simple problem to his own mind, such as, "White moves first, to mate in three, four, or five moves," and then he proceeded to solve that problem, and checkmated his adversary. No one, not even Iris, knew how Lala Roy lived, or what he did in the daytime. It was rumored that he had been seen at Simpson's in the Strand, but this report wanted confirmation. He had lived in Mr. Emblem's second floor for twenty years; he always paid his bills with regularity, and his long spare figure and white mustache and fez were as well known in Chelsea as any red-coated lounger among the old veterans of the Hospital. "It is quiet for you in the evenings," said Arnold. "I play to them sometimes. They like to hear me play during the game. Look at them." She sat down and played. She had a delicate touch, and played soft music, such as soothes, not excites the soul. Arnold watched her, not the old men. How was it that refinement, grave, self-possession, manners, and the culture of a lady, could be found in one who knew no ladies? But then Arnold did not know Lala Roy, nor did he understand the old bookseller. "You are always wondering about me," she said, talking while she played; "I see it in your eyes. Can you not take me as I am, without thinking why I am different from other girls? Of course I am different, because I know none of them." "I wish they were all like you," he said. "No; that would be a great pity. You want girls who understand your own life, and can enter into your pursuits--you want companions who can talk to you; go back to them, Arnold, as soon as you are tired of coming here." And yet his instinct was right which told him that the girl was not a coquette. She had no thought--not the least thought--as yet that anything was possible beyond the existing friendship. It was pleasant, but Arnold would get tired of her, and go back to his own people. Then he would remain in her memory as a study of character. This she did not exactly formulate, but she had that feeling. Every woman makes a study of character about every man in whom she becomes ever so little interested. But we must not get conceited, my brothers, over this fact. The converse, unhappily, does not hold true. Very few men ever study the character of a woman at all. Either they fall in love with her before they have had time to make more than a sketch, and do not afterward pursue the subject, or they do not fall in love with her at all; and in the latter case it hardly seems worth while to follow up a first rough draft. "Checkmate," said Lala Roy. The game was finished and the evening over. "Would you like," he said, another evening, "to see my studio, or do you consider my studio outside myself?" "I should very much like to see an artist's studio," she replied with her usual frankness, leaving it an open question whether she would not be equally pleased to see any other studio. She came, however, accompanied by Lala Roy, who had never been in a studio before, and indeed had never looked at a picture, except with the contemptuous glance which the philosopher bestows upon the follies of mankind. Yet he came, because Iris asked him. Arnold's studio is one of the smallest of those in Tite Street. Of course it is built of red brick, and of course it has a noble staircase and a beautiful painting-room or studio proper all set about with bits of tapestry, armor, pictures, and china, besides the tools and properties of the craft. He had portfolios full of sketches; against the wall stood pictures, finished and unfinished; on an easel was a half-painted picture representing a group taken from a modern novel. Most painters only draw scenes from two novels--the "Vicar of Wakefield" and "Don Quixote;" but Arnold knew more. The central figure was a girl, quite unfinished--in fact, barely sketched in. Iris looked at everything with the interest which belongs to the new and unexpected. Arnold began to show the pictures in the portfolios. There were sketches of peasant life in Norway and on the Continent; there were landscapes, quaint old houses, and castles; there were ships and ports; and there were heads--hundreds of heads. "I said you might be a great artist," said Iris. "I am sure now that you will be if you choose." "Thank you, Iris. It is the greatest compliment you could pay me." "And what is this?" she was before the easel on which stood the unfinished picture. "It is a scene from a novel. But I cannot get the principal face. None of the models are half good enough. I want a sweet face, a serious face, a face with deep, beautiful eyes. Iris"--it was a sudden impulse, an inspiration--"let me put your face there. Give me my first commission." She blushed deeply. All these drawings, the multitudinous faces and heads and figures in the portfolio were a revelation to her. And just at the very moment when she discovered that Arnold was one of those who worship beauty--a thing she had never before understood--he told her that her face was so beautiful that he must put in his picture. "Oh, Arnold," she said, "my face would be out of place in that picture." "Would it? Please sit down, and let me make a sketch." He seized his crayons and began rapidly. "What do you say, Lala Roy?" he asked by way of diversion. "The gifts of the understanding," said the Sage, "are the treasures of the Lord; and He appointeth to every one his portion." "Thank you," replied Arnold. "Very true and very apt, I'm sure. Iris, please, your face turned just a little. So. Ah, if I can but do some measure of justice to your eyes!" When Iris went away, there was for the first time the least touch of restraint or self-consciousness in her. Arnold felt it. She showed it in her eyes and in the touch of her fingers when he took her hand at parting. It was then for the first time also that Arnold discovered a truth of overwhelming importance. Every new fact--everything which cannot be disputed or denied, is, we all know, of the most enormous importance. He discovered no less a truth than that he was in love with Iris. So important is this truth to a young man that it reduces the countless myriads of the world to a single pair--himself and another; it converts the most arid waste of streets into an Eden; and it blinds the eyes to ambition, riches, and success. Arnold sat down and reasoned out this truth. He said coldly and "squarely:" "This is a girl whom I have known only a fortnight or so; she lives over a second-hand bookshop; she is a teacher by profession; she knows none of the ways of society; she would doubtless be guilty of all kinds of queer things, if she were suddenly introduced to good people; probably, she would never learn our manners," with more to the same effect, which may be reasonably omitted. Then his Conscience woke up, and said quite simply: "Arnold, you are a liar." Conscience does sometimes call hard names. She is feminine, and therefore privileged to call hard names. Else we would sometimes kick and belabor Conscience. "Arnold, don't tell more lies. You have been gradually learning to know Iris, through the wisest and sweetest letters that were ever written, for a whole year. You gradually began to know her, in fact, when you first began to interlard your letters with conceited revelations about yourself. You knew her to be sympathetic, quick, and of a most kind and tender heart. You are quite sure, though you try to disguise the fact, that she is as honest as the day, and as true as steel. As for her not being a lady, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for even thinking such a thing. Has she not been tenderly brought up by two old men who are full of honor, and truth, and all the simple virtues? Does she not look, move, and speak like the most gracious lady in the land?" "Like a goddess," Arnold confessed. "As for the ways and talk of society, what are these worth? and cannot they be acquired? And what are her manners save those of the most perfect refinement and purity?" Thus far Conscience. Then Arnold, or Arnold's secret _advocatus diaboli_, began upon another and quite different line. "She must have schemed at the outset to get me into her net; she is a siren; she assumes the disguise of innocence and ignorance the better to beguile and to deceive. She has gone home to-day elated because she thinks she has landed a gentleman." Conscience said nothing; there are some things to which Conscience has no reply in words to offer; yet Conscience pointed to the portrait of the girl, and bade the most unworthy of all lovers look upon even his own poor and meager representation of her eyes and face, and ask whether such blasphemies could ever be forgiven. After a self abasement, which for shame's sake we must pass over, the young man felt happier. Henry the Second felt much the same satisfaction the morning after his scourging at the hands of the monks, who were as muscular as they were vindictive. CHAPTER VI. COUSIN CLARA. That man who spends his days in painting a girl's portrait, in talking to her, and in gazing upon the unfinished portrait when she is not with him, and occupies his thoughts during the watches of the night in thinking about her, is perilously near to taking the last and fatal step. Flight for such a man is the only thing left, and he so seldom thinks of flight until it is too late. Arnold was at this point. "I am possessed by this girl," he might have said had he put his thoughts into words. "I am haunted by her eyes; her voice lingers on my ears; I dream of her face, the touch of her fingers is like the touch of an electric battery." What symptoms are these, so common that one is almost ashamed to write them down, but the infallible symptoms of love? And yet he hesitated, not because he doubted himself any longer, but because he was not independent, and such an engagement might deprive him at one stroke of all that he possessed. Might? It certainly would. Yes, the new and beautiful studio, all the things in it, all his prospects for the future, would have to be given up. "She is worth more than that," said Arnold, "and I should find work somehow. But yet, to plunge her into poverty--and to make Clara the most unhappy of women!" The reason why Clara would be made the most unhappy of women, was that Clara was his cousin and his benefactor, to whom he owed everything. She was the kindest of patrons, and she liked nothing so much as the lavishing upon her ward everything that he could desire. But she also, unfortunately, illustrated the truth of Chaucer's teaching, in that she loved power more than anything else, and had already mapped out Arnold's life for him. It was his custom to call upon her daily, to use her house as his own. When they were separated, they wrote to each other every day; the relations between them were of the most intimate and affectionate kind. He advised in all her affairs, while she directed his; it was understood that he was her heir, and though she was not more than five and forty or so, and had, apparently, a long life still before her, so that the succession was distant, the prospect gave him importance. She had been out of town, and perhaps the fact of a new acquaintance with so obscure a person as a simple tutor by correspondence, seemed to Arnold not worth mentioning. At all events, he had not mentioned it in his daily letters. And now she was coming home; she was actually arrived; he would see her that evening. Her last letter was lying before him. "I parted from dear Stella yesterday. She goes to stay with the Essex Mainwarings for a month; after that, I hope that she will give me a long visit. I do not know where one could find a sweeter girl, or one more eminently calculated to make a man happy. Beautiful, strictly speaking, she is not, perhaps, but of excellent connections, not without a portion, young, clever, and ambitious. With such a wife, my dear Arnold, a man may aspire to anything." "To anything!" repeated Arnold; "what is her notion of anything? She has arrived by this time." He looked at his watch and found it was past five. "I ought to have been at the station to meet her. I must go round and see her, and I must dine with her to-night." He sighed heavily. "It would be much pleasanter to spend the evening with Iris." Then a carriage stopped at his door. It was his cousin, and the next minute he was receiving and giving the kiss of welcome. For his own part, he felt guilty, because he could put so little heart into that kiss, compared with all previous embraces. She was a stout, hearty little woman, who could never have been in the least beautiful, even when she was young. Now on the middle line, between forty and fifty, she looked as if her face had been chopped out of the marble by a rude but determined artist, one who knew what he wanted and would tolerate no conventional work. So that her face, at all events, was, if not unique, at least unlike any other face one had ever seen. Most faces, we know, can be reduced to certain general types--even Iris's face might be classified--while of yours, my brother, there are, no doubt, multitudes. Miss Holland, however, had good eyes--bright, clear gray--the eyes of a woman who knows what she wants and means to get it if she can. "Well, my dear," she said, taking the one comfortable chair in the studio, "I am back again, and I have enjoyed my journey very much; we will have all the travels this evening. You are looking splendid, Arnold!" "I am very well indeed. And you, Clara? But I need not ask." "No, I am always well. I told you about dear Stella, did I not? I never had a more delightful companion." "So glad you liked her." "If only, Arnold, you would like her too. But I know"--for Arnold changed color--"I know one must not interfere in these matters. But surely one may go so far with a young man one loves as to say, 'Here is a girl of a million.' There is not, Arnold, I declare, her equal anywhere; a clearer head I never met, or a better educated girl, or one who knows what a man can do, and how he can be helped to do it." "Thank you, Clara," Arnold said coldly; "I dare say I shall discover the young lady's perfections in time." "Not, I think, without some help. She is not an ordinary girl. You must draw her out, my dear boy." "I will," he said listlessly. "I will try to draw her out, if you like." "We talked a great deal of you, Arnold," Clara went on. "I confided to her some of my hopes and ambitions for you; and I am free to confess to you that she has greatly modified all my plans and calculations." "Oh!" Arnold was interested in this "But, my dear Clara, I have my profession. I must follow my profession." "Surely--surely! Listen, Arnold, patiently. Anybody can become an artist--anybody, of course, who has the genius. And all kinds of people, gutter people, have the genius." "The sun," said Arnold, just as if he had been Lala Roy, "shines on all alike." "Quite so; and there is an immense enthusiasm for art everywhere; but there is no art leader. There is no one man recognized as the man most competent to speak on art of every kind. Think of that. It is Stella's idea entirely. This man, when he is found, will sway enormous authority; he will become, if he has a wife able to assist him, an immense social power." "And you want me to become that man?" "Yes, Arnold. I do not see why you should not become that man. Cease to think of becoming President of the Royal Academy, yet go on painting; prove your genius, so as to command respect; cultivate the art of public speaking; and look about for a wife who will be your right hand. Think of this seriously. This is only a rough sketch, we can fill in the details afterward. But think of it. Oh, my dear boy! if I were only a man, and five-and-twenty, with such a chance before me! What a glorious career is yours, if you choose! But of course you will choose. Good gracious, Arnold! who is that?" She pointed to the canvas on the easel, where Iris's face was like the tale of Cambuscan, half told. "It is no one you know, Clara." "One of your models?" She rose and examined it more closely through her glasses. "The eyes are wonderful, Arnold. They are eyes I know. As if I could ever forget them! They are the same eyes, exactly the same eyes. I have never met with any like them before. They are the eyes of my poor, lost, betrayed Claude Deseret. Where did you pick up this girl, Arnold? Is she a common model?" "Not at all. She is not a model. She is a young lady who teaches by correspondence. She is my tutor--of course I have so often talked to you about her--who taught me the science of Heraldry, and wrote me such charming letters." "Your tutor! You said your tutor was an old gentleman." "So I thought, Clara. But I was wrong. My tutor is a young lady, and this is her portrait, half-finished. It does not do her any kind of justice." "A young lady!" She looked suspiciously at Arnold, whose telltale cheek flushed. "A young lady! Indeed! And you have made her acquaintance." "As you see, Clara; and she does me the honor to let me paint her portrait." "What is her name, Arnold?" "She is a Miss Aglen." "Strange. The Deserets once intermarried with the Aglens. I wonder if she is any connection. They were Warwickshire Aglens. But it is impossible--a teacher by correspondence, a mere private governess! Who are her people?" "She lives with her grandfather. I think her father was a tutor or journalist of some kind, but he is dead; and her grandfather keeps a second-hand bookshop in the King's Road close by." "A bookshop! But you said, Arnold, that she was a young lady." "So she is, Clara," he replied simply. "Arnold!" for the first time in his life Arnold saw his cousin angry with him. She was constantly being angry with other people, but never before had she been angry with him. "Arnold, spare me this nonsense. If you have been playing with this shop-girl I cannot help it, and I beg that you will tell me no more about it, and do not, to my face, speak of her as a lady." "I have not been playing with her, I think," said Arnold gravely; "I have been very serious with her." "Everybody nowadays is a young lady. The girl who gives you a cup of tea in a shop; the girl who dances in the ballet; the girl who makes your dresses." "In that case, Clara, you need not mind my calling Miss Aglen a young lady." "There is one word left, at least: women of my class are gentlewomen." "Miss Aglen is a gentlewoman." "Arnold, look me in the face. My dear boy, tell me, are you mad? Oh, think of my poor unhappy Claude, what he did, and what he must have suffered!" "I know what he did. I do not know what he suffered. My case, however, is different from his. I am not engaged to any one." "Arnold, think of the great scheme of life I have drawn out for you. My dear boy, would you throw that all away?" She laid her hands upon his arm and looked in his eyes with a pitiful gaze. He took her hands in his. "My dear, every man must shape his life for himself, or must live out the life shaped for him by his fate, not by his friends. What if I see a life more delightful to me than that of which you dream?" "You talk of a delightful life, Arnold; I spoke of an honorable career." "Mine will be a life of quiet work and love. Yours, Clara, would be of noisy and troublesome work without love." "Without love, Arnold? You are infatuated." She sunk into the chair and buried her face in her hands. First, it was her lover who had deserted her for the sake of a governess, the daughter of some London tradesman; and now her adopted son, almost the only creature she loved, for whom she had schemed and thought for nearly twenty years, was ready to give up everything for the sake of another governess, also connected with the lower forms of commercial interests. "It is very hard, Arnold," she said. "No, don't try to persuade me. I am getting an old woman, and it is too late for me to learn that a gentleman can be happy unless he marries a lady. You might as well ask me to look for happiness with a grocer." "Not quite," said Arnold. "It is exactly the same thing. Pray, have you proposed to this--this young lady of the second-hand bookshop?" "No, I have not." "You are in love with her, however?" "I am, Clara." "And you intend to ask her--in the shop, I dare say, among the second-hand books--to become your wife?" "That is my serious intention, Clara." "Claude did the same thing. His father remonstrated with him in vain, he took his wife to London, where, for a time, he lived in misery and self-reproach." "Do you know that he reproached himself?" "I know what must have happened when he found out his mistake. Then he went to America, where he died, no doubt in despair, although his father had forgiven him." "The cases are hardly parallel," said Arnold. "Still, will you permit me to introduce Miss Aglen to you, if she should do me the honor of accepting me? Be generous, Clara. Do not condemn the poor girl without seeing her." "I condemn no one--I judge no one, not even you, Arnold. But I will not receive that young woman." "Very well, Clara." "How shall you live, Arnold?" she asked coldly. It was the finishing stroke--the dismissal. "I suppose we shall not marry; but, of course, I am talking as if--" "As if she was ready to jump into your arms. Go on." "We shall not marry until I have made some kind of a beginning in my work. Clara, let us have no further explanation. I understand perfectly well. But, my dear Clara," he laid his arm upon her neck and kissed her, "I shall not let you quarrel with me. I owe you too much, and I love you too well. I am always your most faithful of servants." "No; till you are married--then--Oh, Arnold! Arnold!" A less strong-minded woman would have burst into tears. Clara did not. She got into her carriage and drove home. She spent a miserable evening and a sleepless night. But she did not cry. CHAPTER VII. ON BATTERSEA TERRACE. If a woman were to choose any period of her life which she pleased, for indefinite prolongation, she would certainly select that period which lies between the first perception of the first symptoms--when she begins to understand that a man has begun to love her--and the day when he tells her so. Yet women who look back to this period with so much fondness and regret forget their little tremors and misgivings--the self-distrust, the hopes and fears, the doubts and perplexities, which troubled this time. For although it is acknowledged, and has been taught by all philosophers from King Lemuel and Lao-Kiun downward, that no greater prize can be gained by any man than the love of a good woman, which is better than a Peerage--better than a Bonanza mine--better than Name and Fame, Kudos and the newspaper paragraph, and is arrived at by much less exertion, being indeed the special gift of the gods to those they love; yet all women perfectly understand the other side to this great truth--namely, that no greater happiness can fall to any woman than the love of a good man. So that, in all the multitudinous and delightful courtships which go on around us, and in our midst, there is, on both sides, both with man and with maid, among those who truly reach to the right understanding of what this great thing may mean, a continual distrust of self, with humility and anxiety. And when, as sometimes happens, a girl has been brought up in entire ignorance of love, so that the thought of it has never entered her head, the thing itself, when it falls upon her, is overwhelming, and infolds her as with a garment from head to foot, and, except to her lover, she becomes as a sealed fountain. I know not how long this season of expectation would have lasted for Iris, but for Arnold's conversation with his cousin, which persuaded him to speak and bring matters to a final issue. To this girl, living as secluded as if she was in an Oriental harem, who had never thought of love as a thing possible for herself, the consciousness that Arnold loved her was bewildering and astonishing, and she waited, knowing that sooner or later something would be said, but trembling for fear that it should be said. After all, it was Lala Roy, and not Clara, who finally determined Arnold to wait no longer. He came every day to the studio with Iris when she sat for her portrait. This was in the afternoon. But he now got into the habit of coming in the morning, and would sit in silence looking on. He came partly because he liked the young man, and partly because the painter's art was new to him, and it amused him to watch a man giving his whole time and intellect to the copying or faces and things on canvas. Also, he was well aware by this time that it was not to see Mr. Emblem or himself that Arnold spent every evening at the house, and he was amused to watch the progress of an English courtship. In India, we know, they manage matters differently, and so as to give the bridegroom no more trouble than is necessary. This young man, however, took, he observed, the most wonderful pains and the most extraordinary trouble to please. "Do you know, Lala Roy," Arnold said one morning after a silence of three hours or so, "do you know that this is going to be the portrait of the most beautiful woman in the world, and the best?" "It is well," said the Philosopher, "when a young man desires virtue as well as beauty." "You have known her all her life. Don't trouble yourself to speak, Lala. You can nod your head if there isn't a maxim ready. You began to lodge in the house twenty years ago, and you have seen her every day since. If she is not the best, as well as the most beautiful girl in the world, you ought to know and can contradict me. But you do know it." "Happy is the man," said the Sage, "who shall call her wife; happy the children who shall call her mother." "I suppose, Lala," Arnold went on with an ingenuous blush, "I suppose that you have perceived that--that--in fact--I love her." The Philosopher inclined his head. "Do you think--you who know her so well--that she suspects or knows it?" "The thoughts of a maiden are secret thoughts. As well may one search for the beginnings of a river as inquire into the mind of a woman. Their ways are not our ways, nor are their thoughts ours, nor have we wit to understand, nor have they tongue to utter the things they think. I know not whether she suspects." "Yet you have had experience, Lala Roy?" A smile stole over the Sage's features. "In the old days when I was young, I had experience, as all men have. I have had many wives. Yet to me, as to all others, the thoughts of the harem are unknown." "Yet, Iris--surely you know the thoughts of Iris, your pupil." "I know only that her heart is the abode of goodness, and that she knows not any evil thought. Young man, beware. Trouble not the clear fountain." "Heaven knows," said Arnold, "I would not--" And here he stopped. "Youth," said the Sage presently, "is the season for love. Enjoy the present happiness. Woman is made to be loved. Receive with gratitude what Heaven gives. The present moment is your own. Defer not until the evening what you may accomplish at noon." With these words the oracle became silent, and Arnold sat down and began to think it all over again. An hour later he presented himself at the house in the King's Road. Iris was alone, and she was playing. "You, Arnold? It is early for you." "Forgive me, Iris, for breaking in on your afternoon; but I thought--it is a fine afternoon--I thought that, perhaps--You have never taken a walk with me." She blushed, I think in sympathy with Arnold, who looked confused and stammered, and then she said she would go with him. They left the King's Road by the Royal Avenue, where the leaves were already thin and yellow, and passed through the Hospital and its broad grounds down to the river-side; then they turned to the right, and walked along the embankment, where are the great new red houses, to Cheyne Walk, and so across the Suspension Bridge. Arnold did not speak one word the whole way. His heart was so full that he could not trust himself to speak. Who would not be four-and-twenty again, even with all the risks and dangers of life before one, the set traps, the gaping holes, and the treacherous quicksands, if it were only to feel once more the overwhelming spirit of the mysterious goddess of the golden cestus? In silence they walked side by side over the bridge. Half-way across, they stopped and looked up the river. The tide was running in with a swift current, and the broad river was nearly at the full; the strong September sun fell upon the water, which was broken into little waves under a fresh breeze meeting the current from the north-west. There were lighters and barges majestically creeping up stream, some with brown three-cornered sails set in the bows and stern, some slowly moving with the tide, their bows kept steady by long oars, and some, lashed one to the other, forming a long train, and pulled along by a noisy little tug, all paddle wheel and engine. There was a sculler vigorously practicing for his next race, and dreaming, perhaps, of sending a challenge to Hanlan; there were some boys in a rowing-boat, laughing and splashing each other; on the north bank there was the garden of the Embankment, with its young trees still green, for the summer lasted into late September this year, and, beyond, the red brick tower of the old church, with its flag post on the top. These details are never so carefully marked as when one is anxious, and fully absorbed in things of great importance. Perhaps Arnold had crossed the bridge a hundred times before, but to day, for the first time, he noticed the common things of the river. One may be an artist, and yet may miss the treasures that lie at the very feet. This is a remark which occurs to one with each new Academy Show. With every tide the boats go up and down with their brown sails, and always the tower of Chelsea Church rises above the trees, and the broad river never forgets to sparkle and to glow in the sunshine when it gets the chance. Such common things are for the most part unheeded, but, when the mind is anxious and full, they force themselves upon one. Arnold watched boats, and river, and sunshine on the sails, with a strange interest and wonder, as one sees visions in a dream. He had seen all these things before, yet now he noticed them for the first time, and all the while he was thinking what he should say to Iris, and how he should approach the subject. I know not whether Iris, like him, saw one thing and noticed another. The thoughts of a maiden, as Lala Roy said, are secret thoughts. She looked upon the river from the bridge with Arnold. When he turned, she turned with him, and neither spoke. They left the bridge, and passed through the wooden gate at the Battersea end of it, and across the corner where the stone columns lie, like an imitation of Tadmor in the Desert, and so to the broad terrace overlooking the river. There is not, anywhere, a more beautiful terrace than this of Battersea Park, especially when the tide is high. Before it lies the splendid river, with the barges which Arnold had seen from the bridge. They are broad, and flat, and sometimes squat, and sometimes black with coal, and sometimes they go up and down sideways, in lubberly Dutch fashion, but they are always picturesque; and beyond the river is the Embankment, with its young trees, which will before many years be tall and stately trees; and behind the trees are the new red palaces; and above the houses, at this time of the year and day, are the flying clouds, already colored with the light of the sinking sun. Behind the terrace are the trees, and lawns of the best-kept park in London. In the afternoon of a late September day, there are not many who walk in these gardens. Arnold and Iris had the terrace almost to themselves, save for half-a-dozen girls with children, and two or three old men making the most of the last summer they were ever likely to see, though it would have been cruel to tell them so. "This is your favorite walk, Iris," said Arnold at last, breaking the silence. "Yes; I come here very often. It is my garden. Sometimes in the winter, and when the east wind blows up the river, I have it all to myself." "A quiet life, Iris," he said, "and a happy life." "Yes; a happy life." "Iris, will you change it for a life which will not be so quiet?" He took her hand, but she made no reply. "I must tell you, Iris, because I cannot keep it from you any longer. I love you--oh, my dear, I cannot tell you how I love you." "Oh, Arnold!" she whispered. It had come, the thing she feared to hear! "May I go on? I have told you now the most important thing, and the rest matters little. Oh, Iris, may I go on and tell you all?" "Go on," she said; "tell me all." "As for telling you everything," He said with a little laugh, "that is no new thing. I have told you all that is in my mind for a year and more. It seems natural that I should tell you this too, even if it did not concern you at all, but some other girl; though that would be impossible. I love you, Iris; I love you--I should like to say nothing more. But I must tell you as well that I am quite a poor man; I am an absolute pauper; I have nothing at all--no money, no work, nothing. My studio and all must go back to her; and yet, Iris, in spite of this, I am so selfish as to tell you that I love you. I would give you, if I could, the most delightful palace in the world, and I offer you a share in the uncertain life of an artist, who does not know whether he has any genius, or whether he is fit even to be called an artist." She gave him her hand with the frankness which was her chief charm, and with a look in her eyes so full of trust and truth that his heart sunk within him for very fear lest he should prove unworthy of so much confidence. "Oh, Arnold," she said, "I think that I have loved you all along, ever since you began to write to me. And yet I never thought that love would come to me." He led her into that bosky grove set with seats convenient for lovers, which lies romantically close to the Italian Restaurant, where they sell the cocoa and the ginger beer. There was no one in the place besides themselves, and here, among the falling leaves, and in a solitude as profound as on the top of a Dartmoor tor, Arnold told the story of his love again, and with greater coherence, though even more passion. "Oh," said Iris again, "how could you love me, Arnold--how could you love any girl so? It is a shame, Arnold; we are not worth so much. Could any woman," she thought, "be worth the wealth of passion and devotion which her lover poured out for her?" "My tutor," he went on, "if you only knew what things you have taught me, a man of experience! If I admired you when I thought you must be a man, and pictured an old scholar full of books and wisdom, what could I do when I found that a young girl had written those letters? You gave mine back to me; did you think that I would ever part with yours? And you owned--oh, Iris, what would not the finished woman of the world give to have the secret of your power?--you owned that you knew all my letters, every one, by heart. And after all, you will love me, your disciple and pupil, and a man who has his way to make from the very beginning and first round of the ladder. Think, Iris, first. Is it right to throw away so much upon a man who is worth so little?" "But I am glad that you are poor. If you were rich I should have been afraid--oh, not of you, Arnold--never of you, but of your people. And, besides it is so good--oh, so very good for a young man--a young man of the best kind, not my cousin's kind--to be poor. Nobody ought ever to be allowed to become rich before he is fifty years of age at the very least. Because now you will have to work in earnest, and you will become a great artist--yes, a truly great artist, and we shall be proud of you." "You shall make of me what you please, and what you can. For your sake, Iris, I wish I were another Raphael. You are my mistress and my queen. Bid me to die, and I will dare--Iris, I swear that the words of the extravagant old song are real to me." "Nay," she said, "not your queen, but your servant always. Surely love cannot command. But, I think," she added softly, with a tender blush; "I think--nay, I am sure and certain that it can obey." He stooped and kissed her fingers. "My love," he murmured; "my love--my love!" The shadows lengthened and the evening fell; but those two foolish people sat side by side, and hand in hand, and what they said further we need not write down, because to tell too much of what young lovers whisper to each other is a kind of sacrilege. At last Arnold became aware that the sun was actually set, and he sprung to his feet. They walked home again across the Suspension Bridge. In the western sky was hanging a huge bank of cloud all bathed in purple, red and gold; the river was ablaze; the barges floated in a golden haze; the light shone on their faces, and made them all glorious, like the face of Moses, for they, too, had stood--nay, they were still standing--at the very gates of Heaven. "See, Iris," said the happy lover, "the day is done; your old life is finished; it has been a happy time, and it sets in glory and splendor. The red light in the west is a happy omen of the day to come." So he took her hand, and led her over the river, and then to his own studio in Tite Street. There, in the solemn twilight, he held her in his arms, and renewed the vows of love with kisses and fond caresses. "Iris, my dear--my dear--you are mine and I am yours. What have I done to deserve this happy fate?" CHAPTER VIII. THE DISCOVERY. At nine o'clock that evening, Mr. Emblem looked up from the chess board. "Where is Mr. Arbuthnot this evening, my dear?" he asked. It would be significant in some houses when a young man is expected every evening. Iris blushed, and said that perhaps he was not coming. But he was, and his step was on the stair as she spoke. "You are late, Mr. Arbuthnot," said Mr. Emblem, reproachfully, "you are late, sir, and somehow we get no music now until you come. Play us something, Iris. It is my move, Lala--" Iris opened the piano and Arnold sat down beside her, and their eyes met. There was in each the consciousness of what had passed. "I shall speak to him to-night, Iris," Arnold whispered. "I have already written to my cousin. Do not be hurt if she does not call upon you." "Nothing of that sort will hurt me," Iris said, being ignorant of social ways, and without the least ambition to rise in the world. "If your cousin does not call upon me I shall not be disappointed. Why should she want to know me? But I am sorry, Arnold, that she is angry with you." Lala Roy just then found himself in presence of a most beautiful problem--white to move and checkmate in three moves. Mr. Emblem found the meshes of fate closing round him earlier than usual, and both bent their heads closely over the table. "Checkmate!" said Lala Roy. "My friend, you have played badly this evening." "I have played badly," Mr. Emblem replied, "because to-morrow will be an important day for Iris, and for myself. A day, Iris, that I have been looking forward to for eighteen years, ever since I got your father's last letter, written upon his death-bed. It seems a long time, but like a lifetime," said the old man of seventy-five, "it is as nothing when it is gone. Eighteen years, and you were a little thing of three, child!" "What is going to happen to me, grandfather, except that I shall be twenty-one?" "We shall see to-morrow. Patience, my dear--patience." He spread out his hands and laughed. What was going to happen to himself was a small thing compared with the restoration of Iris to her own. "Mr. Emblem," said Arnold, "I also have something of importance to say." "You, too, Mr. Arbuthnot? Cannot yours wait also until to-morrow?" "No; it is too important. It cannot wait an hour." "Well, sir"--Mr. Emblem pushed up his spectacles and leaned back in his chair--"well, Mr. Arbuthnot, let us have it." "I think you may guess what I have to say, Mr. Emblem. I am sure that Lala Roy has already guessed it." The philosopher inclined his head in assent. "It is that I have this afternoon asked Iris to marry me, Mr. Emblem. And she has consented." "Have you consented, Iris, my dear?" said her grandfather. She placed her hand in Arnold's for reply. "Do you think you know him well enough, my dear?" Mr. Emblem asked gravely, looking at her lover. "Marriage is a serious thing: it is a partnership for life. Children, think well before you venture on the happiness or ruin of your whole lives. And you are so young. What a pity--what a thousand pities that people were not ordained to marry at seventy or so!" "We have thought well," said Arnold. "Iris has faith in me." "Then, young man, I have nothing to say. Iris will marry to please herself, and I pray that she may be happy. As for you, I like your face and manners, but I do not know who you are, nor what your means may be. Remember that I am poor--I am so poor--I can tell you all now, that to-morrow we shall--well, patience--to-morrow I shall most likely have my very stock seized and sold." "Your stock sold? Oh, grandfather!" cried Iris; "and you did not tell me! And I have been so happy." "Friend," said Lala, "was it well to hide this from me?" "Foolish people," Mr. Emblem went on, "have spread reports that I am rich, and have saved money for Iris. It is not true, Mr. Arbuthnot. I am not rich. Iris will come to you empty-handed." "And as for me, I have nothing," said Arnold, "except a pair of hands and all the time there is. So we have all to gain and nothing to lose." "You have your profession," said Iris, "and I have mine. Grandfather, do not fear, even though we shall all four become poor together." It seemed natural to include Lala Roy, who had been included with them for twenty years. "As for Iris being empty-handed," said Arnold, "how can that ever be? Why, she carries in her hands an inexhaustible cornucopia, full of precious things." "My dear," said the old man, holding out his arms to her, "I could not keep you always. Some day I knew you would leave me; it is well that you should leave me when I am no longer able to keep a roof over your head." "But we shall find a roof for you, grandfather, somewhere. We shall never part." "The best of girls always," said Mr. Emblem; "the best of girls! Mr. Arbuthnot, you are a happy man." Then the Sage lifted up his voice and said solemnly: "On her tongue dwelleth music; the sweetness of honey floweth from her lips; humility is like a crown of glory about her head; her eye speaketh softness and love; her husband putteth his heart in her bosom and findeth joy." "Oh, you are all too good to me," murmured Iris. "A friend of mine," said Mr. Emblem, "now, like nearly all my friends, beneath the sod, used to say that a good marriage was a happy blending of the finest Wallsend with the most delicate Silkstone. But he was in the coal trade. For my own part I have always thought that it is like the binding of two scarce volumes into one." "Oh, not second-hand volumes, grandfather," said Iris. "I don't know. Certainly not new ones. Not volumes under one-and-twenty, if you please. Mr. Arbuthnot, I am glad; you will know why very soon. I am very glad that Iris made her choice before her twenty-first birthday. Whatever may happen now, no one can say that either of you was influenced by any expectations. You both think yourself paupers; well, I say nothing, because I know nothing. But, children, if a great thing happen to you, and that before four-and-twenty hours have passed, be prepared--be prepared, I say--to receive it with moderate rejoicing." "To-morrow?" Iris asked. "Why to-morrow? Why not to-night, if you have a secret to tell us?" "Your father enjoined in his last letter to wait till you were twenty-one. The eve of your birthday, however, is the same thing as your birthday. We will open the papers to-night. What I have to tell you, Iris, shall be told in the presence of your lover, whatever it is--good or bad." He led the way down-stairs into the back shop. Here he lit the gas, and began to open his case, slowly and cautiously. "Eighteen years ago, Iris, my child, I received your father's last letter, written on his death bed. This I have already told you. He set down, in that letter, several things which surprised me very much. We shall come to these things presently. He also laid down certain instructions for your bringing up, my dear. I was, first of all, to give you as good an education as I could afford; I was to keep you as much as possible separated from companions who might not be thought afterward fit to be the friends of a young lady. You have as good an education as Lala Roy and I could devise between us. From him you have learned mathematics, so as to steady your mind and make you exact; and you have learned the science of heraldry from me, so that you may at once step into your own place in the polite world, where, no doubt, it is a familiar and a necessary study. You have also learned music, because that is an accomplishment which every one should possess. What more can any girl want for any station? My dear, I am happy to think that a gentleman is your lover. Let him tell us, now--Lala Roy and me--to our very faces, if he thinks we have, between us, made you a lady." Arnold stooped and kissed her hand. "There is no more perfect lady," he said, "in all the land." "Iris's father, Mr. Arbuthnot, was a gentleman of honorable and ancient family, and I will tell you, presently, as soon as I find it out myself, his real name. As for his coat-of-arms, he bore Quarterly, first and fourth, two roses and a boar's head erect; second and third, gules and fesse between--strange, now that I have forgotten what it was between. Everybody calls himself a gentleman nowadays; even Mr. Chalker, who is going to sell me up, I suppose; but everybody, if you please, is not armiger. Iris, your father was armiger. I suppose I am a gentleman on Sundays, when I go to church with Iris, and wear a black coat. But your father, my dear, though he married my daughter, was a gentleman by birth. And one who knows heraldry respects a gentleman by birth." He laid his hand now on the handle of the safe, as if the time were nearly come for opening it, but not quite. "He sent me, with this last letter, a small parcel for you, my dear, not to be opened until you reached the age of twenty-one. As for the person who had succeeded to his inheritance, she was to be left in peaceable possession for a reason which he gave--quite a romantic story, which I will tell you presently--until you came of age. He was very urgent on this point. If, however, any disaster of sickness or misfortune fell upon me, I was to act in your interests at once, without waiting for time. Children," the old man added solemnly, "by the blessing of Heaven--I cannot take it as anything less--I have been spared in health and fortune until this day. Now let me depart in peace, for my trust is expired, and my child is safe, her inheritance secured, with a younger and better protector." He placed the key in the door of the safe. "I do not know, mind," he said, still hesitating to take the final step; "I do not know the nature of the inheritance; it may be little or maybe great. The letter does not inform me on this point. I do not even know the name of the testator, my son-in-law's father. Nor do I know the name of my daughter's husband. I do not even know your true name, Iris, my child. But it is not Aglen." "Then, have I been going under a false name all my life?" "It was the name your father chose to bear for reasons which seemed good and sufficient to him, and these are part of the story which I shall have to tell you. Will you have this story first, or shall we first open the safe and read the contents of the parcel?" "First," said Arnold, "let us sit down and look in each other's faces." It was a practical suggestion. But, as it proved, it was an unlucky one, because it deprived them of the story. "Iris," he said, while they waited, "this is truly wonderful!" "Oh, Arnold! What am I to do with an inheritance?" "That depends on what it is. Perhaps it is a landed estate; in which case we shall not be much better off, and can go on with our work; perhaps there will be houses; perhaps it will be thousands of pounds, and perhaps hundreds. Shall we build a castle in the air to suit our inheritance?" "Yes; let us pretend. Oh, grandfather, stop one moment! Our castle, Arnold, shall be, first of all, the most beautiful studio in the world for you. You shall have tapestry, blue china, armor, lovely glass, soft carpets, carved doors and painted panels, a tall mantelshelf, old wooden cabinets, silver cups, and everything else what one ought to like, and you shall choose everything for yourself, and never get tired of it. But you must go on painting; you must never stop working, because we must be proud of you as well that you like. Oh, but I have not done yet. My grandfather is to have two rooms for himself, which he can fill with the books he will spend his time in collecting; Lala Roy will have two more rooms, quite separate, where he can sit by himself whenever he does not choose to sit with me; I shall have my own study to myself, where I shall go on reading mathematics; and we shall all have, between us, the most beautiful dining-room and drawing-room that you ever saw; and a garden and a fountain, and--yes--money to give to people who are not so fortunate as ourselves. Will that do, Arnold?" "Yes, but you have almost forgotten yourself, dear. There must be carriages for you, and jewels, and dainty things all your own, and a boudoir, and nobody shall think of doing or saying anything in the house at all, except for your pleasure; will that do, Iris?" "I suppose we shall have to give parties of some kind, and to go to them. Perhaps one may get to like society. You will teach me lawn-tennis, Arnold; and I should like, I think, to learn dancing. I suppose I must leave off making my own dresses, though I know that I shall never be so well dressed if I do. And about the cakes and puddings--but, oh, there is enough pretending." "It is difficult," said Lala Roy, "to bear adversity. But to be temperate in prosperity is the height of wisdom." "And now suppose, Iris," said Arnold "that the inheritance, instead of being thousands a year, is only a few hundreds." "Ah, then, Arnold, it will be ever so much simpler. We shall have something to live upon until you begin to make money for us all." "Yes; that is very simple. But suppose, again, that the inheritance is nothing but a small sum of money." "Why, then," said Iris, "we will give it all to grandfather, who will pay off his creditor, and we will go on as if nothing had happened." "Child!" said Mr. Emblem, "do you think that I would take your little all?" "And suppose, again," Arnold went on, "that the inheritance turns out a delusion, and that there is nothing at all?" "That cannot be supposed," said Mr. Emblem quickly; "that is absurd!" "If it were," said Iris, "we shall only be, to-morrow, just exactly what we are to-day. I am a teacher by correspondence, with five pupils. Arnold is looking for art-work, which will pay; and between us, my dear grandfather and Lala Roy, we are going to see that you want nothing." Always Lala Roy with her grandfather, as if their interests were identical, and, indeed, he had lived so long with them that Iris could not separate the two old men. "We will all live together," Iris continued, "and when our fortune is made we will all live in a palace. And now, grandfather, that we have relieved our feelings, shall we have the story and the opening of the papers in the safe?" "Which will you have first?" Mr. Emblem asked again. "Oh, the safe," said Arnold. "The story can wait. Let us examine the contents of the safe." "The story," said Mr. Emblem, "is nearly all told in your father's letter, my dear. But there is a little that I would tell you first, before I read that letter. You know, Iris, that I have never been rich; my shop has kept me up till now, but I have never been able to put by money. Well--my daughter Alice, your poor mother, my dear, who was as good and clever as you are, was determined to earn her own living, and so she went out as a governess. And one day she came home with her husband; she had been married the day before, and she told me they had very little money, and her husband was a scholar and a gentleman, and wanted to get work by writing. He got some, but not enough, and they were always in a poor way, until one day he got a letter from America--it was while the Civil War was raging--from an old Oxford friend, inviting him to emigrate and try fortune as a journalist out there. He went, and his wife was to join him. But she died, my dear; your mother died, and a year later I had your father's last letter, which I am now going to read to you." "One moment, sir," said Arnold. "Before you open the safe and take out the papers, remember that Iris and I can take nothing--nothing at all for ourselves until all your troubles are tided over." "Children--children," cried Mr. Emblem. "Go, my son, to the Desert," observed the Sage, standing solemnly upright like a Prophet of Israel. "Observe the young stork of the wilderness, how he beareth on his wings his aged sire and supplieth him with food. The piety of a child is sweeter than the incense of Persia offered to the sun; yea, more delicious is it than the odors from a field of Arabian spice." "Thank you, Lala," said Mr. Emblem. "And now, children, we will discover the mystery." He unlocked the safe and threw it open with somewhat of a theatrical air. "The roll of papers." He took it out. "'For Iris to be opened on her twenty-first birthday.' And this is the eve of it. But where is the letter? I tied the letter round it, with a piece of tape. Very strange. I am sure I tied the letter with a piece of tape. Perhaps it was--Where is the letter?" He peered about in the safe; there was nothing else in it except a few old account books; but he could not find the letter! Where could it be? "I remember," he said--"most distinctly I remember tying up the letter with the parcel. Where can it be gone to?" A feeling of trouble to come seized him. He was perfectly sure he had tied up the letter with the parcel, and here was the parcel without the letter, and no one had opened the safe except himself. "Never mind about the letter, grandfather," said Iris; "we shall find that afterward." "Well, then, let us open the parcel." It was a packet about the size of a crown-octavo volume, in brown paper, carefully fastened up with gum, and on the face of it was a white label inscribed: "For Iris, to be opened on her twenty-first birthday." Everybody in turn took it, weighed it, so to speak, looked at it curiously, and read the legend. Then they returned it to Mr. Emblem, who laid it before him and produced a penknife. With this, as carefully and solemnly as if he were offering up a sacrifice or performing a religious function, he cut the parcel straight through. "After eighteen years," he said; "after eighteen years. The ink will be faded and the papers yellow. But we shall see the certificates of the marriage and of your baptism, Iris; there will also be letters to different people, and a true account of the rupture with his father, and the cause, of which his letter spoke. And of course we shall find out what was his real name and what is the kind of inheritance which has been waiting for you so long, my dear. Now then." The covering incase of the packet was a kind of stiff cardboard or millboard, within brown paper. Mr. Emblem laid it open. It was full of folded papers. He took up the first and opened it. The paper was blank. The next, it was blank; the third, it was blank; the fourth, and fifth, and sixth, and so on throughout. The case, which had been waiting so long, waiting for eighteen years, to be opened on Iris's twenty-first birthday, was full of blank papers. They were all half sheets of note-paper. Mr. Emblem looked surprised at the first two or three papers; then he turned pale; then he rushed at the rest. When he had opened all, he stared about him with bewilderment. "Where is the letter?" he asked again. Then he began with trembling hands to tear out the contents of the safe and spread them upon the table. The letter was nowhere. "I am certain," he said, for the tenth time, "I am quite certain that I tied up the letter with red tape, outside the packet. And no one has been at the safe except me." "Tell us," said Arnold, "the contents of the letter as well as you remember them. Your son-in-law was known to you under the name of Aglen, which was not his real name. Did he tell you his real name?" "No." "What did he tell you? Do you remember the letter?" "I remember every word of the letter." "If you dictate it, I will write it down. That may be a help." Mr. Emblem began quickly, and as if he was afraid of forgetting: "'When you read these lines, I shall be in the Silent Land, whither Alice, my wife, has gone before me.'" Then Mr. Emblem began to stammer. "'In one small thing we deceived you, Alice and I. My name is not Aglen'--is not Aglen--" And here a strange thing happened. His memory failed him at this point. "Take time," said Arnold; "there is no hurry." Mr. Emblem shook his head. "I shall remember the rest to-morrow, perhaps," he said. "Is there anything else you have to help us?" asked Arnold: "never mind the letter, Mr. Emblem. No doubt that will come back presently. You see we want to find out, first, who Iris's father really was, and what is her real name. There was his coat-of-arms. That will connect her with some family, though it may be a family with many branches." "Yes--oh yes! his coat-of-arms. I have seen his signet-ring a dozen times. Yes, his coat; yes, first and fourth, two roses and a boar's head erect; second and third--I forget." "Humph! Was there any one who knew him before he was married?" "Yes, yes," Mr. Emblem sat up eagerly. "Yes, there is--there is; he is my oldest customer. But I forget his name, I have forgotten everything. Perhaps I shall get back my memory to-morrow. But I am old. Perhaps it will never get back." He leaned his head upon his hands, and stared about him with bewildered eyes. "I do not know, young man," he said presently, addressing Arnold, "who you are. If you come from Mr. Chalker, let me tell you it is a day too soon. To-morrow we will speak of business." Then he sprung to his feet suddenly, struck with a thought which pierced him like a dagger. "To-morrow! It is the day when they will come to sell me up. Oh, Iris! what did that matter when you were safe? Now we are all paupers together--all paupers." He fell back in his chair white and trembling. Iris soothed him; kissed his cheek and pressed his hand; but the terror and despair of bankruptcy were upon him. This is an awful specter, which is ever ready to appear before the man who has embarked his all in one venture. A disastrous season, two or three unlucky ventures, a succession of bad debts, and the grisly specter stands before them. He had no terror for the old man so long as he thought that Iris was safe. But now-- "Idle talk, Iris--idle talk, child," he said, when they tried to comfort him. "How can a girl make money by teaching? Idle talk, young man. How can money be made by painting? It's as bad a trade as writing. How can money be made anyhow but in an honest shop? And to-morrow I shall have no shop, and we shall all go into the street together!" Presently, when lamentations had yielded to despair, they persuaded him to go to bed. It was past midnight. Iris went upstairs with him, while Lala Roy and Arnold waited down below. And then Arnold made a great discovery. He began to examine the folded papers which were in the packet. I think he had some kind of vague idea that they might contain secret and invisible writing. They were all sheets of note-paper, of the same size, folded in the same way--namely, doubled as if for a square envelope. On holding one to the light, he read the water-mark: HIEROGLYPHICA A Vegetable Vellum. M.S. & Co. They all had the same water-mark. He showed the thing to the Hindoo, who did not understand what it meant. Then Iris came down again. Her grandfather was sleeping. Like a child, he fell asleep the moment his head fell upon the pillow. "Iris," he said, "this is no delusion of your grandfather's. The parcel has been robbed." "How do you know, Arnold?" "The stupid fellow who stole and opened the packet no doubt thought he was wonderfully clever to fill it up again with paper. But he forgot that the packet has been lying for eighteen years in the safe, and that this note-paper was made the day before yesterday." "How do you know that?" "You can tell by the look and feel of the paper; they did not make paper like this twenty years ago; besides, look at the water-mark;" he held it to the light, and Iris read the mystic words. "That is the fashion of to-day. One house issues a new kind of paper, with a fancy name, and another imitates them. To-morrow, I will ascertain exactly when this paper was made." "But who would steal it, Arnold? Who could steal it?" "It would not probably be of the least use to any one. But it might be stolen in order to sell it back. We may see an advertisement carefully worded, guarded, or perhaps--Iris, who had access to the place, when your grandfather was out?" "No one but James, the shopman. He has been here five-and-twenty years. He would not, surely, rob his old master. No one else comes here except the customers and Cousin Joe." "Joe is not, I believe, quite--" "Joe is a very bad man. He has done dreadful things. But then, even if Joe were bad enough to rob the safe, how could he get at it? My grandfather never leaves it unlocked. Oh, Arnold, Arnold, that all this trouble should fall upon us on the very day--" "My dear, is it not better that it should fall upon you when I am here, one more added to your advisers? If you have lost a fortune, I have found one. Think that you have given it to me." "Oh, the fortune may go," she said. "The future is ours, and we are young. But who shall console my grandfather in his old age for his bankruptcy?" "As the stream," said Lala Roy, "which passeth from the mountains to the ocean, kisseth every meadow on its way, yet tarries not in any place, so Fortune visits the sons of men; she is unstable as the wind; who shall hold her? Let not adversity tear off the wings of hope." They could do nothing more. Arnold replaced the paper in the packet, and gave it to Iris; they put back the ledgers and account-books in the safe, and locked it up, and then they went upstairs. "You shall go to bed, Iris," said Arnold, "and you, too, Lala Roy. I shall stay here, in case Mr. Emblem should--should want anything." He was, in reality, afraid that "something would happen" to the old man. His sudden loss of memory, his loss of self-control when he spoke of his bankruptcy, the confusion of his words, told clearly of a mind unhinged. He could not go away and leave Iris with no better protection than one other weak old man. He remained, but Iris sat with him, and in the silent watches of the night they talked about the future. Under every roof are those who talk about the future, and those who think about the past; so the shadow of death is always with us and the sunshine of life. Not without reason is the Roman Catholic altar incomplete without a bone of some dead man. As for the thing which had been stolen, that affected them but little. What does it matter--the loss of what was promised but five minutes since? It was one o'clock in the morning when Lala Roy left them. They sat at the window, hand-in-hand, and talked. The street below them was very quiet; now and then a late cab broke the silence, or the tramp of a policeman; but there were no other sounds. They sat in darkness because they wanted no light. The hours sped too swiftly for them. At five the day began to dawn. "Iris," said Arnold, "leave me now, and try to sleep a little. Shall we ever forget this night of sweet and tender talk?" When she was gone, he began to be aware of footsteps overhead in the old man's room. What was he going to do? Arnold waited at the door. Presently the door opened, and he heard careful steps upon the stairs. They were the steps of Mr. Emblem himself. He was fully dressed, with his usual care and neatness, his black silk stock buckled behind, and his white hair brushed. "Ah, Mr. Arbuthnot," he said cheerfully, "you are early this morning!" as if it was quite a usual thing for his friends to look in at six in the morning. "You are going down to the shop, Mr. Emblem?" "Yes, certainly--to the shop. Pray come with me." Arnold followed him. "I have just remembered," said the old man, "that last night we did not look on the floor. I will have one more search for the letter, and then, if I cannot find it, I will write it all out--every word. There is not much, to be sure, but the story is told without the names." "Tell me the story, Mr. Emblem, while you remember it." "All in good time, young man. Youth is impatient." He drew up the blind and let in the morning light; then he began his search for the letter on the floor, going on his hands and knees, and peering under the table and chairs with a candle. At length he desisted. "I tied it up," he said, "with the parcel, with red tape. Very well--we must do without it. Now, Mr. Arbuthnot, my plan is this. First, I will dictate the letter. This will give you the outlines of the story. Next, I will send you to--to my old customer, who can tell you my son-in-law's real name. And then I will describe his coat-of-arms. My memory was never so clear and good as I feel it to-day. Strange that last night I seemed, for the moment, to forget everything! Ha, ha! Ridiculous, wasn't it? I suppose--But there is no accounting for these queer things. Perhaps I was disappointed to find nothing in the packet. Do you think, Mr. Arbuthnot, that I--" Here he began to tremble. "Do you think that I dreamed it all? Old men think strange things. Perhaps--" "Let us try to remember the letter, Mr. Emblem." "Yes, yes--certainly--the letter. Why it went--ahem!--as follows--" * * * * * Arnold laid down the pen in despair. The poor old man was mad. He had poured out the wildest farrago without sense, coherence, or story. "So much for the letter, Mr. Arbuthnot." He was mad without doubt, yet he knew Arnold, and knew, too, why he was in the house. "Ah, I knew it would come back to me. Strange if it did not. Why I read that letter once every quarter or so for eighteen years. It is a part of myself. I could not forget it." "And the name of your son-in-law's old friend?" "Oh, yes, the name!" He gave some name, which might have been the lost name, but as Mr. Emblem changed it the next moment, and forgot it again the moment after, it was doubtful; certainly not much to build upon. "And the coat-of-arms?" "We are getting on famously, are we not? The coat, sir, was as follows." He proceeded to describe an impossible coat--a coat which might have been drawn by a man absolutely ignorant of science. All this took a couple of hours. It was now eight o'clock. "Thank you, Mr. Emblem," said Arnold. "I have no doubt now that we shall somehow bring Iris to her own again, in spite of your loss. Shall we go upstairs and have some breakfast?" "It is all right, Iris," cried the old man gleefully. "It is all right. I have remembered everything, and Mr. Arbuthnot will go out presently and secure your inheritance." Iris looked at Arnold. "Yes, dear," she said. "You shall have your breakfast. And then you shall tell me all about it when Arnold goes; and you will take a holiday, won't you--because I am twenty-one to-day?" "Aha!" He was quite cheerful and mirthful, because he had recovered his memory. "Aha, my dear, all is well! You are twenty-one, and I am seventy-five; and Mr. Arbuthnot will go and bring home the--the inheritance. And I shall sit here all day long. It was a good dream that came to me this morning, was it not? Quite a voice from Heaven, which said: 'Get up and write down the letter while you remember it.' I got up; I found by the--by the merest accident, Mr. Arbuthnot on the stairs, and we have arranged everything for you--everything." CHAPTER IX. DR. WASHINGTON. Arnold returned to his studio, sat down and fell fast asleep. He was awakened about noon by his Cousin Clara. "Oh, Arnold," she cried, shaking him wrathfully by the arm, "this is a moment of the greatest excitement and importance to me, and you are my only adviser, and you are asleep!" He sprung to his feet. "I am awake now, Clara. Anxiety and trouble? On account of our talk yesterday?" He saw that she had been crying. In her hands she had a packet of letters. "Oh, no, no; it is far more important than that. As for our talk--" "I am engaged to her, Clara." "So I expected," she replied coldly. "But I am not come here about your engagement. And you do not want my congratulations, I suppose?" "I should like to have your good wishes, Clara." "Oh, Arnold, that is what my poor Claude said when he deserted me and married the governess. You men want to have your own way, and then expect us to be delighted with it." "I expect nothing, Clara. Pray understand that." "I told Claude, when he wrote asking forgiveness, that he had my good wishes, whatever he chose to do, but that I would not on any account receive his wife. Very well, Arnold; that is exactly what I say to you." "Very well, Clara. I quite understand. As for the studio, and all the things that you have given me, they are, of course, yours again. Let me restore what I can to you." "No, Arnold, they are yours. Let me hear no more about things that are your own. Of course, your business, as you call it, is exciting. But as for this other thing, it is far more important. Something has happened; something I always expected; something that I looked forward to for years; although it has waited on the way so long, it has actually come at last, when I had almost forgotten to look for it. So true it is, Arnold, that good fortune and misfortune alike come when we least expect them." Arnold sat down. He knew his cousin too well to interrupt her. She had her own way of telling a story, and it was a roundabout way. "I cannot complain, after twenty years, can I? I have had plenty of rope, as you would say. But still it has come at last. And naturally, when it does come, it is a shock." "Is it hereditary gout, Clara?" "Gout! Nonsense, Arnold! When the will was read, I said to myself, 'Claude is certain to come back and claim his own. It is his right, and I hope he will come. But for my own part, I have not the least intention of calling upon the governess.' Then three or four years passed away, and I heard--I do not remember how--that he was dead. And then I waited for his heirs, his children, or their guardians. But they did not come." "And now they have really come? Oh, Clara, this is indeed a misfortune." "No, Arnold; call it a restitution, not a misfortune. I have been living all these years on the money which belongs to Claude's heirs." "There was a son, then. And now he has dropped upon us from the clouds?" "It is a daughter, not a son. But you shall hear. I received a letter this morning from a person called Dr. Joseph Washington, stating that he wrote to me on account of the only child and heiress of the late Claude Deseret." "Who is Dr. Joseph Washington?" "He is a physician, he says, and an American." "Yes; will you go on?" "I do not mind it, Arnold; I really do not. I must give up my house and put down my carriage, but it is for Claude's daughter. I rejoice to think that he has left some one behind him. Arnold, that face upon your canvas really has got eyes wonderfully like his, if it was not a mere fancy, when I saw it yesterday. I am glad, I say, to give up everything to the child of Claude." "You think so kindly of him, Clara, who inflicted so much pain on you." "I can never think bitterly of Claude. We were brought up together; we were like brother and sister; he never loved me in any other way. Oh, I understood it all years ago. To begin with, I was never beautiful; and it was his father's mistake. Well: this American followed up his letter by a visit. In the letter he merely said he had come to London with the heiress. But he called an hour ago, and brought me--oh, Arnold, he brought me one more letter from Claude. It has been waiting for me for eighteen years. After all that time, after eighteen years, my poor dead Claude speaks to me again. My dear, when I thought he was miserable on account of his marriage, I was wrong. His wife made him happy, and he died because she died." The tears came into her eyes again. "Poor boy! Poor Claude! The letter speaks of his child. It says--" She opened and read the letter. "He says: 'Some day my child will, I hope, come to you, and say: Cousin Clara, I am Iris Deseret.'" "Iris?" said Arnold. "It is her name, Arnold. It was the child's grandmother's name." "A strange coincidence," he said. "Pray go on." "'She will say: Cousin Clara, I am Iris Deseret. Then you will be kind to her, as you would to me, if I were to come home again.' I cannot read any more, my dear, even to you." "Did this American give you any other proof of what he asserts?" "He gave me a portrait of Claude, taken years ago, when he was a boy of sixteen, and showed me the certificate of marriage, and the child's certificate of baptism, and letters from his wife. I suppose nothing more can be wanted." "I dare say it is all right, Clara. But why was not the child brought over before?" "Because--this is the really romantic part of the story--when her father died, leaving the child, she was adopted by these charitable Americans, and no one ever thought of examining the papers, which were lying in a desk, until the other day." "You have not seen the young lady." "No; he is to bring her to-morrow." "And what sort of a man is this American? Is he a gentleman?" "Well, I do not quite know. Perhaps Americans are different from Englishmen. If he was an Englishman, I should say without any hesitation that he is not a gentleman, as we count good breeding and good manners. He is a big man, handsome and burly, and he seems good-tempered. When I told him what was the full amount of Iris's inheritance--" "Iris's inheritance!" Arnold repeated. "I beg your pardon, Clara; pray go on; but it seems like a dream." "He only laughed, and said he was glad she would have so much. The utmost they hoped, he said, was that it might be a farm, or a house or two, or a few hundreds in the stocks. He is to bring her to-morrow, and of course I shall make her stay with me. As for himself, he says that he is only anxious to get back home to his wife and his practice." "He wants nothing for himself, then? That seems a good sign." "I asked him that question, and he said that he could not possibly take money for what he and his family had done for Iris; that is to say, her education and maintenance. This was very generous of him. Perhaps he is really a gentleman by birth, but has provincial manners. He said, however, that he had no objection to receiving the small amount of money spent on the voyage and on Iris's outfit, because they were not rich people, and it was a serious thing to fit out a young lady suitably. So of course I gave him what he suggested, a check for two hundred pounds. No one, he added with true feeling, would grudge a single dollar that had been spent upon the education of the dear girl; and this went to my heart." "She is well educated, then?" "She sings well," he says, "and has had a good plain education. He said I might rest assured that she was ladylike, because she had been brought up among his own friends." "That is a very safe guarantee," said Arnold, laughing. "I wonder if she is pretty?" "I asked him that question too, and he replied very oddly that she had a most splendid figure, which fetched everybody. Is not that rather a vulgar expression?" "It is, in England. Perhaps in America it belongs to the first circles, and is a survival of the Pilgrim Fathers. So you gave him a check for two hundred pounds?" "Yes; surely I was not wrong, Arnold. Consider the circumstances, the outfit and the voyage, and the man's reluctance and delicacy of feeling." "I dare say you were quite right, but--well, I think I should have seen the young lady first. Remember, you have given the money to a stranger, on his bare word." "Oh, Arnold, this man is perfectly honest. I would answer for his truth and honesty. He has frank, honest eyes. Besides, he brought me all those letters. Well, dear, you are not going to desert me because you are engaged, are you, Arnold? I want you to be present when she comes to-morrow morning." "Certainly I will be present, with the greatest--no, not the greatest pleasure. But I will be present--I will come to luncheon, Clara." When she was gone he thought again of the strange coincidence, both of the man and of the inheritance. Yet what had his Iris in common with a girl who had been brought up in America? Besides, she had lost her inheritance, and this other Iris had crossed the ocean to receive hers. Yet a very strange coincidence. It was so strange that he told it to Iris and to Lala Roy. Iris laughed, and said she did not know she had a single namesake. Lala did not laugh; but he sat thinking in silence. There was no chess for him that night; instead of playing his usual game, Mr. Emblem, in his chair, laughed and chuckled in rather a ghastly way. CHAPTER X. "IT IS MY COUSIN." "Well, Joe," said his wife, "and how is it going to finish? It looks to me as if there was a prison-van and a police-court at the end. Don't you think we had better back out of it while there is time?" "You're a fool!" her husband replied--it was the morning after his visit to Clara; "you know nothing about it. Now listen." "I do nothing but listen; you've told me the story till I know it by heart. Do you think anybody in the world will be so green as to believe such a clumsy plan as that?" "Now look here, Lotty; if there's another word said--mind, now--you shall have nothing more to do with the business at all. I'll give it to a girl I know--a clever girl, who will carry it through with flying colors." She set her lips hard, and drummed her fingers on the table. He knew how to rule his wife. "Go on," she said, "since we can't be honest." "Be reasonable, then; that's all I ask you. Honest! who is honest? Ain't we every one engaged in getting round our neighbors? Isn't the whole game, all the world over, lying and deceit? Honest! you might as well go on the boards without faking up your face, as try to live honest. Hold your tongue, then." He growled and swore, and after his fashion called on the Heavens to witness and express their astonishment. The girl bent her head, and made no reply for a space. She was cowed and afraid. Presently she looked up and laughed, but with a forced laugh. "Don't be cross, Joe; I'll do whatever you want me to do, and cheerfully, too, if it will do you any good. What is a woman good for but to help her husband? Only don't be cross, Joe." She knew what her husband was by this time--a false and unscrupulous man. Yet she loved him. The case is not rare by any means, so that there is hope for all of us, from the meanest and most wriggling worm among us to the most hectoring ruffian. "Why there, Lotty," he said, "that is what I like. Now listen. The old lady is a cake--do you understand? She is a sponge, she swallows everything, and is ready to fall on your neck and cry over you for joy. As for doubt or suspicion, not a word. I don't think there will be a single question asked. No, it's all 'My poor dear Claude'--that's your father, Lotty--and 'My poor dear Iris'--that's you, Lotty." "All right, Joe, go on. I am Iris--I am anybody you like. Go on." "The more I think about it, the more I'm certain we shall do the trick. Only keep cool over the job and forget the music-hall. You are Iris Deseret, and you are the daughter of Claude Deseret, deceased. I am Dr. Washington, one of the American family who brought you up. You're grateful, mind. Nothing can be more lively than your gratitude. We've been brother and sister, you and me, and I've got a wife and young family and a rising practice at home in the State of Maine, and I am only come over here to see you into your rights at great personal expense. Paid a substitute. Yes, actually paid a substitute. We only found the papers the other day, which is the reason why we did not come over before, and I am going home again directly." "You are not really going away, Joe, are you?" "No, I am going to stay here; but I shall pretend to go away. Now remember, we've got no suspicion ourselves, and we don't expect to meet any. If there is any, we are surprised and sorry. We don't come to the lady with a lawyer or a blunderbuss; we come as friends, and we shall arrange this little business between ourselves. Oh, never you fear, we shall arrange it quite comfortably, without lawyers." "How much do you think we shall get out of it, Joe?" "Listen, and open your eyes. There's nearly a hundred and twenty thousand pounds and a small estate in the country. Don't let us trouble about the estate more than we can help. Estates mean lawyers. Money doesn't." He spoke as if small sums like a hundred thousand pounds are carried about in the pocket. "Good gracious! And you've got two hundred of it already, haven't you?" "Yes, but what is two hundred out of a hundred and twenty thousand? A hundred and twenty thousand! There's spending in it, isn't there, Lotty? Gad, we'll make the money spin, I calculate! It may be a few weeks before the old lady transfers the money--I don't quite know where it is, but in stocks or something--to your name. As soon as it is in your name I've got a plan. We'll remember that you've got a sweetheart or something in America, and you'll break your heart for wanting to see him. And then nothing will do but you must run across for a trip. Oh, I'll manage, and we'll make the money fly." He was always adding new details to his story, finding something to embellish it and heighten the effect, and now having succeeded in getting the false Iris into the house, he began already to devise schemes to get her out again. "A hundred thousand pounds? Why, Joe, it is a terrible great sum of money. Good gracious! What shall we do with it, when we get it?" "I'll show you what to do with it, my girl." "And you said, Joe--you declared that it is your own by rights." "Certainly it is my own. It would have been bequeathed to me by my own cousin. But she didn't know it. And she died without knowing it, and I am her heir." Lotty wondered vaguely and rather sadly how much of this statement was true. But she did not dare to ask. She had promised her assistance. Every night she woke with a dreadful dream of a policeman knocking at the door; whenever she saw a man in blue she trembled; and she knew perfectly well that, if the plot failed, it was she herself, in all probability, and not her husband at all, who would be put in the dock. She did not believe a word about the cousin; she knew she was going to do a vile and dreadful wickedness, but she was ready to go through with it, or with anything else, to pleasure a husband who already, the honeymoon hardly finished, showed the propensities of a rover. "Very well, Lotty; we are going there at once. You need take nothing with you, but you won't come back here for a good spell. In fact, I think I shall have to give up these lodgings, for fear of accidents. I shall leave you with your cousin." "Yes; and I'm to be quiet, and behave pretty, I suppose?" "You'll be just as quiet and demure as you used to be when you were serving in the music shop. No loud laughing, no capers, no comic songs, and no dancing." "And am I to begin at once by asking for the money to be--what do you call it, transferred?" "No; you are not on any account to say a word about the money; you are to go on living there without hinting at the money--without showing any desire to discuss the subject--perhaps for months, until there can't be the shadow of a doubt that you are the old woman's cousin. You are to make much of her, flatter her, cocker her up, find out all the family secrets, and get the length of her foot; but you are not to say one single word about the money. As for your manners, I'm not afraid of them, because when you like, you can look and talk like a countess." "I know now." She got up and changed her face so that it became at once subdued and quiet, like a quiet serving-girl behind a counter. "So, is that modest enough, Joe? And as for singing, I shall sing for her, but not music-hall trash. This kind of thing. Listen." There was a piano in the room, and she sat down and sang to her own accompaniment, with a sweet, low voice, one of the soft, sad German songs. "That'll do," cried Joe. "Hang me! what a clever girl you are, Lotty! That's the kind of thing the swells like. As for me, give me ten minutes of Jolly Nash. But you know how to pull 'em in, Lotty." It was approaching twelve, the hour when they were due. Lotty retired and arrayed herself in her quietest and most sober dress, a costume in some brown stuff, with a bonnet to match. She put on her best gloves and boots, having herself felt the inferiority of the shop-girl to the lady in those minor points, and she modified and mitigated her fringe, which, she knew, was rather more exaggerated than young ladies in society generally wear. "You're not afraid, Lotty?" said Joe, when at last she was ready to start. "Afraid? Not I, Joe. Come along. I couldn't look quieter, not if I was to make up as I do in the evening as a Quakeress. Come along. Oh, Joe, it will be awful dull! Don't forget to send word to the hall that I am ill. Afraid? Not I!" She laughed, but rather hysterically. There would be, however, she secretly considered, some excitement when it came to the finding out, which would happen, she was convinced, in a very few hours. In fact, she had no faith at all in the story being accepted and believed by anybody; to be sure, she herself had been trained, as ladies in shops generally are, to mistrust all mankind, and she could not understand at all the kind of confidence which comes of having the very thing presented to you which you ardently desire. When they arrived in Chester Square, she found waiting for her a lady, who was certainly not beautiful, but she had kind eyes, which looked eagerly at the strange face, and with an expression of disappointment. "It can't be the fringe," thought Lotty. "Cousin Clara," she said softly and sweetly, as her husband had taught her, "I am Iris Deseret, the daughter of your old playfellow, Claude." "Oh, my dear, my dear," cried Clara with enthusiasm, "come to my arms! Welcome home again!" She kissed and embraced her. Then she held her by both hands, and looked at her face again. "My dear," she said, "you have been a long time coming. I had almost given up hoping that Claude had any children. But you are welcome, after all--very welcome. You are in your own house, remember, my dear. This house is yours, and the plate, and furniture, and everything, and I am only your tenant." "Oh!" said Lotty, overwhelmed. Why, she had actually been taken on her word, or rather the word of Joe. "Let me kiss you again. Your face does not remind me as yet, in any single feature, of your father's. But I dare say I shall find resemblance presently. And indeed, your voice does remind me of him already. He had a singularly sweet and delicate voice." "Iris has a remarkably sweet and delicate voice," said Joe, softly. "No doubt she got it from her father. You will hear her sing presently." Lotty hardly knew her husband. His face was preternaturally solemn, and he looked as if he was engaged in the most serious business of his life. "All her father's ways were gentle and delicate," said Clara. "Just like hers," said Joe. "When all of us--American boys and girls, pretty rough at times--were playing and larking about, Iris would be just sittin' out like a cat on a carpet, quiet and demure. I suppose she got that way, too, from her father." "No doubt; and as for your face, my dear, I dare say I shall find a likeness presently. But just now I see none. Will you take off your bonnet?" When the girl's bonnet was off, Clara looked at her again, curiously, but kindly. "I suppose I can't help looking for a likeness, my dear. But you must take after your mother, whom I never saw. Your father's eyes were full and limpid; yours are large, and clear, and bright; very good eyes, my dear, but they are not limpid. His mouth was flexible and mobile, but yours is firm. Your hair, however, reminds me somewhat of his, which was much your light shade of brown when he was young. And now, sir"--she addressed Joe--"now that you have brought this dear girl all the way across the Atlantic, what are you going to do?" "Well, I don't exactly know that there's anything to keep me," said Joe. "You see, I've got my practice to look after at home--I am a physician, as I told you--and my wife and children; and the sooner I get back the better, now that I can leave Iris with her friends, safe and comfortable. Stay," he added, "there are all those papers which I promised you--the certificates, and the rest of them. You had better take them all, miss, and keep them for Iris." "Thank you," said Clara, touched by this confidence; "Iris will be safe with me. It is very natural that you should want to go home again. And you will be content to stay with me, my dear, won't you? You need not be afraid, sir; I assure you that her interests will not in any way suffer. Tell her to write and let you know exactly what is done. Let her, however, since she is an English girl, remain with English friends, and get to know her cousins and relations. You can safely trust her with me, Dr. Washington." "Thank you," said Joe. "You know that when one has known a girl all her life, one is naturally anxious about her happiness. We are almost brother and sister." "I know; and I am sure, Mr. Washington, we ought to be most grateful to you. As for the money you have expended upon her, let me once more beg of you--" Joe waved his hand majestically. "As for that," he said, "the money is spent. Iris is welcome to it, if it were ten times as much. Now, madam, you trusted me, the very first day that you saw me, with two hundred pounds sterling. Only an English lady would have done that. You trusted me without asking me who or what I was, or doubting my word. I assure you, madam, I felt that kindness, and that trust, very much indeed, and in return, I have brought you Iris herself. After all expenses paid of coming over and getting back, buying a few things for Iris, if I find that there's anything over, I shall ask you to take back the balance. Madam, I thank you for the money, but I am sure I have repaid you--with Iris." This was a very clever speech. If there had been a shadow of doubt before it in Clara's heart (which there was not), it would vanish now. She cordially and joyfully accepted her newly-found cousin. "And now, Iris," he said with a manly tremor in his voice, "I do not know if I shall see you again before I go away. If not, I shall take your fond love to all of them at home--Tom, and Dick, and Harry, and Harriet, and Prissy, and all of them"--Joe really was carrying the thing through splendidly--"and perhaps, my dear, when you are a grand lady in England, you will give a thought--a thought now and again--to your old friends across the water." "Oh, Joe!" cried Lotty, really carried away with admiration, and ashamed of her skeptical spirit. "Oh," she whispered, "ain't you splendid!" "But you must not go, Dr. Washington," said Clara, "without coming again to say farewell. Will you not dine with us to-night? Will you stay and have lunch?" "No, madam, I thank you. It will be best for me to leave Iris alone with you. The sooner she learns your English ways and forgets American ways, the better." "But you are not going to start away for Liverpool at once? You will stay a day or two in London--" The American physician said that perhaps he might stay a week longer for scientific purposes. "Have you got enough money, Joe?" asked the new Iris thoughtfully. Joe gave her a glance of infinite admiration. "Well," he said, "the fact is that I should like to buy a few books and things. Perhaps--" "Cousin," said Lotty eagerly, "please give him a check for a hundred pounds. Make it a hundred. You said everything was mine. No, Joe, I won't hear a word about repayment, as if a little thing like fifty pounds, or a hundred pounds, should want to be repaid! As if you and I could ever talk about repayment!" Clara did as she was asked readily and eagerly. Then Joe departed, promising to call and say farewell before he left England, and resolving that in his next visit--his last visit--there should be another check. But he had made one mistake; he had parted with the papers. No one in any situation of life should ever give up the power, until he has secured the substance. But it is human to err. "And now, my dear," said Clara warmly, "sit down and let us talk. Arnold is coming to lunch with us, and to make your acquaintance." When Arnold came a few minutes later, he was astonished to find his cousin already on the most affectionate terms with the newly-arrived Iris Deseret. She was walking about the room showing her the pictures of her grandfather and other ancestors, and they were hand-in-hand. "Arnold," said Clara, "this is Iris, and I hope you will both be great friends; Iris, this is my cousin, but he is not yours." "I don't pretend to know how that may be," said the young lady. "But then I am glad to know all your cousins, whether they are mine or not; only don't bother me with questions, because I don't remember anything, and I don't know anything. Why, until the other day I did not even know that I was an English lady, not until they found those papers." A strange accent for an American! and she certainly said "laidy" for "lady," and "paipper" for "paper," like a cockney. Alas! This comes of London Music Halls even to country-bred damsels! Arnold made a mental observation that the new-comer might be called anything in the world, but could not be called a lady. She was handsome, certainly, but how could Claude Deseret's daughter have grown into so common a type of beauty? Where was the delicacy of feature and manner which Clara had never ceased to commend in speaking of her lost cousin? "Iris," said Clara, "is our little savage from the American Forest. She is Queen Pocahontas, who has come over to conquer England and to win all our hearts. My dear, my Cousin Arnold will help me to make you an English girl." She spoke as in the State of Maine was still the hunting-ground of Sioux and Iroquois. Arnold thought that a less American-looking girl he had never seen; that she did not speak or look like a lady was to be expected, perhaps, if she had, as was probable, been brought up by rough and unpolished people. But he had no doubt, any more than Clara herself, as to the identity of the girl. Nobody ever doubts a claimant. Every impostor, from Demetrius downward, has gained his supporters and partisans by simply living among them and keeping up the imposition. It is so easy, in fact, to be a claimant, that it is wonderful there are not more of them. Then luncheon was served, and the young lady not only showed a noble appetite, but to Arnold's astonishment, confessed to an ardent love for bottled stout. "Most American ladies," he said impertinently, "only drink water, do they not?" Lotty perceived that she had made a mistake. "I only drink stout," she said, "when the doctor tells me. But I like it all the same." She certainly had no American accent. But she would not talk much; she was, perhaps, shy. After luncheon, however, Clara asked her if she would sing, and she complied, showing considerable skill with her accompaniment, and singing a simple song in good taste and with a sweet voice. Arnold observed, however, that there was some weakness about the letter "h," less common among Americans than among the English. Presently he went away, and the girl, who had been aware that he was watching her, breathed more easily. "Who is your Cousin Arnold?" she asked. "My dear, he is my cousin but not yours. You will not see him often, because he is going to be married, I am sorry to say, and to be married beneath him--oh, it is dreadful! to some tradesman's girl, my dear." "Dreadful!" said Iris with a queer look in her eyes. "Well, cousin, I don't want to see much of him. He's a good-looking chap, too, though rather too finicking for my taste. I like a man who looks as if he could knock another man down. Besides, he looks at me as if I was a riddle, and he wanted to find out the answer." In the evening Arnold found that no change had come over the old man. He was, however, perfectly happy, so that, considering the ruin of his worldly prospects, it was, perhaps, as well that he had parted, for a time, at least, with his wits. Some worldly misfortunes there are which should always produce this effect. "You told me," said Lala Roy, "that another Iris had just come from America to claim an inheritance of your cousin." "Yes; it is a very strange coincidence." "Very strange. Two Englishmen die in America at the same time, each having a daughter named Iris, and each daughter entitled to some kind of inheritance." Lala Roy spoke slowly, and with meaning. "Oh!" cried Arnold. "It is more than strange. Do you think--is it possible--" He could not for the moment clothe his thoughts in words. "Do you know if any one has brought this girl to England?" "Yes; she was brought over by a young American physician, one of the family who adopted and brought her up." "What is he like--the young American physician?" "I have not seen him." "Go, my young friend, to-morrow morning, and ask your cousin if this photograph resembles the American physician." It was the photograph of a handsome young fellow, with strongly marked features, apparently tall and well-set-up. "Lala, you don't really suspect anything--you don't think--" "Hush! I know who has stolen the papers. Perhaps the same man has produced the heiress." "And you think--you suspect that the man who stole the papers is connected with--But then those papers must be--oh, it cannot be! For then Iris would be Clara's cousin--Clara's cousin--and the other an impostor." "Even so; everything is possible. But silence. Do not speak a word, even to Iris. If the papers are lost, they are lost. Say nothing to her yet; but go--go, and find out if that photograph resembles the American physician. The river wanders here and there, but the sea swallows it at last." CHAPTER XI. MR. JAMES MAKES ATONEMENT. James arrived as usual in the morning at nine o'clock, in order to take down the shutters. To his astonishment, he found Lala Roy and Iris waiting for him in the back shop. And they had grave faces. "James," said Iris, "your master has suffered a great shock, and is not himself this morning. His safe has been broken open by some one, and most important papers have been taken out." "Papers, miss--papers? Out of the safe?" "Yes. They are papers of no value whatever to the thief, whoever he may be. But they are of the very greatest importance to us. Your master seems to have lost his memory for a while, and cannot help us in finding out who has done this wicked thing. You have been a faithful servant for so long that I am sure you will do what you can for us. Think for us. Try to remember if anybody besides yourself has had access to this room when your master was out of it." James sat down. He felt that he must sit down, though Lala Roy was looking at him with eyes full of doubt and suspicion. The whole enormity of his own guilt, though he had not stolen anything, fell upon him. He had got the key; he had given it to Mr. Joseph; and he had received it back again. In fact, at that very moment, it was lying in his pocket. The worst that he had feared had happened. The safe was robbed. He was struck with so horrible a dread, and so fearful a looking forward to judgment and condemnation, that his teeth chattered and his eye gave way. "You will think it over, James," said Iris; "think it over, and tell us presently if you can remember anything." "Think it over, Mr. James," Lala Roy repeated in his deepest tone, and with an emphatic gesture of his right forefinger. "Think it over carefully. Like a lamp that is never extinguished are the eyes of the faithful servant." They left him, and James fell back into his chair with hollow cheek and beating heart. "He told me," he murmured--"oh, the villain!--he swore to me that he had taken nothing from the safe. He said he only looked in it, and read the contents. The scoundrel! He has stolen the papers! He must have known they were there. And then, to save himself, he put me on to the job. For who would be suspected if not--oh, Lord!--if not me?" He grasped his paste brush, and attacked his work with a feverish anxiety to find relief in exertion; but his heart was not in it, and presently a thought pierced his brain, as an arrow pierceth the heart, and under the pang and agony of it, his face turned ashy-pale, and the big drops stood upon his brow. "For," he thought, "suppose that the thing gets abroad; suppose they were to advertise a reward; suppose the man who made the key were to see the advertisement or to hear about it! And he knows my name, too, and my business; and he'll let out for a reward--I know he will--who it was ordered that key of him." Already he saw himself examined before a magistrate; already he saw in imagination that locksmith's man who made the key kissing the Testament, and giving his testimony in clear and distinct words, which could not be shaken. "Oh, Lord! oh, Lord!" he groaned. "No one will believe me, even if I do confess the truth: and as for him, I know him well; if I go to him, he'll only laugh at me. But I must go to him--I must!" He was so goaded by his terror that he left the shop unprotected--a thing he had never thought to do--and ran as fast as he could to Joe's lodgings. But he had left them; he was no longer there; he had not been there for six weeks; the landlady did not know his address, or would not give it. Then James felt sick and dizzy, and would have sat down on the doorstep and cried but for the look of the thing. Besides, he remembered the unprotected shop. So he turned away sadly and walked back, well understanding now that he had fallen like a tool into a trap, artfully set to fasten suspicion and guilt upon himself. When he returned he found the place full of people. Mr. Emblem was sitting in his customary place, and he was smiling. He did not look in the least like a man who had been robbed. He was smiling pleasantly and cheerfully. Mr. Chalker was also present, a man with whom no one ever smiled, and Lala Roy, solemn and dignified, and a man--an unknown man--who sat in the outer shop, and seemed to take no interest at all in the proceedings. Were they come, he asked himself, to arrest him on the spot? Apparently they were not, for no one took the least notice of him, and they were occupied with something else. How could they think of anything else? Yet Mr. Chalker, standing at the table, was making a speech, which had nothing to do with the robbery. "Here I am, you see, Mr. Emblem," he said; "I have told you already that I don't want to do anything to worry you. Let us be friends all round. This gentleman, your friend from India, will advise you, I am sure, for your own good, not to be obstinate. Lord! what is the amount, after all, to a substantial man like yourself? A substantial man, I say." He spoke confidently, but he glanced about the shop with doubtful eyes. "Granted that it was borrowed to get your grandson out of a scrape--supposing he promised to pay it back and hasn't done so; putting the case that it has grown and developed itself as bills will do, and can't help doing, and can't be stopped; it isn't the fault of the lawyers, but the very nature of a hill to go on growing--it's like a baby for growing. Why, after all, you were your grandson's security--you can't escape that. And when I would no longer renew, you gave of your own accord--come now, you can't deny that--a Bill of Sale on goods and furniture. Now, Mr. Emblem, didn't, you? Don't let us have any bitterness or quarreling. Let's be friends, and tell me I may send away the man." Mr. Emblem smiled pleasantly, but did not reply. "A Bill of Sale it was, dated January the 25th, 1883, just before that cursed Act of Parliament granted the five days' notice. Here is the bailiff's man in possession. You can pay the amount, which is, with costs and Sheriff's Poundage, three hundred and fifty-one pounds thirteen shillings and fourpence, at once, or you may pay it five days hence. Otherwise the shop, and furniture, and all, will be sold off in seven days." "Oh," James gasped, listening with bewilderment, "we can't be going to be sold up! Emblem's to be sold up!" "Three hundred and fifty pounds!" said Mr. Emblem. "My friend, let us rather speak of thousands. This is a truly happy day for all of us. Sit down, Mr. Chalker--my dear friend, sit down. Rejoice with us. A happy morning." "What the devil is the matter with him?" asked the money-lender. "There was something, Mr. Chalker," Mr. Emblem went on cheerfully, "something said about my grandson. Joe was always a bad lot; lucky his father and mother are out of the way in Australia. You came to me about that business, perhaps? Oh, on such a joyful day as this I forgive everybody. Tell Joe I do not want to see him, but I have forgiven him." "Oh, he's mad!" growled James; "he's gone stark staring mad!" "You don't seem quite yourself this morning, Mr. Emblem," said Mr. Chalker. "Perhaps this gentleman, your friend from India, will advise you when I am gone. You don't understand, Mister," he addressed Lala Roy, "the nature of a bill. Once you start a bill, and begin to renew it, it's like planting a tree, for it grows and grows of its own accord, and by Act of Parliament, too, though they do try to hack and cut it down in the most cruel way. You see Mr. Emblem is obstinate. He's got to pay off that bill, which is a Bill of Sale, and he won't do it. Make him write the check and have done with it." "This is the best day's work I ever did," Mr. Emblem went on. "To remember the letter, word for word, and everything! Mr. Arbuthnot has, very likely, finished the whole business by now. Thousands--thousands--and all for Iris!" "Look here, Mr. Emblem," said the lawyer angrily. "You'll not only be a bankrupt if you go on like this, but you'll be a fraudulent bankrupt as well. Is it honest, I want to know, to refuse to pay your just debts when you've put by thousands, as you boast--you actually boast--for your granddaughter?" "Yes," said the old man, "Iris will have thousands." "I think, sir," said Lala Roy, "that you are under an illusion. Mr. Emblem does not possess any such savings or investments as you imagine." "Then why does he go on talking about thousands?" "He has had a shock; he cannot quite understand what has happened. You had better leave him for the present." "Leave him! And nothing but these moldy old books! Here, you sir--you James--you shopman--come here! What is the stock worth?" "It depends upon whether you are buying or selling," said James. "If you were to sell it under the hammer, in lots, it wouldn't fetch a hundred pounds." "There, you hear--you hear, all of you! Not a hundred pounds, and my Bill of Sale is three-fifty." "Pray, sir," said Lala Roy, "who told you that Mr. Emblem was so wealthy?" "His grandson." "Then, sir perhaps it would be well to question the grandson further, he may know things of which we have heard nothing." The Act of 1882, which came into operation in the following January, is cruel indeed, I am told, to those who advanced money on Bills of Sale before that date, for it allows--it actually allows the debtor five clear days during which he may, if he can, without being caught, make away with portions of his furniture and belongings--the smaller and the more precious portion; or he may find some one else to lend him the money, and so get off clear and save his sticks. It is, as the modern Shylock declares, a most wicked and iniquitous Act, by which the shark may be balked, and many an honest tradesman, who would otherwise have been most justly ruined, is enabled to save his stock, and left to worry along until the times become more prosperous. To a man like Mr. David Chalker, such an Act of Parliament is most revolting. He went away at length, leaving the man--the professional person--behind. Then Lala Roy persuaded Mr. Emblem to go upstairs again. He did so without any apparent consciousness that there was a Man in Possession. "James," said Lala Roy, "you have heard that your master has been robbed. You are reflecting and meditating on this circumstance. Another thing is that a creditor has threatened to sell off everything for a debt. Most likely, everything will be sold, and the shop closed. You will, therefore, lose the place you have had for five-and-twenty years. That is a very bad business for you. You are unfortunate this morning. To lose your place--and then this robbery. That seems also a bad business." "It is," said James with a hollow groan. "It is, Mr. Lala Roy. It is a dreadful bad business." "Pray, Mr. James," continued this man with grave, searching eyes which made sinners shake in their shoes, "pray, why did you run away, and where did you go after you opened the shop this morning? You went to see Mr. Emblem's grandson, did you not?" "Yes, I did," said James. "Why did you go to see him?" "I w--w--went--oh, Lord!--I went to tell him what had happened, because he is master's grandson, and I thought he ought to know," said James. "Did you tell him?" "No; he has left his lodgings. I don't know where he is--oh, and he always told me the shop was his--settled on him," he said. "He is the Father of Lies; his end will be confusion. Shame and confusion shall wait upon all who have hearkened unto him or worked with him, until they repent and make atonement." "Don't, Mister Lala Roy--don't; you frighten me," said James. "Oh, what a dreadful liar he is!" All the morning the philosopher sat in the bookseller's chair, and James, in the outer shop, felt that those deep eyes were resting continually upon him, and knew that bit by bit his secret would be dragged from him. If he could get up and run away--if a customer would come--if the dark gentleman would go upstairs--if he could think of something else! But none of these things happened, and James, at his table with the paste before him, passed a morning compared with which any seat anywhere in Purgatory would have been comfortable. Presently a strange feeling came over him, as if some invisible force was pushing and dragging him and forcing him to leave his chair, and throw himself at the Philosopher's feet and confess everything. This was the mesmeric effect of those reproachful eyes fixed steadily upon him. And in the doorway, like some figure in a nightmare--a figure incongruous and out of place--the Man in Possession sitting, passive and unconcerned, with one eye on the street and the other on the shop. Upstairs Mr. Emblem was sitting fast asleep; joy had made him sleepy; and Iris was at work among her pupils' letters, compiling sums for the Fruiterer, making a paper on Conic Sections for the Cambridge man, and working out Trigonometrical Equations for the young schoolmaster, and her mind full of a solemn exultation and glory, for she was a woman who was loved. The other things troubled her but little. Her grandfather would get back his equilibrium of mind; the shop might be shut up, but that mattered little. Arnold, and Lala Roy, and her grandfather, and herself, would all live together, and she and Arnold would work. The selfishness of youth is really astonishing. Nothing--except perhaps toothache--can make a girl unhappy who is loved and newly betrothed. She may say what she pleases, and her face may be a yard long when she speaks of the misfortunes of others, but all the time her heart is dancing. To Lala Roy, the situation presented a problem with insufficient data, some of which would have to be guessed. A letter, now lost, said that a certain case contained papers necessary to obtain an unknown inheritance for Iris. How then to ascertain whether anybody was expecting or looking for a girl to claim an inheritance? Then there was half a coat-of-arms, and lastly there was a certain customer of unknown name, who had been acquainted with Iris's father before his marriage. So far for Iris. As for the thief, Lala Roy had no doubt at all. It was, he was quite certain, the grandson, whose career he had watched for some years with interest and curiosity. Who else was there who would steal the papers? And who would help him, and give him access to the safe? He did not only suspect, he was certain that James was in some way cognizant of the deed. Why else did he turn so pale? Why did he rush off to Joe's lodgings? Why did he sit trembling? At half-past twelve Lala Roy rose. "It is your dinner-hour," he said to James, and it seemed to the unhappy man as it he was saying, "I know all." "It is your dinner hour; go, eat, refresh the body. Whom should suspicion affright except the guilty?" James put on his hat and sneaked--he felt that he was sneaking--out of the shop. During his dinner-hour, Joseph himself called. It was an unusual thing to see him at any time; in fact, as he was never wont to call upon his grandfather, unless he was in a scrape and wanted money, no one ever made the poor young man welcome, or begged him to come more often. But this morning, he walked upstairs and appeared so cheerful, so entirely free from any self-reproach for past sins, and so easy in his mind, without the least touch of the old hang-dog look, that Iris began to reproach herself for thinking badly of her cousin. When he was told about the robbery, he expressed the greatest surprise that any one in the world could be so wicked as to rob an old man like his grandfather. Besides his abhorrence of crime in the abstract, he affirmed that the robbery of a safe was a species of villainy for which hanging was too mild--much too mild a punishment. He then asked his grandfather what were the contents of the packet stolen, and when he received no answer except a pleasant and a cheery laugh, he asked Iris, and learned to his sorrow that the contents were unknown, and could not, therefore, be identified even if they were found. This, he said, was a thousand pities, because, if they had been known, a reward might have been offered. For his own part he would advise the greatest caution. Nothing at all should be done at first; no step should be taken which might awaken suspicion; they should go on as if the papers were without value. As for that, they had no real proof that there was any robbery. Iris thought of telling him about the water-mark of the blank pages, but refrained. Perhaps there was no robbery after all--who was to prove what had been inside the packet? But if there had been papers, and it they were valueless except to the rightful owners, they would, perhaps, be sent back voluntarily; or after a time, say a year or two, they might be advertised for; not as if the owners were very anxious to get them, and not revealing the nature of the papers, but cautiously; and presently, if they had not been destroyed, the holders of the papers would answer the advertisement, and then a moderate reward might, after a while, be offered; and so on, giving excellent advice. While he was speaking, Lala Roy entered the room in his noiseless manner, and took his accustomed chair. "And what do you think, sir?" said Joseph, when he had finished. "You have heard my advice. You are not an Englishman, but I suppose you've got some intelligence." Lala bowed and spread his hands, but replied not. "Your opinion should be asked," Joseph went on, "because you see, as the only other person, besides my grandfather and my cousin, in the house, you might yourself be suspected. Indeed," he added, "I have no doubt you will be suspected. When I talk over the conduct of the case, which will be my task, I suppose, it will, perhaps, be my duty to suspect you." Lala bowed again and again, spread his hands, but did not speak. In fact, Joseph now perceived that he was having the conversation wholly to himself. His grandfather sat passive, listening as one who, in a dream, hears voices but does not heed what they are saying, yet smiling politely. Iris listened, but paid no heed. She thought that a great deal of fuss was being made about papers, which, perhaps, were worth nothing. And as for her inheritance, why, as she never expected to get any, she was not going to mourn the loss of what, perhaps, was worth nothing. "Very well, then," said Joseph, "that's all I've got to say. I've given you the best advice I can, and I suppose I may go. Have you lost your voice, Iris?" "No; but I think you had better go, Joseph. My grandfather is not able to talk this morning, and I dare say your advice is very good, but we have other advisers." "As for you, Mr. Lala Roy, or whatever you call yourself," said Joe roughly, "I've warned you. Suspicion certainly will fall upon you, and what I say is--take care. For my own part I never did believe in niggers, and I wouldn't have one in my house." Lala Roy bowed again and spread his fingers. Then Joseph went away. The door between the shop and the hall was half open, and he looked in. A strange man was sitting in the outer shop, a pipe in his mouth, and James was leaning his head upon his hands, with wild and haggard eyes gazing straight before him. "Poor devil," murmured Joseph. "I feel for him, I do indeed. He had the key made--for himself; he certainly let me use it once, but only once, and who's to prove it? And he's had the opportunity every day of using it himself. That's very awkward, Foxy, my boy. If I were Foxy, I should be in a funk, myself." He strolled away, thinking that all promised well. Lotty most favorably and unsuspiciously received in her new character; no one knowing the contents of the packet; his grandfather gone silly; and for himself, he had had the opportunity of advising exactly what he wished to be done--namely, that silence and inaction should be observed for a space, in order to give the holders of the property a chance of offering terms. What better advice could he give? And what line of action would be better or safer for himself? If James had known who was in the house-passage, the other side of the door, there would, I think, have been a collision of two solid bodies. But he did not know, and presently Lala Roy came back, and the torture began again. James took down books and put them up again; he moved about feverishly, doing nothing, with a duster in his hand; but all the time he felt those deep accusing eyes upon him with a silence worse than a thousand questions. He knew--he was perfectly certain--that he should be found out. And all the trouble for nothing! and the Bailiff's man in possession, and the safe robbed, and those eyes upon him, saying, as plain as eyes could speak, "Thou art the Man!" "And Joe is the man," said James; "not me at all. What I did was wrong, but I was tempted. Oh, what a precious liar and villain he is! And what a fool I've been!" The day passed more slowly than it seemed possible for any day to pass; always the man in the shop; always the deep eyes of the silent Hindoo upon him. It was a relief when, once, Mr. Chalker looked in and surveyed the shelves with a suspicious air, and asked if the old man had by this time listened to reason. It is the business of him who makes plunder out of other men's distresses--as the jackal feeds upon the offal and the putrid carcass--to know as exactly as he can how his fellow-creatures are situated. For this reason such a one doth diligently inquire, listen, pick up secrets, put two and two together, and pry curiously into everybody's affairs, being never so happy as when he gets an opportunity of going to the rescue of a sinking man. Thus among those who lived in good repute about the lower end of the King's Road, none had a better name than Mr. Emblem, and no one was considered to have made more of his chances. And it was with joy that Mr. Chalker received Joe one evening and heard from him the dismal story, that if he could not find fifty pounds within a few hours, he was ruined. The fifty pounds was raised on a bill bearing Mr. Emblem's name. When it was presented, however, and the circumstances explained, the old gentleman, who had at first refused to own the signature, accepted it meekly, and told no one that his grandson had written it himself, without the polite formality of asking permission to sign for him. In other words Joseph was a forger, and Mr. Chalker knew it, and this made him the more astonished when Mr. Emblem did not take up the bill, but got it renewed quarter after quarter, substituting at length a bill of sale, as if he was determined to pay as much as possible for his grandson's sins. "Where is he?" asked the money-lender angrily. "Why doesn't he come down and face his creditors?" "Master's upstairs," said James, "and you've seen yourself, Mr. Chalker, that he is off his chump. And oh, sir, who would have thought that Emblem's would have come to ruin?" "But there's something, James--Come, think--there must be something." "Mr. Joseph said there were thousands. But he's a terrible liar--oh, Mr. Chalker, he's a terrible liar and villain! Why, he's even deceived me!" "What? Has he borrowed your money?" "Worse--worse. Do you know where I could find him, sir?" "Well, I don't know--" Mr. Chalker was not in the habit of giving addresses, but in this case, perhaps Joe might be squeezed as well as his grandfather. Unfortunately that bill with the signature had been destroyed. "I don't know. Perhaps if I find out I may tell you. And, James, if you can learn anything--this rubbish won't fetch half the money--I'll make it worth your while, James, I will indeed." "I'll make him take his share," said James to himself. "If I have to go to prison, he shall go too. They sha'n't send me without sending him." He looked round. The watchful eyes were gone. The Hindoo had gone away noiselessly. James breathed again. "After all," he said, "how are they to find out? How are they to prove anything? Mr. Joseph took the things, and I helped him to a key; and he isn't likely to split, and--oh, Lord, if they were to find it!" For at that moment he felt the duplicate key in his waistcoat-pocket. "If they were to find it!" He took the key out, and looked at the bright and innocent-looking thing, as a murderer might look at his blood stained dagger. Just then, as he gazed upon it, holding it just twelve inches in front of his nose, one hand was laid upon his shoulder, and another took the key from between his fingers. He turned quickly, and his knees gave way, and he sunk upon the floor, crying: "Oh, Mr. Lala Roy, sir, Mr. Lala Roy, I am not the thief! I am innocent! I will tell you all about it! I will confess all to you! I will indeed! I will make atonement! Oh, what a miserable fool I've been!" "Upon the heels of Folly," said the Sage, "treadeth Shame. You will now be able to understand the words of wisdom, which say of the wicked man, 'The curse of iniquity pursueth him; he liveth in continual fear; the anxiety of his mind taketh vengeance upon him.' Stand up and speak." The Man in Possession looked on as if an incident of this kind was too common in families for him to take any notice of it. Nothing, in fact, is able to awaken astonishment in the heart of the Man in Possession, because nothing is sacred to him except the "sticks" he has to guard. To Iris, the event was, however, of importance, because it afforded Lala Roy a chance of giving Arnold that photograph, no other than an early portrait of Mr. Emblem's grandson. CHAPTER XII. IS THIS HIS PHOTOGRAPH? The best way to get a talk with his cousin was to dine with her. Arnold therefore went to Chester Square next day with the photograph in his pocket. It was half an hour before dinner when he arrived, and Clara was alone. "My dear," she cried with enthusiasm, "I am charmed--I am delighted--with Iris." "I am glad," said Arnold mendaciously. "I am delighted with her--in every way. She is more and better than I could have expected--far more. A few Americanisms, of course--" "No doubt," said Arnold. "When I saw her I thought they rather resembled Anglicisms. But you have had opportunities of judging. You have in your own possession," he continued, "have you not, all the papers which establish her identity?" "Oh, yes; they are all locked up in my strong-box. I shall be very careful of them. Though, of course, there is no one who has to be satisfied except myself. And I am perfectly satisfied. But then I never had any doubt from the beginning. How could there be any doubt?" "How, indeed?" "Truth, honor, loyalty, and candor, as well as gentle descent, are written on that girl's noble brow, Arnold, plain, so that all may read. It is truly wonderful," she went on, "how the old gentle blood shows itself, and will break out under the most unexpected conditions. In her face she is not much like her father; that is true; though sometimes I catch a momentary resemblance, which instantly disappears again. Her eyes are not in the least like his, nor has she his manner, or carriage, or any of his little tricks and peculiarities--though, perhaps, I shall observe traces of some of them in time. But especially she resembles him in her voice. The tone--the timbre--reminds me every moment of my poor Claude." "I suppose," said Arnold, "that one must inherit something, if it is only a voice, from one's father. Have you said anything to her yet about money matters, and a settlement of her claims?" "No, not yet. I did venture, last night, to approach the subject, but she would not hear of it. So I dropped it. I call that true delicacy, Arnold--native, instinctive, hereditary delicacy." "Have you given any more money to the American gentleman who brought her home?" "Iris made him take a hundred pounds, against his will, to buy books with, for he is not rich. Poor fellow! It went much against the grain with him to take the money. But she made him take it. She said he wanted books and instruments, and insisted on his having at least a hundred pounds. It was generous of her. Yes; she is--I am convinced--a truly generous girl, and as open-handed as the day. Now, would a common girl, a girl of no descent, have shown so much delicacy and generosity?" "By the way, Clara, here is a photograph. Does it belong to you? I--I picked it up." He showed the photograph which Lala Roy had given him. "Oh, yes; it is a likeness of Dr. Washington, Iris's adopted brother and guardian. She must have dropped it. I should think it was taken a few years back, but it is still a very good likeness. A handsome man, is he not? He grows upon one rather. His parting words with Iris yesterday were very dignified and touching." "I will give it to her presently," he replied, without further comment. There was, then, no doubt. The woman was an impostor, and the man was the thief, and the papers were the papers which had been stolen from the safe, and Iris Deseret was no other than his own Iris. But he must not show the least sign of suspicion. "What are you thinking about, Arnold?" asked Clara. "Your face is as black as thunder. You are not sorry that Iris has returned, are you?" "I was thinking of my engagement, Clara." "Why, you are not tired of it already? An engaged man, Arnold, ought not to look so gloomy as that." "I am not tired of it yet. But I am unhappy as regards some circumstances connected with it. Your disapproval, Clara, for one. My dear cousin, I owe so much to you, that I want to owe you more. Now, I have a proposition--a promise--to make to you. I am now so sure, so very sure and certain, that you will want me to marry Miss Aglen--and no one else--when you once know her, that I will engage solemnly not to marry her unless you entirely approve. Let me owe my wife to you, as well as everything else." "Arnold, you are not in earnest." "Quite in earnest." "But I shall never approve. Never--never--never! I could not bring myself, under any circumstances that I can conceive, to approve of such a connection." "My dear cousin, I am, on the other hand, perfectly certain that you will approve. Why, if I were not quite certain, do you think I should have made this promise? But to return to your newly-found cousin. Tell me more about her." "Well, I have discovered that she is a really very clever and gifted girl. She can imitate people in the most wonderful way, especially actresses, though she has only been to a theater once or twice in her life. At Liverpool she heard some one sing what she calls a Tropical Song, and this she actually remembers--she carried it away in her head, every word--and she can sing it just as they sing it on the stage, with all the vulgarity and gestures imitated to the very life. Of course I should not like her to do this before anybody else, but it is really wonderful." "Indeed!" said Arnold. "It must be very clever and amusing." "Of course," said Clara, with colossal ignorance, "an American lady can hardly be expected to understand English vulgarities. No doubt there is an American variety." Arnold thought that a vulgar song could be judged at its true value by any lady, either American or English, but he said nothing. And then the young lady herself appeared. She had been driving about with Clara among various shops, and now bore upon her person the charming result of these journeys, in the shape of a garment, which was rich in texture, and splendid in the making. And she really was a handsome girl, only with a certain air of being dressed for the stage. But Arnold, now more than suspicious, was not dazzled by the gorgeous raiment, and only considered how his cousin could for a moment imagine this person to be a lady, and how it would be best to break the news. "Clara's cousin," she said, "I have forgotten your name; but how do you do, again?" And then they went in to dinner. "You have learned, I suppose," said Arnold, "something about the Deseret family by this time?" "Oh, yes, I have heard all about the family-tree. I dare say I shall get to know it by heart in time. But you don't expect me all at once, to care much for it." "Little Republican!" said Clara. "She actually does not feel a pride in belonging to a good old family." The girl made a little gesture. "Your family can't do much for you, that I can see, except to make you proud, and pretend not to see other women in the shop. That is what the county ladies do." "Why, my dear, what on earth do you know of the county ladies?" Lotty blushed a little. She had made a mistake. But she quickly recovered. "I only know what I've read, cousin, about any kind of English ladies. But that's enough, I'm sure. Stuck-up things!" And again she observed, from Clara's pained expression, that she had made another mistake. If she showed a liking for stout at lunch, she manifested a positive passion for champagne at dinner. "I do like the English custom," she said, "of having two dinners in the day." "Ladies in America, I suppose," said Clara, "dine in the middle of the day?" "Always." "But I have visited many families in New York and Boston who dined late," said Arnold. "Dare say," she replied carelessly. "I'm going to have some more of that curry stuff, please. And don't ask any more questions, anybody, till I've worried through with it. I'm a wolf at curry." "She likes England, Arnold," said Clara, covering up this remark, so to speak. "She likes the country, she says, very much." "At all events," said the girl, "I like this house, which is first-class--fine--proper. And the furniture, and pictures, and all--tiptop. But I'm afraid it is going to be awful dull, except at meals, and when the Boy is going." Her own head was just touched by the "Boy," and she was a little off her guard. "My dear child," said Clara, "you have only just come, and you have not yet learned to know and love your own home and your father's friends. You must take a little time." "Oh, I'll take time. As long as you like. But I shall soon be tired of sitting at home. I want to go about and see things--theaters and music-halls, and all kinds of places." "Ladies, in England, do not go to music-halls," said Arnold. "Gentlemen do. Why not ladies, then? Answer me that. Why can't ladies go, when gentlemen go? What is proper for gentlemen is proper for ladies. Very well, then, I want to go somewhere every night. I want to see everything there is to see, and to hear all that there is to hear." "We shall go, presently, a good deal into society," said Clara timidly. "Society will come back to town very soon now--at least, some of it." "Oh, yes, I dare say. Society! No, thank you, with company manners. I want to laugh, and talk, and enjoy myself." The champagne, in fact, had made her forget the instructions of her tutor. At all events, she looked anything but "quiet," with her face flushed and her eyes bright. Suddenly she caught Arnold's expression of suspicion and watchfulness, and resolutely subdued a rising inclination to get up from the table and have a walk round with a snatch of a Topical Song. "Forgive me, Clara," she murmured in her sweetest tone, "forgive me, cousin. I feel as if I must break out a bit, now and then. Yankee manners, you know. Let me stay quiet with you for a while. You know the thought of starched and stiff London society quite frightens me. I am not used to anything stiff. Let me stay at home quiet, with you." "Dear girl!" cried Clara, her eyes filling with tears; "she has all Claude's affectionate softness of heart." "I believe," said Arnold, later on in the evening, "that she must have been a circus rider, or something of that sort. What on earth does Clara mean by the gentle blood breaking out? We nearly had a breaking out at dinner, but it certainly was not due to the gentle blood." After dinner, Arnold found her sitting on a sofa with Clara, who was telling her something about the glories of the Deseret family. He was half inclined to pity the girl, or to laugh--he was not certain which--for the patience with which she listened, in order to make amends for any bad impression she might have produced at dinner. He asked her, presently, if she would play. She might be, and certainly was, vulgar; but she could play well and she knew good music. People generally think that good music softens manners, and does not permit those who play and practice it to be vulgar. But, concerning this young person, so much could not be said with any truth. "You play very well. Where did you learn? Who was your master?" Arnold asked. She began to reply, but stopped short. He had very nearly caught her. "Don't ask questions," she said. "I told you not to ask questions before. Where should I learn, but in America? Do you suppose no one can play the piano, except in England? Look here," she glanced at her cousin. "Do you, Mr. Arbuthnot, always spend your evenings like this?" "How like this?" "Why, going around in a swallow tail to drawing-rooms with the women, like a tame tom-cat. If you do, you must be a truly good young man. If you don't, what do you do?" "Very often I spend my evenings in a drawing-room." "Oh, Lord! Do most young Englishmen carry on in the same proper way?" "Why not?" "Don't they go to music-halls, please, and dancing cribs, and such?" "Perhaps. But what does it concern us to know what some men do?" "Oh, not much. Only if I were a man like you, I wouldn't consent to be a tame tom-cat--that is all; but perhaps you like it." She meant to insult and offend him so that he should not come any more. But she did not succeed. He only laughed, feeling that he was getting below the surface, and sat down beside the piano. "You amuse me," he said, "and you astonish me. You are, in fact, the most astonishing person I ever met. For instance, you come from America, and you talk pure London slang with a cockney twang. How did it get there?" In fact, it was not exactly London slang, but a patois or dialect, learned partly from her husband, partly from her companions, and partly brought from Gloucester. "I don't know--I never asked. It came wrapped up in brown paper, perhaps, with a string round it." "You have lived in America all your life, and you look more like an Englishwoman than any other girl I have ever seen." "Do I? So much the better for the English girls; they can't do better than take after me. But perhaps--most likely, in fact--you think that American girls all squint, perhaps, or have got humpbacks? Anything else?" "You were brought up in a little American village, and yet you play in the style of a girl who has had the best masters." She did not explain--it was not necessary to explain--that her master had been her father who was a teacher of music. "I can't help it, can I?" she asked; "I can't help it if I turned out different to what you expected. People sometimes do, you know. And when you don't approve of a girl, it's English manners, I suppose, to tell her so--kind of encourages her to persevere, and pray for better luck next time, doesn't it? It's simple too, and prevents any foolish errors--no mistake afterward, you see. I say, are you going to come here often; because, if you are, I shall go away back to the States or somewhere, or stay upstairs in my own room. You and me won't get on very well together, I am afraid." "I don't think you will see me very often," he replied. "That is improbable; yet I dare say I shall come here as often as I usually do." "What do you mean by that?" She looked sharply and suspiciously at him. He repeated his words, and she perceived that there was meaning in them, and she felt uneasy. "I don't understand at all," she said; "Clara tells me that this house is mine. Now--don't you know--I don't intend to invite any but my own friends to visit me in my own house?" "That seems reasonable. No one can expect you to invite people who are not your friends." "Well, then, I ain't likely to call you my friend"--Arnold inclined his head--"and I am not going to talk riddles any more. Is there anything else you want to say?" "Nothing more, I think, at present, thank you." "If there is, you know, don't mind me--have it out--I'm nobody, of course. I'm not expected to have any manners--I'm only a girl. You can say what you please to me, and be as rude as you please; Englishmen always are as rude as they can be to American girls--I've always heard that." Arnold laughed. "At all events," he said, "you have charmed Clara, which is the only really important thing. Good-night, Miss--Miss Deseret." "Good-night, old man," she said, laughing, because she bore no malice, and had given him a candid opinion; "I dare say when you get rid of your fine company manners, and put off your swallow tail, you're not a bad sort, after all. Perhaps, if you would confess, you are as fond of a kick-up on your way home as anybody. Trust you quiet chaps!" Clara had not fortunately heard much of this conversation, which, indeed, was not meant for her, because the girl was playing all the time some waltz music, which enabled her to talk and play without being heard at the other end of the room. * * * * * Well, there was now no doubt. The American physician and the subject of the photograph were certainly the same man. And this man was also the thief of the safe, and Iris Aglen was Iris Deseret. Of that, Arnold had no longer any reasonable doubt. There was, however, one thing more. Before leaving Clara's house, he refreshed his memory as to the Deseret arms. The quarterings of the shield were, so far, exactly what Mr. Emblem recollected. "It is," said Lala Roy, "what I thought. But, as yet, not a word to Iris." He then proceeded to relate the repentance, the confession, and the atonement proposed by the remorseful James. But he did not tell quite all. For the wise man never tells all. What really happened was this. When James had made a clean breast and confessed his enormous share in the villainy, Lala Roy bound him over to secrecy under pain of Law, Law the Rigorous, pointing out that although they do not, in England, exhibit the Kourbash, or bastinado the soles of the feet, they make the prisoner sleep on a hard board, starve him on skilly, set him to work which tears his nails from his fingers, keep him from conversation, tobacco, and drink, and when he comes out, so hedge him around with prejudice and so clothe him with a robe of shame, that no one will ever employ him again, and he is therefore doomed to go back again to the English Hell. Lala Roy, though a man of few words, drew so vivid a description of the punishment which awaited his penitent that James, foxy as he was by nature, felt constrained to resolve that henceforth, happen what might, then and for all future, he would range himself on the side of virtue, and as a beginning he promised to do everything that he could for the confounding of Joseph and the bringing of the guilty to justice. CHAPTER XIII. HIS LAST CHANCE. Three days elapsed, during which nothing was done. That cause is strongest which can afford to wait. But in those three days several things happened. First of all, Mr. David Chalker, seeing that the old man was obdurate, made up his mind to lose most of his money, and cursed Joe continually for having led him to build upon his grandfather's supposed wealth. Yet he ought to have known. Tradesmen do not lock up their savings in investments for their grandchildren, nor do they borrow small sums at ruinous interest of money-lending solicitors; nor do they give Bills of Sale. These general rules were probably known to Mr. Chalker. Yet he did not apply them to this particular case. The neglect of the General Rule, in fact, may lead the most astute of mankind into ways of foolishness. James, for his part, stimulated perpetually by fear of prison and loss of character and of situation--for who would employ an assistant who got keys made to open the safe?--showed himself the most repentant of mortals. Dr. Joseph Washington, lulled into the most perfect security, enjoyed all those pleasures which the sum of three hundred pounds could purchase. Nobody knew where he was, or what he was doing. As for Lotty, she had established herself firmly in Chester Square, and Cousin Clara daily found out new and additional proofs of the gentle blood breaking out! On the fourth morning Lala Roy sallied forth. He was about to make a great Moral Experiment, the nature of which you will immediately understand. None but a philosopher who had studied Confucius and Lao Kiun, would have conceived so fine a scheme. First he paid a visit to Mr. Chalker. The office was the ground-floor front room, in one of the small streets north of the King's Road. It was not an imposing office, nor did it seem as if much business was done there; and one clerk of tender years sufficed for Mr. Chalker's wants. "Oh!" he said, "it's our friend from India. You're a lodger of old Emblem's, ain't you?" "I have lived with him for twenty years. I am his friend." "Very well. I dare say we shall come to terms, if he's come to his senses. Just take a chair and sit down. How is the old man?" "He has not yet recovered the use of his intellect." "Oh! Then how can you act for him if he's off his head?" "I came to ask an English creditor to show mercy." "Mercy? What is the man talking about? Mercy! I want my money. What has that got to do with mercy?" "Nothing, truly; but I will give you your money. I will give you justice, and you shall give me mercy. You lent Mr. Emblem fifty pounds. Will you take your fifty pounds, and leave us in peace?" He drew a bag out of his pocket--a brown banker's bag--and Mr. Chalker distinctly heard the rustling of notes. This is a sound which to some ears is more delightful than the finest music in the world. It awakens all the most pleasurable emotions; it provokes desire and hankering after possession; and it fills the soul with the imaginary enjoyment of wealth. "Certainly not," said Mr. Chalker, confident that better terms than those would be offered. "If that is all you have to say, you may go away again." "But the rest is usury. Think! To give fifty, and ask three hundred and fifty, is the part of an usurer." "Call it what you please. The bill of sale is for three hundred and fifty pounds. Pay that three hundred and fifty, with costs and sheriff's poundage, and I take away my man. If you don't pay it, then the books on the shelves and the furniture of the house go to the hammer." "The books, I am informed," said Lala Roy, "will not bring as much as a hundred pounds if they are sold at auction. As for the furniture, some of it is mine, and some belongs to Mr. Emblem's granddaughter." "His granddaughter! Oh, it's a swindle," said Mr. Chalker angrily. "It is nothing more or less than a rank swindle. The old man ought to be prosecuted, and, mind you, I'll prosecute him, and you too, for conspiring with him." "A prosecution," said the Hindoo, "will not hurt him, but it might hurt you. For it would show how you lent him fifty pounds five years ago; how you made him give you a bill for a hundred; how you did not press him to pay that bill, but you continually offered to renew it for him, increasing the amount on each time of renewal; and at last you made him give you a bill of sale for three hundred and fifty. This is, I suppose, one of the many ways in which Englishmen grow rich. There are also usurers in India, but they do not, in my country, call themselves lawyers. A prosecution. My friend, it is for us to prosecute. Shall we show that you have done the same thing with many others? You are, by this time, well known in the neighborhood, Mr. Chalker, and you are so much beloved that there are many who would be delighted to relate their experiences and dealings with so clever a man. Have you ever studied, one asks with wonder, the Precepts of the great Sage who founded your religion?" "Oh, come, don't let us have any religious nonsense!" "I assure you they are worth studying. I am, myself, an humble follower of Gautama, but I have read those precepts with profit. In the kingdom imagined by that preacher, there is no room for usurers, Mr. Chalker. Where, then, will be your kingdom? Every man must be somewhere. You must have a kingdom and a king." "This is tomfoolery!" Mr. Chalker turned red, and looked very uncomfortable. "Stick to business. Payment in full. Those are my terms." "You think, then, that the Precepts of your Sage are only intended for men while they sit in the church? Many Englishmen think so, I have observed." "Payment in full, mister. That's what I want." He banged his fist on the table. "No abatement? No mercy shown to an old man on the edge of the grave? Think, Mr. Chalker. You will soon be as old as Mr. Emblem, your hair as white, your reason as unsteady--" "Payment in full, and no more words." "It is well. Then, Mr. Chalker, I have another proposal to make to you." "I thought we should come to something more. Out with it!" "I believe you are a friend of Mr. Emblem's grandson?" "Joe? Oh yes, I know Joe." "You know him intimately?" "Yes, I may say so." "You know that he forged his grandfather's name; that he is a profligate and a spendthrift, and that he has taken or borrowed from his grandfather whatever money he could get, and that--in short, he is a friend of your own?" It was not until after his visitor had gone that Mr. Chalker understood, and began to resent this last observation. "Go on," he said. "I know all about Joe." "Good. Then, if you can tell me anything about him which may be of use to me I will do this. I will pay you double the valuation of Mr. Emblem's shop, in return, for a receipt in full. If you can not, you may proceed to sell everything by auction." Mr. Chalker hesitated. A valuation would certainly give a higher figure than a forced sale, and then that valuation doubled! "Well," he said, "I don't know. It's a cruel hard case to be done out of my money. How am I to find out whether anything I tell you would be of use to you or not? What kind of thing do you want? How do I know that if you get what you want, you won't swear it is of no use to you?" "You have the word of one who never broke his word." Mr. Chalker laughed derisively. "Why," he said, "I wouldn't take the word of an English bishop--no, nor of an archbishop--where money is concerned. What is it--what is the kind of thing you want to know?" "It is concerned with a certain woman." "Oh, well, if it is only a woman! I thought it might be something about money. Joe, you see, like a good many other people, has got his own ideas about money, and perhaps he isn't so strict in his dealings as he might be--few men are--and I should not like to let out one or two things that only him and me know." In fact, Mr. Chalker saw, in imagination, the burly form of Joe in his office, brandishing a stick, and accusing him of friendship's trust betrayed. "But as it is only a woman--which of 'em is it?" "This is a young woman, said to be handsome, tall, and finely-made; she has, I am told, light brown hair and large eyes. That is the description of her given to me." "I know the girl you mean. Splendid figure, and goes well in tights?" "I have not been informed on that subject. Can you tell me any more about her?" "I suspect, mister," said Joe's friend, with cunning eyes, "that you've made the acquaintance of a certain widow that was--married woman that is. I remember now, I've seen Hindoos about her lodgings, down Shadwell way." "Perhaps," said Lala, "and perhaps not." His face showed not the least sign which could be read. "You can tell me afterward what you know of the woman at Shadwell." "Well, then, Joe thinks I know nothing about it. Else I wouldn't tell you. Because I don't want a fight with Joe. Is this any use to you? He is married to the girl as well as to the widow." "He is married to the girl as well as to the widow. He has, then, two wives. It is against the English custom, and breaks the English law. The young wife who is beautiful, and the old wife who has the lodging-house. Very good. What is the address of this woman?" Mr. Chalker looked puzzled. "Don't you know it, then? What are you driving at?" "What is the name and address of this Shadwell woman?" "Well, then"--he wrote an address and handed it over--"you may be as close as you like. I don't care. It isn't my business. But you won't make me believe you don't know all about her. Look here, whatever happens, don't say I told you." "It shall be a secret," said Lala, taking out the bag of notes. "Let us complete the business at once, Mr. Chalker. Here is another offer. I will give you two hundred pounds in discharge of your whole claim, or you shall have a valuation made, if you prefer it, and I will double the amount." Mr. Chalker chose the former promptly, and in a few moments handed over the necessary receipts, and sent his clerk to recall the Man in Possession. "What are you going to do with Joe?" he asked. "No good turn, I'll swear. And a more unforgiving face than yours I never set eyes on. It isn't my business, but I'll give you one warning. If you make Joe desperate, he'll turn on you; and Lord help your slender ribs if Joe once begins. Don't make him desperate. And now I'll tell you another thing. First, the woman at Shadwell is horribly jealous. She'll make a row. Next, the young one, who sings at a music-hall, she's desperately in love with her husband--more than he is with her--and if a woman's in love with a man, there's one thing she never forgives. You understand what that is. Between the pair, Joe's likely to have a rough time." "I do. I have had many wives myself." "Oh, Lord, he says he's had many wives! How many?" Lala Roy read the receipt, and put it in his pocket. Then he rose and remarked, with a smile of supreme superiority: "It is a pleasure to give money to you, and to such as you, Mr. Chalker." "Is it?" he replied with a grin. "Give me some more, then." "You are one of those who, the richer they become, the less harm they do. Many Englishmen are of this disposition. When they are poor they are jackals, hyenas, wolves, and man-eating tigers; when they are rich they are benevolent and charitable, and show mercy unto the wretched and the poor. So that, in their case, the words of the Wise Man are naught, when he says that the earth is barren of good things where she hoardeth treasure; and that where gold is in her bowels no herb groweth. Pray, Mr. Chalker, pray earnestly for gold in order that you may become virtuous." Mr. Chalker grinned, but looked uncomfortable. "I will, mister," he said, "I will pray with all my might." Nevertheless, he remained for the space of the whole morning in uneasiness. The words of the Philosopher troubled him. I do not go so far as to say that his mind went back to the days when he was young and innocent, because he was still young, and he never had been innocent; nor do I say that a tear rose to his eyes and trickled down his cheek, because nothing brought tears into his eyes except a speck of dust; or that he resolved to confine himself for the future to legitimate lawyer's work, because he would then have starved. I only say that he felt uncomfortable and humiliated, and chiefly so because an old man with white hair and a brown skin--hang it! a common nigger--had been able to bring discord into the sweet harmony of his thoughts. Lala Roy then betook himself to Joe's former lodgings, and asked for that gentleman's present address. The landlady professed to know nothing. "You do know, however," he persisted, reading knowledge in her eyes. "Is it trouble you mean for him?" asked the woman, "and him such a fine, well-set-up young man, too! Is it trouble? Oh, dear, I always thought he got his money on the cross. Look here. I ain't going to round on him, though he has gone away and left a comfortable room. So there! And you may go." Lala Roy opened his hand. There were at least five golden sovereigns glorifying his dingy palm. "Can gold," the moralist asked, "ever increase the virtue of man? Woman, how much?" "Is it trouble?" she repeated, looking greedily at the money. "Will the young man get copped?" Lala understood no London slang. But he showed his hand again. "How much? Who so is covetous let him know that his heart is poor. How much?" "Poor young man! I'll take them all, please, sir. What's he done?" "Where does he live?" "I know where he lives," she said, "because our Bill rode away with him at the back of his cab, and saw where he got out. He's married now, and his wife sings at the music-hall, and he lives on her earnings. Quite the gentleman he is now, and smokes cigars all day long. There's his address, and thank you for the money. Oh," she said with a gasp. "To think that people can earn five pounds so easy." "May the gold procure you happiness--such happiness as you desire!" said Lala Roy. "It will nearly pay the quarter's rent. And that's about happiness enough for one morning." Joe was sitting in his room alone, half asleep. In fact, he had a head upon him. He sprung to his feet, however, when he saw Lala Roy. "Hallo!" he cried. "You here, Nig? How the devil did you find out my address?" There was not only astonishment, but some alarm upon his countenance. "Never mind. I want a little conversation with you, Mr. Joseph." "Well, sit down and let us have it out. I say, have you come to tell me that you did sneak those papers, after all? What did you get for them?" "I have not come to tell you that. I dare say, however, we shall be able, some day, to tell you who did steal the papers--if any were stolen, that is." "Quite so, my jolly mariner. If any were stolen. Ho, ho! you've got to prove that first, haven't you? How's the old man?" "He is ill; he is feeble with age; he is weighed down with misfortune. I am come, Mr. Joseph, to ask your help for him." "My help for him? Why, can't he help himself?" "Four or five years ago he incurred a debt for one who forged his name. He needed not to have paid that money, but he saved a man from prison." "Who was that? Who forged his name?" "I do not name that man, whose end will be confusion, unless he repent and make amends. This debt has grown until it is too large for him to pay it. Unless it is paid, his whole property, his very means of living, will be sold by the creditor." "How can I pay him back? It is three hundred and fifty pounds now," said Joseph. "Man, thou hast named thyself." Joseph stammered but blustered still. "Well--then--what the devil do you mean--you and your forgery?" "Forgery is one crime: you have since committed, perhaps, others. Think. You have been saved once from prison. Will any one save you a second time? How have you shown your gratitude? Will you now do something for your benefactor?" "What do you mean, I say? What do you mean by your forgery and prison? Hang me, if I oughtn't to kick you out of the room. I would, too, if you were ten years younger. Do you know, sir, that you are addressing an officer and a gentleman?" "There is sometimes, even at the very end, a door opened for repentance. The door is open now. Young man, once more, consider. Your grandfather is old and destitute. Will you help him?" Joseph hesitated. "I don't believe he is poor. He has saved up all his money for the girl; let her help him." "You are wrong. He has saved nothing. His granddaughter maintains herself by teaching. He has not a penny. You have got from him, and you have spent all the money he had." "He ought to have saved." "He could, at least, have lived by his calling but for you and for this debt which was incurred by you. He is ruined by it. What will you do for him?" "I am not going to do anything for him," said Joseph. "Is it likely? Did he ever have anything but a scowl for me?" "He who injures another is always in the wrong. You will, then, do nothing? Think. It is the open door. He is your grandfather; he has kept you from starvation when you were turned out of office for drink and dishonesty. I heard that you now have money. I have been told that you have been seen to show a large sum of money. Will you give him some?" As a matter of fact, Joe had been, the night before, having a festive evening at the music-hall, from which his wife was absent, owing to temporary indisposition. While there, he took so much Scotch whisky and water that his tongue was loosened and he became boastful; and that to so foolish an extent that he actually brandished in the eyes of the multitude a whole handful of banknotes. He now remembered this, and was greatly struck by the curious fact that Lala Roy should seem to know it. "I haven't got any money. It was all brag last night. I couldn't help my grandfather if I wanted to." "You have what is left of three hundred pounds," said Lala Roy. "If I said that last night," replied Joe, "I must have been drunker than I thought. You old fool! the flimsies were duffers. Where do you think I could raise three hundred pounds? No, no--I'm sorry for the old man, but I can't help him. I'm going to see him again in a day or two. We jolly sailors don't make much money, but if a pound or two, when I come home, will be of any use to him, he's only got to say the word. After all, I believe it's a kid, got up between you. The old man must have saved something." "You will suffer him, then, even to be taken to the workhouse?" "Why, I can't help it, and I suppose you'll have to go there too. Ho, ho! I say, Nig!" He began to laugh. "Ho, ho! They won't let you wear that old fez of yours at the workhouse. How beautiful you'll look in the workhouse uniform, won't you? I'll come home, and bring you some 'baccy. Now you can cheese it, old 'un." "I will go, if that is what you mean. It is the last time that you will be asked to help your grandfather. The door is closed. You have had one more chance, and you have thrown it away." So he departed, and Joe, who was of a self-reliant and sanguine disposition, thought nothing of the warning, which was therefore thrown away and wasted. As for Lala, he called a cab, and drove to Shadwell. And if any man ever felt that he was an instrument set apart to carry out a scheme of vengeance, that Hindoo philosopher felt like one. The Count of Monte Cristo himself was not more filled with the faith and conviction of his divine obligation. In the afternoon he returned to Chelsea, and perhaps one who knew him might have remarked upon his face something like a gleam of satisfaction. He had done his duty. It was now five days since the fatal discovery. Mr. Emblem still remained upstairs in his chair; but he was slowly recovering. He clearly remembered that he had been robbed, and the principal sign of the shock was his firm conviction that by his own exercise of memory Iris had been enabled to enter into possession of her own. As regards the Bill of Sale, he had clean forgotten it. Now, in the morning, there happened a thing which surprised James very much. The Man in Possession was recalled. He went away. So that the money must have been paid. James was so astonished that he ran upstairs to tell Iris. "Then," said the girl, "we shall not be turned out after all. But who has paid the money?" It could have been no other than Arnold. Yet when, later in the day, he was taxed with having committed the good action, Arnold stoutly denied it. He had not so much money in the world, he said; in fact, he had no money at all. "The good man," said the Philosopher, "has friends of whom he knoweth not. As the river returns its waters to the sea, so the heart rejoiceth in returning benefits received." "Oh, Lala," said Iris. "But on whom have we conferred any benefits?" "The moon shines upon all alike," said Lala, "and knows not what she illumines." "Lala Roy," said Arnold, suddenly getting a gleam of intelligence, "it is you who have paid this money." "You, Lala?" "No one else could have paid it," said Arnold. "But I thought--I thought--" said Iris. "You thought I had no money at all. Children, I have some. One may live without money in Hindostan, but in England even the Philosopher cannot meditate unless he can pay for food and shelter. I have money, Iris, and I have paid the usurer enough to satisfy him. Let us say no more." "Oh, Lala!" The tears came to Iris's eyes. "And now we shall go on living as before." "I think not," he replied. "In the generations of Man, the seasons continue side by side; but spring does not always continue with winter." "I know, now," interrupted Mr. Emblem, suddenly waking into life and recollection; "I could not remember at first. Now I know very well, but I cannot tell how, that the man who stole my papers is my own grandson. James would not steal. James is curious; he wants to read over my shoulders what I am writing. He would pry and find out. But he would not steal. It doesn't matter much--does it?--since I was able to repair the loss--I always had a most excellent memory--and Iris has now received her inheritance; but it is my grandson Joe who has stolen the papers. My daughter's son came home from Australia when--but this I learned afterward--he had already disgraced himself there. He ran into debt, and I paid his debts; he forged my name and I accepted the bill; he took all the money I could let him have, and still he asked for more. There is no one in the world who would rob me of those papers except Joseph." Now, the door was open to the staircase, and the door of communication between the shop and the house-passage was also open. This seems a detail hardly worth noting; yet it proved of the greatest importance. From such small trifles follow great events. Observe that as yet no positive proof was in the hands of the two conspirators which would actually connect Iris with Claude Deseret. The proofs were in the stolen papers, and though Clara had those papers, who was to show that these papers were actually those in the sealed packet? When Mr. Emblem finished speaking, no one replied, because Arnold and Lala knew the facts already, but did not wish to spread them abroad: and next, because to Iris it was nothing new that her cousin was a bad man, and because she thought, now that the Man in Possession was gone, they might just as well forget the papers, and go on as if all this fuss had not happened. In the silence that followed this speech, they heard the voice of James down-stairs, saying: "I am sorry to say, sir, that Mr. Emblem is ill upstairs, and you can't see him to-day." "Ill, is he? I am very sorry. Take him my compliments, James. Mr. Frank Farrar's compliments, and tell him--" And then Mr. Emblem sprung to his feet, crying: "Stop him! stop him! Go down-stairs, some one, and stop him! I don't know where he lives. Stop him! stop him!" Arnold rushed down the stairs. He found in the shop an elderly gentleman, carrying a bundle of books. It was, in fact, Mr. Farrar come to negotiate the sale of another work from his library. "I beg your pardon, sir," said Arnold, "Mr. Emblem is most anxious to see you. Would you step upstairs?" "Quick, Mr. Farrar--quick," the old man held him tight by the hand. "Tell me before my memory runs away with me again--tell me. Listen, Iris! Yet it doesn't matter, because you have already--Tell me--" He seemed about to wander again, but he pulled himself together with a great effort. "You knew my son-in-law before his marriage?" "Surely, Mr. Emblem; I knew your son-in-law, and his father, and all his people." "And his name was not Aglen, at all?" asked Arnold. "No; he took the name of Aglen from a fancied feeling of pride when he quarreled with his father about--well, it was about his marriage, as you know, Mr. Emblem; he came to London, and tried to make his way by writing, and thought to do it, and either to hide a failure or brighten a success, by using a pseudonym. People were more jealous about their names in those days. He had better," added the unsuccessful veteran of letters, "he had far better have made his living as a--as a"--he looked about him for a fitting simile--"as a bookseller." "Then, sir," said Arnold, "what was his real name?" "His name was Claude Deseret, of course." "Iris," said Arnold, taking her hand, "this is the last proof. We have known it for four or five days, but we wanted the final proof, and now we have it. My dear, you are the cousin of Clara Holland, and all her fortune, by her grandfather's will, is yours. This is the secret of the safe. This was what the stolen papers told you." CHAPTER XIV. THE HAND OF FATE. At the first stroke of noon next day, Arnold arrived at his cousin's house in Chester Square. He was accompanied by Iris, by Lala Roy, and by Mr. Frank Farrar. "Pray, Arnold, what is meant by all this mystery?" asked Clara, receiving him and his party with considerable surprise. "I will explain all in a few minutes, my dear Clara. Meanwhile, have you done what you promised?" "Yes, I wrote to Dr. Washington. He will be here, I expect, in a few minutes." "You wrote exactly in the form of words you promised me?" "Yes, exactly. I asked him to meet me here this morning at a quarter past twelve, in order to discuss a few points connected with Iris's future arrangements, before he left for America, and I wrote on the envelope, 'Immediate and important.'" "Very well. He will be sure to come, I think. Perhaps your cousin will insist upon another check for fifty pounds being given to him." "Arnold, you are extremely suspicious and most ungenerous about Dr. Washington, on whose truth and disinterested honesty I thoroughly rely." "We shall see. Meanwhile, Clara, I desire to present to you a young lady of whom we have already spoken. This is Miss Aglen, who is, I need hardly say, deeply anxious to win your good opinion. And this is Lala Roy, an Indian gentleman who knew her father, and has lived in the same house with her for twenty years. Our debt--I shall soon be able to say your debt--of gratitude to this gentleman for his long kindness to Miss Aglen--is one which can never be repaid." Clara gave the most frigid bow to both Iris and Lala Roy. "Really, Arnold, you are talking in enigmas this morning. What am I to understand? What has this gentleman to do with my appointment with Dr. Washington?" "My dear cousin, I am so happy this morning that I wonder I do not talk in conundrums, or rondeaux, or terza rima. It is a mere chance, I assure you. Perhaps I may break out in rhymes presently. This evening we will have fireworks in the square, roast a whole ox, invite the neighbors, and dance about a maypole. You shall lead off the dance, Clara." "Pray go on, Arnold. All this is very inexplicable." "This gentleman, however, is a very old friend of yours, Clara. Do you not recognize Mr. Frank Farrar, who used to stay at the Hall in the old days? "I remember Mr. Farrar very well." Clara gave him her hand. "But I should not have known him. Why have we never met in society during all these years, Mr. Farrar?" "I suppose because I have been out of society, Miss Holland," said the scholar. "When a man marries, and has a large family, and a small income, and grows old, and has to see the young fellows shoving him out at every point, he doesn't care much about society. I hope you are well and happy." "I am very well, and I ought to be happy, because I have recovered Claude's lost heiress, my cousin, Iris Deseret, and she is the best and most delightful of girls, with the warmest heart and the sweetest instincts of a lady by descent and birth." She looked severely at Arnold, who said nothing, but smiled incredulously. Mr. Farrar looked from Iris to Miss Holland, bewildered. "And why do you come to see me to-day, Mr. Farrar--and with Arnold?" "Because I have undertaken to answer one question presently, which Mr. Arbuthnot is to ask me. That is why I am here. Not but what it gives me the greatest pleasure to see you again, Miss Holland, after so many years." "Our poor Claude died in America, you know, Mr. Farrar." "So I have recently heard." "And left one daughter." "That also I have learned." He looked at Iris. "She is with me, here in this house, and has been with me for a week. You may understand, Mr. Farrar, the happiness I feel in having with me Claude's only daughter." Mr. Farrar looked from her to Arnold with increasing amazement. But he said nothing. "I have appointed this morning, at Arnold's request," Clara went on, "to have an interview, perhaps the last, with the gentleman who brought my dear Iris from America. I say, at Arnold's request, because he asked me to do this, and I have always trusted him implicitly, and I hope he is not going to bring trouble upon us now, although I do not, I confess, understand the presence of his friends or their connection with my cousin." "My dear Clara," said Arnold again, "I ask for nothing but patience. And that only for a few moments. As for the papers, you have them all in your possession?" "Yes; they are locked up in my strong-box." "Do not, on any account, give them to anybody. However, after this morning you will not be asked. Have you taken as yet any steps at all for the transference of your property to--to the rightful heir?" "Not yet." "Thank goodness! And now, Clara, I will ask you, as soon as Dr. Washington and--your cousin--are in the drawing-room, to ring the bell. You need not explain why. We will answer the summons, and we will give all the explanations that may be required." "I will not have my cousin vexed, Arnold." "You shall not. Your cousin shall never be vexed by me as long as I live." "And Dr. Washington must not be in any way offended. Consider the feelings of an American gentleman, Arnold. He is my guest." "You may thoroughly rely upon my consideration for the feelings of an American gentleman. Go; there is a knock at the door. Go to receive him, and, when both are in the room, ring the bell." Joe was in excellent spirits that morning. His interview with Lala Roy convinced him that nothing whatever was known of the papers, therefore nothing could be suspected. What a fool, he thought, must be his grandfather, to have had these papers in his hands for eighteen years and never to have opened the packet, in obedience to the injunction of a dead man! Had it been his own case, he would have opened the papers without the least delay, mastered the contents, and instantly claimed the property. He would have gone on to use it for his own purposes and private gain, and with an uninterrupted run of eighteen years, he would most certainly have made a very pretty thing out of it. However, everything works well for him who greatly dares. His wife would manage for him better than he could do it for himself. Yet a few weeks, and the great fortune would fall into his hands. He walked all the way to Chester Square, considering how he should spend the money. There are some forms of foolishness, such as, say, those connected with art, literature, charity, and work for others, which attract some rich men, but which he was not at all tempted to commit. There were others, however, connected with horses, races, betting, and gambling, which tempted him strongly. In fact, Joseph contemplated spending this money wholly on his own pleasures. Probably it would be a part of his pleasure to toss a few crumbs to his wife. It is sad to record that Lotty, finding herself received with so much enthusiasm, had already begun to fall off in her behavior. Even Clara, who thought she discovered every hour some new point of resemblance in the girl to her father, was fain to admit that the "Americanisms" were much too pronounced for general society. Her laugh was louder and more frequent; her jests were rough and common; she used slang words freely; her gestures were extravagant, and she walked in the streets as if she wished every one to notice her. It is the walk of the Music-Hall stage, and the trick of it consists chiefly in giving, so to speak, prominence to the shoulders and oscillation to the skirts. In fact, she was one of those ladies who ardently desire that all the world should notice them. Further, in her conversation, she showed an acquaintance with certain phases of the English lower life which was astonishing in an American girl. But Clara had no suspicion--none whatever. One thing the girl did which pleased her mightily. She was never tired of hearing about her father, and his way of looking, standing, walking, folding his hands, and holding himself. And constantly more and more Clara detected these little tricks in his daughter. Perhaps she learned them. "My dear," she said, "to think that I ever thought you unlike your dear father!" So that it made her extremely uncomfortable to detect a certain reserve in Arnold toward the girl, and then a dislike of Arnold in the girl herself. However, she was accustomed to act by Arnold's advice, and consented, when he asked her, to arrange so that Arnold might meet Dr. Washington. As if anything that so much as looked like suspicion could be thought of for a moment! But the bell rang, and Arnold, followed by his party, led the way from the morning room to the drawing room. Dr. Joseph Washington was standing with his back to the door. The girl was dressed as if she had just come from a walk, and was holding Clara's hand. "Yes, madam," he was saying softly, "I return to-morrow to America, and my wife and my children. I leave our dear girl in the greatest confidence in your hands. I only venture to advise that, to avoid lawyers' expenses, you should simply instruct somebody--the right person--to transfer the property from your name to the name of Iris. Then you will be saved troubles and formalities of every kind. As for me, my home is in America--" "No, Joseph," said Lala Roy gently; "it is in Shadwell." "It is a lie!" he cried, starting; "it is an infernal lie!" "Iris," said Arnold, "lift your veil, my dear. Mr. Farrar, who is this young lady? Look upon this face, Clara." "This is the daughter of Claude Deseret," said Mr. Farrar, "if she is the daughter of the man who married Alice Emblem, and went by the name of Aglen." Clara turned a terrified face to Arnold. "Arnold, help me!" "Whose face is this?" he repeated. "It is--good Heavens!--it is the face of your portrait. It is Claude's face again. They are his very eyes--" She covered her face with her hands. "Oh, Arnold, what is it! Who is this other?" "This other lady, Clara, is a Music-Hall Singer, who calls herself Carlotta Claridane, wife of this man, who is not an American at all, but the grandson of Mr. Emblem, the bookseller, and therefore cousin of Iris. It is he who robbed his grandfather of the papers which you have in your possession, Clara. And this is an audacious conspiracy, which we have been so fortunate as to unearth and detect, step by step." "Oh, can such wickedness be?" said Clara; "and in my house, too?" "Joe," said Lotty, "the game is up. I knew it wouldn't last." "Let them prove it," said Joe; "let them prove it. I defy you to prove it." "Don't be a fool, Joe," said his wife. "Remember," she whispered, "you've got a pocketful of money. Let us go peaceably." "As for you, Nigger," said Joe, "I'll break every bone in your body." "Not here," said Arnold; "there will be no breaking of bones in this house." Lotty began to laugh. "The gentle blood always shows itself, doesn't it?" she said. "I've got the real instincts of a lady, haven't I? Oh, it was beautiful while it lasted. And every day more and more like my father." "Arnold," cried poor Clara, crushed, "help me!" "Come," said Arnold, "you had better go at once." "I won't laugh at you," said Lotty. "It's a shame, and you're a good old thing. But it did me good, it really did, to hear all about the gentle blood. Come, Joe. Let us go away quietly." She took her husband's arm. Joe was standing sullen and desperate. Mr. Chalker was right. It wanted very little more to make him fall upon the whole party, and go off with a fight. "Young woman," said Lala Roy, "you had better not go outside the house with the man. It will be well for you to wait until he has gone." "Why? He is my husband, whatever we have done, and I'm not ashamed of him." "Is he your husband? Ask him what I meant when I said his home was at Shadwell." "Come, Lotty," said Joe, with a curious change of manner. "Let us go at once." "Wait," Lala repeated. "Wait, young woman, let him go first. Pray--pray let him go first." "Why should I wait? I go with my husband." "I thought to save you from shame. But if you will go with him, ask him again why his home is at Shadwell, and why he left his wife." Lotty sprung upon her husband, and caught his wrists with both hands. "Joe, what does he mean? Tell me he is a liar." "That would be useless," said Lala Roy. "Because a very few minutes will prove the contrary. Better, however, that he should go to prison for marrying two wives than for robbing his grandfather's safe." "It's a lie!" Joe repeated, looking as dangerous as a wild boar brought to bay. "There was a Joseph Gallop, formerly assistant purser in the service of the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company," continued the man of fate, "who married, nine months ago, a certain widow at Shadwell. He was turned out of the service, and he married her because she had a prosperous lodging-house." "Oh--h!" cried Lotty. "You villain! You thought to live upon my earnings, did you? You put me up to pretend to be somebody else. Miss Holland"--she fell upon her knees, literally and simply, and without any theatrical pretense at all--"forgive me! I am properly punished. Oh, he is made of lies! He told me that the real Iris was dead and buried, and he was the rightful heir; and as for you"--she sprung to her feet and turned upon her husband--"I know it is true. I know it is true--I can see it within your guilty eyes." "If you have any doubt," said Lala, "here is a copy of the marriage-certificate." She took it, read it, and put it in her pocket. Then she went out of the room without another word, but with rage and revenge in her eyes. Joseph followed her, saying no more. He had lost more than he thought to lose. But there was still time to escape, and he had most of the money in his pocket. But another surprise awaited him. The lady from Shadwell, in fact, was waiting for him outside the door. With her were a few Shadwell friends, of the seafaring profession, come to see fair play. It was a disgraceful episode in the history of Chester Square. After five minutes or so, during which no welsher on a race-course was ever more hardly used, two policemen interfered to rescue the man of two wives, and there was a procession all the way to the police-court, where, after several charges of assault had been preferred and proved against half a dozen mariners, Joseph was himself charged with bigamy, both wives giving evidence, and committed for trial. His old friend, Mr. David Chalker, one is sorry to add, refused to give bail, so that he remained in custody, and will now endure hardness for a somewhat lengthened period. "Clara," said Arnold, "Iris will stay with you, if you ask her. We shall not marry, my dear, without your permission. I have promised that already, have I not?" THE END. A YACHTSMAN'S YARN. "I've knocked off the sea now for some years, but I was yachting along with all sorts of gentlemen and in all sorts of craft, from three to one hundred and twenty tons, ever since the top of my head was no higher than your knee; and as boy, man, and master, I'll allow there's no one who has seen much more than I have. Yet, spite of that, I can recall but one extraordinary circumstance. Daresay when I've told it you, you won't believe it; but I sha'n't be able to help that. Truth's truth, no consequence how sing'lar its appearance may be; and so now to begin. "No matter the port, no matter the yacht's name, no matter her owner's calling, no matter nothing. Terms and dates and the like shall be imaginary, and so let the vessel be a schooner of one hundred tons called the 'Evangeline,' and her owner Mr. Robinson, and me, who was captain of her, Jacob Williams. This'll furnish a creep you may go on sweeping with till Doomsday without raising what's dead and gone, though not forgotten, mind ye, from the bottom. Well, for a whole fortnight had the 'Evangeline' been moored in a snug berth alongside a pier wall. The English Channel was wide there, and it didn't need much sailing to find the Atlantic Ocean. I began to think all cruising was to come to an end; for Mr. Robinson was a man fond of keeping the sea, and I had never found a fortnight's lying by to his taste at all. But matters explained themselves after I'd seen him two or three times walking about with a very fine-looking female party. Mr. Robinson was a bachelor, his age I dare say about forty, with handsome whiskers, and one of those voices that show breeding in a man; ay, and the humblest ear that hears 'em recognizes them. I didn't take much notice of _her_, though I reckoned her large black eyes the beautifullest I had ever beheld in a female countenance. She seemed young--not more than eight-and-twenty--with what they call a fine figure, though, speaking for myself, I never had much opinion of small waists. Give me _bong poine_, as my old master, Sir Arthur Jones, used to say; and he ought to have known, for he had been studying female beauty for eighty year, and died, I reckon, of it. "I considered it to be a case of courting, for she was a lady; there was no mistaking that; she held her head up like one, and dressed as real ladies do, expensively but plainly--ay, old Jacob knows; he didn't go yachting for years for nothing. But it wasn't for me to form opinions. My berth was an easy one--just a sprawl all day long with a pipe in my mouth, and a good night's rest to follow; and that was all it was my duty to think about. "Well, one afternoon Mr. Robinson comes aboard alone, and says to me, 'Williams, at what hour will the tide serve to-morrow night?' "'Why, sir,' says I, after thinking, 'there'll be plenty of water at nine o'clock.' "'Then,' says he, 'see all ready, Williams, to get away to-morrow at that hour. We're off to ----,' and he names a Mediterranean port. "Right, sir,' says I, though wondering a bit to myself, for the season was pretty well advanced, and I couldn't have guessed, from what I knew and had heard of him, that he would have pushed so far south. "Well, at half past eight that evening the deck was hailed by a boat alongside, and up he comes handing a lady on board, thickly veiled, and they both went below as if they were in a hurry. Some parcels and a bit of a bandbox or so were chucked up to us by the watermen, who then shoved off. There was a nice little off-shore breeze a-blowing, and soon after nine we were clear of the harbor and sailing quietly along, the sea smooth and the moon rising red out of a smother of mist. Mr. Robinson came on deck and looked aloft to see what sail was made; I was at the tiller, and stepping up to me, he says-- "'What d'yer think of the weather, Williams?' "'Why,' says I, 'it seems as if it was going to keep fair.' "'There can't come too much wind for me,' says he, 'short of a hurricane. Don't spare your cloths, let it blow as it may. You understand that?' "'Quite easily,' says I. "Now, this order I took to be as singular as our going to the Mediterranean, for Mr. Robinson was never a man to carry on; there was no racing in him; quiet sailing was his pleasure, and what his hurry was all of a sudden I couldn't imagine, though I guessed that the party in the cabin might have something to do with it. She came on deck after we had been under way about three quarters of an hour, this time without a veil, with what they call a turban hat on her head. There was plenty of moonlight, and I tell you that the very shadow she cast, and that lay like a carving of jet on ivory, looked beautiful on the white deck, so fine her figure was. Lord, how her big eyes flashed, too, when she drew my way and turned 'em to the moon! Being a sober, 'spectable man myself, with correct views on the bringing up of daughters, it seemed to be a queer start that if so be this young lady was keeping company with Mr. Robinson--being courted by him, you know--that her mother or some female connection wasn't along with her. P'raps they were married, I thought; might have been spliced that very morning. She had no gloves on, and whenever she walked with Mr. Robinson near to me, I'd take a long squint at her left hand; but there was no distinguishing a wedding-ring by moonshine, and even had it been broad daylight it would have been all the same, for the jewels lay so thick on her fingers you'd have fancied them sparkling with dew. "Well, all that night it blew a soft, quiet wind, but for hours next day 'twas all dead calm, a light swell, the sunlight coming off the water hot as steam, and the yacht slewing round and round as if, like the rest of us, she was trying to find out where the wind meant to come from next. I never saw any man fret more over a calm than Mr. Robinson did over that. The lady didn't appear discomposed; she sat under the awning reading, and once when Mr. Robinson turned to look at her she ran her shining black eyes with a smiling roll around the sea, that was just the same as if she had said, 'Isn't it big enough?' for hang me if even I couldn't read the language in them sparklers of hers when she chose to lift the eyelashes off their meaning, unaccustomed as Jacob Williams ever was to female ways and the customs they pursue! But Mr. Robinson couldn't keep quiet. He kept on asking of me when I thought the wind was coming, and he was constantly getting up and staring round, and I'd notice he was always letting his cigar go out, which is a sure sign that either a man don't care about smoking, or else he's got something weighing upon his spirits. P'raps, thought I, it's stipulated that he's not to get married anywhere but in the port we're bound to, and that the license don't run so long as to allow for calms; but this I said to myself, with a wink at my own thoughts, for, though there's a good many things in this 'ere yearth that I don't understand, I must tell you Jacob Williams wasn't born without a mind. "Well, time went on, and then a head-wind sprung up, with a short, spiteful sea. I kept the yacht under a press, according to orders, and the driving of her close-hauled, every luff trembling and the foam to leeward as high as the rail, fairly smothered the vessel forward; whilst as to her movements, it was dreary and aching enough, I can tell you, the wind sweeping out of clouds of spray forward and splitting with shrieks upon the ropes, and the canvas soaking up the damp till every stretch might have been owned for the matter of color by a coalman. 'Twas 'bout ship often enough, Mr. Robinson being full of anxiety and impatience, and watching the compass for a shift of wind as if he was a cat and there was a mouse in the binnacle. I could have sworn the handsome party would have been beam-ended by the dance; it turned the stomachs of two of the crew, anyhow, and one of them said that if he had known the 'Evangeline' was to cross the bay, he'd have found another ship; yet the lady took no notice of the weather. She'd come up dressed in waterproofs, and her beautiful face shining with the big eyes in it out of a hood; and the more the sea troubled the schooner, the more the vessel labored and showed herself uneasy, the more the lady would look pleased, laughing out at times, with plenty of music in her voice, I allow, but with a something in it and in the gleaming stare she'd keep on the plunging and streaming bows, that made me calculate--don't know why, I'm sure--that lovely as she was and beautiful as she was shaped, there was no more heart inside of her than there's pearls in cockles. "Well, we had two days of this, passing a good many vessels; both steam and sail, that were getting all they could out of what was baffling us; then there was a shift of wind; it fell light, everything turned dry, and we went along with all cloths showing, sailing about five knots--not more, and I don't think less. When the change of weather came Mr. Robinson looked more cheerful. Seemed happier, he did, and I overheard him say to the party as they stood looking over the starn at the wake that ran away in two white lines with a gull, or two circling within a stone's throw in waiting for whatever the cook had to heave overboard--I heard him say: "'Every mile'll make it more difficult; besides,' says he, with a sweep of his hand, 'what a waste this is! Williams,' he sings out to me, 'how fur off's the horizon?' "'Why,' I answered, 'from this height I should say a matter of six mile and a half.'" 'And how fur distant, Captain Williams,' says the lady, smiling sweetly, and pretty nigh confusing my brains by the beautiful look she gave me, 'would a vessel like ours be seen?' "I took time to think, with a squint at our mastheads--for we carried long sticks--and said, 'Well, call it twelve mile, mum. It's impossible to speak to a nicety.' "'And what,' I heard Mr. Robinson observe, as I turned away, 'is twelve miles in this here watery wilderness of leagues?' "'And then she gave a laugh, as if some one had made her feel glad; and it was all like music and poetry, I can tell you, her laughing, and his softness, and the water smooth, and the yacht sailing along as if she enjoyed it, like a hard-worked vessel out for a holiday. "Time passed till it come on four o'clock on the afternoon of that day. There was a redness in the western heavens that betokened more wind, though the sun still stood high. Meanwhile the breeze hung steady. There was the smoke of a steamer away on our starboard quarter, and there was nothing else in sight. I took no notice of it, for smoke's not uncommon nowadays on the ocean; but whatever the vessel might be, the glances I'd take at her now and again made me see she was driving through it properly; for three-quarters of an hour after we had sighted it, the smoke was abeam, and the funnel raised up, showing that her course was something to the eastward of ours. I pointed the glass at her, and made out a yellow chimney and pole-masts--hull still below the horizon. "'Either a yacht, sir, or a Government dispatch boat--something of that kind, sir,' says I to Mr. Robinson, who was sitting near me with the lady. "He jumped up and took a look, and whilst he was working away with the telescope, the breeze comes along right out of the red sky abeam where the steamer was, with twice its former strength, roughening the blue water into hollows, and bowing down the yacht till the slope of her deck was like a roof. The crew jumped about shortening canvas, and the yacht began to snore as she felt the wind. On a sudden, and as if the steamer had only just then spied us, she altered her course by three or four points, as one could see by the swift rising of her hull, till, whilst the sun was still hanging a middling height over the sea line, you could see the whole of the vessel--a long, low craft of about one hundred and fifty tons--sweeping through the seas like an arrow, the smoke streaming black and fat from her small, yellow funnel, and her hull sinking out of sight one moment and reappearing the next in a sort of jump of the whole foaming wash, as if, by Jove, her screw would thrust her clean out of the water. "The lady looked at her with a sort of indifference; but Mr. Robinson was pale enough as he handed me the glass, and said, 'Williams, see if you know her.' "I took a look at her, and answered, 'It's hard to tell those steamers till you see their names, sir; but if she's not the Violet, belonging to General Coldsteel (of course these are false names), she's uncommonly like her. But, law bless us! how they're driving her! Why, there'll be a bust up if they don't look out. They'll blow the boilers out of her!'" 'Indeed, I never before saw any vessel rush so. She'd shear clear through some of the larger seas, and you didn't need watch her long to make you reckon you'd seen the last of her. Then Mr. Robinson, talking like a man half in a rage, half in a fright, orders me to pack sail on the schooner; but it was already blowing a single-reef breeze, and I had no idea of losing our spars, and so I told him very firmly that the yacht had all she needed, and that more would only stop her by burying her: and I had my way. But we were foaming through it, too; we wanted no more pressure; the freshening wind had worked the schooner into a fair nine knots, and it was first-rate sailing too, considering the character of the sea and the weight of the breeze. 'Twas now certain beyond all question that the steamer meant to close us, though I thought she had a queer way of doing it, for sometimes she'd head right at us, and then put her helm down and keep on a course parallel with ours, forging well ahead and then shifting the helm for a fresh run at us. There was no anxiety that I could see in the lady's looks, but Mr. Robinson was quite mightily bothered and worried and pale enough to make me suppose that all this meant a pursuit, with a capture to follow; and it was certain that whatever intentions the steamer had, there was nothing in the night which was approaching to promise us a chance of sneaking clear, for the sky was pure as glass, and it wouldn't be long after sundown before the moon would be filling the air with a light like morning. Well, sir, fathom by fathom the steamer had her way of us. She had drawn close enough to let Mr. Robinson make out the people abroad. As for me, I was at the helm; for there was something in the maneuvering of the steamer that made me suspicious, and I wasn't going to trust any man but myself at the tiller. We held on as we were; we couldn't improve the schooner's speed by bringing the wind anywhere else than where it was; and no good was to be done by cracking on, even though it had, come to our dragging what we couldn't carry; for the steamer's speed was a fair fourteen if it was a mile, and our yacht was not going to do that, you know, or anything like it. The moon had arisen, and the sea ran like heaving snow from the windward, and by this time the steamer was about half a mile ahead of us, about three points on the weather bow. She was as plain as if daylight lay on her. All the time the party and Mr. Robinson had kept the deck, she taking a view now and then of the steamer with an opera-glass. "Suddenly I yelled out, 'Mr. Robinson, by all that's holy, sir, that vessel there means to run us down! Lads,' I shouted, 'tumble aft quick, and see the boats all ready for lowering!' "The lady jumped up with a scream, and seized hold of Mr. Robinson's arm, who seeming to forget what he was about, shook her off, and fell to raving to me to see that the steamer didn't touch us. By thunder, sir, there was the cowardly brute slanting her flying length as though to cross our hawse, but clearly aiming to strike us right amidships. I shouted to the men to make ready and 'bout ship, and a minute after I shoved the tiller over, and the yacht rounded like a woman waltzing. But before we had gathered way the steamer was after us. The lady sent up scream after scream. Mr. Robinson stood motionless, seeing as plain as I that if the steamer meant to sink us there was no seamanship in this wide world that could stop her; and I saw the men throwing off their shoes and half stripping themselves, ready for what was to come. "The steamer headed dead to strike our weather-beam; she rushed at us with the foam boiling over her bows; once more I chucked the schooner right up into the wind, and the steamer went past us like a rocket under our stern. I looked at her and sha'n't ever forget what I saw. There was a white-haired man, with white whiskers and bareheaded, roaring and raging at us in the grasp of three or four seamen. 'Twas like a death-struggle. A chap who looked as if he had just seized the wheel was grinding it hard over to get away from us; and so the steamer fled past, more like a nightmare than a reality, and in a few minutes was standing with full speed to the norrard, where, in less than a quarter of an hour, she faded slick out of sight. "It was some time after I had left the 'Evangeline' and was at home before I got to know the meaning of this here wonderful adventure. The party, it turned out, was no less than the wife of the general as owned the 'Violet,' and she was running away with Mr. Robinson. May be our men had talked about our going to the Mediterranean, but anyhow the general who was in London at the time, got scent that his wife had bolted with Mr. Robinson in the 'Evangeline,' and in less than twenty-four hours he was after us in his steamer. He tracked us by speaking the vessels we passed; and the light airs and calms we had encountered easily allowed him to overhaul quickly. And it turned out that when he had fairly sighted us, he sent the man at the wheel forward, and took the helm himself. The crew dursn't express their wonder aloud, though they knew he was no hand at steering, not to mention the mad agitation he was in, and they let him have his way when he headed the steamer for us, expecting that he merely wished to close us in order to speak; but when I put my helm down and the steamer passed, and they spied the general rounding his craft evidently to run us down, they threw themselves upon him to save their own lives as well as ours. That was the sight I saw as the steamer rushed past. A few moments after they had gone clear the poor old fellow was seized with an attack of apoplexy, which killed him right off, and thereupon they headed right away to England with the dead body aboard. "What do you think of this for a yarn? Would any one suppose such vengefulness could exist in a white-haired man that had known his seventieth birthday? What did he want to go and try and drown me and my mates for? _We_ weren't running away with the female party. But the world's full of romantic capering, sir; and I tell you what it is--'tain't all fair sailing even in yachts, modest and pretty as the divarsion is." 
41909	----	Adventure Stories for Girls THE CRIMSON THREAD by ROY J. SNELL The Reilly & Lee Co. Chicago Printed in the United States of America Copyright, 1925 by The Reilly & Lee Co. All Rights Reserved CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I Two Hours Before Midnight 7 II Crimson with a Strand of Purple 23 III A New Mystery 36 IV The Picture Girl 52 V "Come and Find Me" 67 VI The Iron Ring 80 VII Cordie's Mad Flight 93 VIII The Diamond-Set Iron Ring 109 IX Her Double 136 X Cordie's Strange Ride 153 XI As Seen from the Stairway 167 XII Silver Gray Treasure 175 XIII Lucile's Dream 181 XIV The Newspaper Picture 187 XV "With Contents, If Any" 192 XVI A Great Day 205 XVII An Icy Plunge 215 XVIII The Mystery Lady's New Role 229 XIX Meg Wields a Belaying Pin 234 XX The Great Moment 246 XXI The Man in Gray 254 XXII The Finish 263 XXIII Meg's Secret 271 XXIV Three Questions 277 XXV What the Brown Bag Held 294 THE CRIMSON THREAD CHAPTER I TWO HOURS BEFORE MIDNIGHT Starting back with a suppressed exclamation of surprise on her lips, Lucile Tucker stared in mystification and amazement. What was this ghost-like apparition that had appeared at the entrance to the long dark passage-way? A young woman's face, a face of beauty and refinement, surrounded by a perfect circle of white. In the almost complete darkness of the place, that was all Lucile could see. And such a place for such a face--the far corner of the third floor of one of the largest department stores in the world. At that very moment, from somewhere out of the darkness, came the slow, deep, chiming notes of a great clock telling off the hour of ten. Two hours before midnight! And she, Lucile, was for a moment alone; or at least up to this moment she had thought herself alone. What was she to make of the face? True, it was on the level with the top of the wrapper's desk. That, at least, was encouraging. "That white is a fox skin, the collar to some dark garment that blends completely with the shadows," Lucile told herself reassuringly. At that moment a startling question sent her shrinking farther into the shadows. "If she's a real person and not a spectre, what is she doing here? Here, of all places, at the hour of ten!" That was puzzling. What had this lady been doing in that narrow passage? She could not be a member of the working force of the store. No sales person would come to work in such a superb garment as this person wore. Although Lucile had been employed in the book department for but ten days, she had seen all those who worked here and was certain enough that no such remarkably beautiful face could have escaped her notice. "She--why she might be anything," Lucile told herself. "A--thief--a shoplifter. Perhaps she stole that very cape--or whatever it is she wears. Perhaps--" Suddenly her heart gave a leap. Footsteps were approaching. The next instant she saw a second face appear in the narrow line of light which the street lights cast through the window. "Laurie Seymour," she breathed. Laurie was the new man in the department. He had been working at the boys' and girls' books for only three days, yet Lucile liked him, liked him tremendously. He was so friendly, even-tempered and different. And he seemed a trifle mysterious. "Mysterious," she mused, "perhaps here's the mystery answered." It certainly did seem so, for after the apparition in white had whispered a word or two, Laurie looked at her strangely for a second, drew from his pocket a slip of paper and handing it to her, quickly vanished into the shadows. The next instant the apparition vanished, too. Again Lucile found herself alone in the far corner of the mammoth store, surrounded by darkness. Perhaps you have been wondering what Lucile and Laurie were doing in the great store at this hour. Since the doors are closed at six o'clock, you have no doubt thought of the entire place as being shrouded in darkness and utterly deserted. These were the days of the great rush of sales that comes before Christmas. That evening eight thousand books had been trucked into the department to be stowed away on or under tables and shelves. Twenty sales persons had been given "pass outs"; which meant that they might pass _in_ at seven o'clock and work until ten. They had worked like beavers; making ready for the rush that would come on the morrow. Now the great bulk of the work had been done. More than half of the workers had chirped a cheery "Good-night" and had found their way down a marble stairway to the ground floor and the street. Lucile had been sent by "Rennie," the head sales-lady of juveniles, to this dark section for an armful of books. Here in this dark corner a part of Laurie's true character had, uninvited, come to her. "He gave her his pass-out," she said to herself. "With that she can leave the building with her stolen goods." For a second, as she thought of this, she contemplated following the mystery woman and bringing her back. "But that," she told herself, "would be dangerous. That passage is a hundred feet long and only four feet wide; then it turns sharply and goes two hundred feet farther. She may carry a knife; such women do. In that place she could murder me and no one would know until morning. "Of course," she reflected, "there's the other end of the passage where it comes out at the offices. She must leave the passage there if she does not come back this way. I might call the watchmen. They could catch her. It's a perfect trap; she's like a mouse in a boot. But then--" She paused in her mad rush of thought. What proof had she that this beautiful creature was a thief? What indeed? And what right had she to spy upon her and upon Laurie? Truth was, she had none at all. She was a sales person, not a detective. Her job was that of putting books on shelves and tables and selling them; her immediate task that of taking an armful of books to Rennie. Her simple and sole duty lay just there. Then, too, in the short time she had known Laurie Seymour, she had come to like him. "He might be innocent of any real wrong," she reasoned. "If I go blundering into things I may be serving a friend badly indeed." "But," she was brought up short by a sudden thought, "if he gave her his pass-out, how's he to leave the building?" How indeed? In a great store such as this, where hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of rare jewels and much silver and gold are kept and where princely furs and priceless old paintings are on display, it is necessary to maintain a constant vigil against thieves. "Pass-outs" are given to all employees who enter or leave the store after closing hours. It was true enough that without his pass-out, Laurie could not get by the eagle-eyed guard who kept constant vigil at the only door where the employees were permitted to pass out to the street. "But the books," she murmured, starting up, "Rennie will be waiting." Rennie, whose real name was Miss Renton, appeared to be in no hurry. Having become interested in writing down lists of books that were to be ordered in the morning, she had so far forgotten the girl as to exclaim as she came up: "Why, Lucile! I thought you had gone! Now, dearie, just put those books down right there. We can take care of them before the rush begins in the morning. Run along now and get your coat. You must go home. It's past ten, less than two hours till midnight!" "Yes, but--" Lucile checked herself just in time. She had been about to say that she was afraid to go for her coat. And indeed she was, for was it not hanging on the wall in that narrow passage at the door of which the mystery lady had appeared? "But it wouldn't do to tell," she thought, "I--I've got to go alone." Go she did, but with much fear and trembling. She might have spared herself all this trembling, for there was no one in the dark passage. But what was this? The row of coat hooks were all empty save one, her own, and on that hook--what could it mean?--on that hook hung not her own too frankly thin and threadbare coat, but a magnificent thing of midnight blue and white. It was the cape with the white fox collar worn by the mystery woman. Even as her hand touched the fox skin she knew it was far more costly than she had thought. "It's over my coat," she breathed. "I've only to leave it." This, she found, was not true. _Her coat had vanished._ The cape had been left in its stead and, as if to further perplex and alarm her, the midnight blue unfolded, revealing a superb lining of Siberian squirrel. "Oh!" Lucile exclaimed as her trembling fingers dropped to her side and she fled the place. One consoling thought flashed across her mind. Rennie had not yet left for the night. Rennie, the tall and slim, with a thread of gray in her black hair, who had been in the department for no one knew how long--Rennie would know what to do. The instant she was told all that had happened she would say what the very next step must be. "The instant she is told," Lucile whispered to herself. Then suddenly she realized that she did not wish to tell all she had seen. "Not just yet, at any rate," she told herself. "I'm not supposed to have seen it. I want time to think. I'll tell Rennie only what I am supposed to know--that my coat has been taken and this cape left in its stead." Rennie showed little surprise on hearing the story. "Someone has probably taken the wrong coat," she said. "But that's not possible!" Lucile laughed at the very thought. "Why?" "I'll show you," and she dashed back for the cape. As Rennie saw the magnificent creation, she gasped with astonishment; then began to murmur something about fairy princesses looking after poor girls and leaving them gorgeous garments. "You can't go home without a wrap," she told Lucile. "They say there's a regular blizzard outside. You'll simply have to wear it home." Taking the garment from Lucile's hands, she placed it upon her shoulders with a touch that was half caress. Then, having fastened it under Lucile's chin, she stood back to exclaim: "Why, dearie, you look charming!" "But--but how am I to get out of the building with it? No one will believe that a mere sales girl owns a cape like this. It's new. Probably it's been stolen." "Stolen!" exclaimed Rennie. "What nonsense! "Besides," she added in a quieter tone, "it's not quite new. The strings that hold it together at the throat are worn a little smooth and there's the least bit of a soil at the bottom. You wait ten minutes for me and we'll go out together. I know the watchman. I'll take you out under my wing." Greatly relieved by these words and intent on making the most of her wait by having a good general look at the room, Lucile sauntered away to the left where she was soon lost from sight behind tables, stacks of books, and massive pillars. Since she had worked here but ten days, the charm of the place had not yet worn off. The books, row on row of them, fascinated her. Here was a wealth of learning that no one could hope to appropriate in a lifetime. To the right of her was poetry, thousands of volumes; to the left, books on travel, thousands more; and before her new fiction, tens of thousands. Who would not envy her? It was a great place for one who loved books. With a feeling of sorrow she thought of the time when she must leave all this wealth; when she must say goodbye to the wonderful friends she had already formed here. In two short weeks she would be going back to the University. Since she was dependent upon her own resources for her support--and since for one who specialized in English there was quite as much to be learned about books by selling as by reading them--her head professor had quite readily granted her a month's leave of absence that she might come down here to assist in meeting the Christmas rush. "Ah yes," she breathed, "it will be of the past in two more weeks. But in two weeks much may happen. Think of what happened to-night! Think--" She was brought up short by a sound. Had it been a footstep? She could not make sure for the floor was heavily carpeted. Instantly she became conscious of the darkness that surrounded her like a shroud. Before her loomed the dim outlines of the elevator cages. Distorted by the uncertain light, these seemed the cells of some gloomy prison. Far off to the right was a great rotunda. From the rail that surrounded this, when the lights were on, one might gaze upward to dizzy heights and downward to dizzier depths. Now she thought of that awe inspiring vault as if it were some deep and mysterious cave. "Oh--ooo!" Lucile gasped. "This place gets spookier every moment. I'll go back to--" Even as she spoke she caught a sound to her right. Impelled by sheer curiosity, she took a dozen steps in that direction. Suddenly she started back. Against the wall a light had flashed on for a second and in that second she had caught sight of a face--the face of Laurie Seymour. Again the light came on. This time the flash was a little longer. She saw his face clearly. On his finely cut features there was such a smile as suggests anticipation of amusing adventure. In one hand he held the flashlight. Under his arm was a bundle of corrugated paper such as is used in wrapping books for mailing. He was standing by a square opening in the wall. Lucile knew in a vague sort of way where that opening led. Books that had been wrapped were dropped in there. A circular spiral chute, some three feet in diameter, wormed its way like an auger hole down from this point to the sub-basement where was located the shipping room. Even as she thought this through she saw Laurie swing his feet across the opening. Then, just as the light flashed out, she again saw that amused grin. The next second there came the sound of some heavy object gliding downward. "He--he went down the chute!" she gasped. "He'll be killed!" How long she stood there, petrified with surprise and dread, she could not have told. It could not have been many seconds but it seemed an hour. At last the end came, a sickening thud sounding faint and far away. Without uttering a sound, but with heart beating wildly and feet flying at almost superhuman speed, the girl raced across the room and down a flight of broad marble stairs. "I must find him. He is hurt. Perhaps he is killed!" she kept repeating to herself. Down one flight; down two; three; four, she sped. And then, in the darkness of this vast shipping room, she paused to listen. Not a sound. She may as well have been alone in the catacombs of Egypt or the Mammoth Cave. "Must be this way," she breathed. Truth was, she had lost her sense of direction. She was not sure which way to go. She took a dozen steps forward. Finding herself confronted by a dark bulk, she started walking round it. Having paused to think, she found fear gripping at her heart. When she tried to retrace her steps she discovered that the stairs had apparently vanished. She was lost. "Lost!" she whispered. "Lost in the subbasement of this great building at night!" Even as she thought this there came to her, faint and far distant, yet very distinct, the even tread of footsteps. "It's not Laurie. He doesn't walk like that. It--it's--" her heart stood still, "it's a watchman! And here I am dressed in this magnificent garment which does not belong to me. Somehow I must get back to the third floor and to Rennie! But how? How!" CHAPTER II CRIMSON WITH A STRAND OF PURPLE Panic, an unbelievable terror ten times stronger than her will, seized Lucile and bore her fleetly down a dark, unknown aisle. The very thought of being discovered by a watchman unknown to her, mingled with the sensation of the fear of darkness, had driven her well-nigh frantic. "The cape," she whispered to herself. "I must not be found with the cape!" Had she but possessed the power to reason quietly, she might have known that the watchman, searching for an explanation of her strange conduct, would, upon her suggesting it, take her back to the third floor and Rennie. Not being in full possession of these powers, she abandoned herself to panic. Snatching the cape from her shoulders she thrust it under her arm and plunged on into the darkness. In the deeper shadows she saw dim forms looming up before her. Some seemed giants ready to reach out and grasp her; some wild creatures poised to fall upon her from the dark. Now she tripped and went sprawling. As she sprang to her feet she caught the gleam of a light. Thinking it the watchman's flashlight, she was away like the wind. At last pausing for breath, she listened. At first she heard only the beating of her own heart. Then, faint and far away, came the mellow chimes of the great clock announcing the arrival of half past ten. "Half past ten!" she whispered in consternation. "Rennie will leave. The place will be in darkness and I shall be lost! What shall I do?" Again she caught a faint gleam of light. Watching it for a moment, and seeing that it was steady and constant, she dared to creep toward it. Drawing nearer, she saw that it came drifting down an elevator shaft from some place a long way above. "The elevator is there. The door is open!" she said to herself in surprise. "And there is no one in it." Just then, as she strained her ears to listen, she caught again that heavy, even tread of the watchman. Our nerves are strange masters. A great general is thrown into panic at sight of a cat; a woman of national fame goes into convulsions at sight of rippling water on the sea. As for Lucile, at that moment nothing could have so overthrown her whole mental balance as that steady tramp-tramp of the watchman. This time it drove her to the most curious action. As a wild animal, driven, winded, cornered, will sometimes dash into the very trap that has been set for him, so this girl, leaping forward, entered the elevator cage. Had there been more time, it may have been that her scattered wits returning would have told her that here, where the dim light set out her whole form in profile, was the most dangerous spot of all. Before she had time to think of this the elevator gave a sudden lurch and started upward. Nothing could have been more startling. Lucile had never seen an elevator ascend without an operator at the levers and she naturally believed it could not be done; yet here she was in the cage, going up. It was as if some phantom hand were in control. Darkness and silence rendered it more spectral. The ever increasing speed shot terror to her very heart. Sudden as had been the start, so sudden was the stop. Thrown to the floor and all but knocked unconscious, she slowly struggled to her feet. What did it mean? What was to be the end of this terrible adventure? As she looked before her she saw that the car had stopped about three feet above some floor. The doors to that floor were shut. The catches, however, were within her reach. Should she attempt to open them and make a leap for it? Had she but known it, those doors were supposed to open only when the cage was level with the floor. But the infinite power that tempers the wind to the shorn lamb sometimes tampers with man-made doors. As if by magic, the doors swung back at her touch and with a leap she was out and away. Then, gripping her madly beating heart, she paused to consider. She was free from the elevator, but where was she? Her situation seemed more desperate than before. She had not counted the floors that sped by her. She did not know whether she was on the sixth or the tenth floor. Reason was beginning to come into its own. With a steadier stride she took a turn about the place. Putting out a hand, she touched first this object, then that. "Furniture," she said at last. "Now on what floor is furniture sold?" She did not know. Coming at last to a great overstuffed davenport, she sat down upon it. Feeling its drowsy comfort after her hot race, she was half tempted to stretch herself out upon it, to spread the splendid cape over her, and thus to spend the night. "It won't do," she decided resolutely. "Every extra moment I spend here makes it worse." At that she rose and looked about her. Over to the right was a broad stretch of pale light. "It's the moonlight falling through the great skylight of the rotunda," she breathed. Instantly she began making her way in that direction. Arrived at the railing, she looked down. She was high up. The very thought of the dizzy depth below made her feel faint; yet, fighting against this faintness, she persisted in looking down until she had established the fact that she was on the sixth floor. There remained then but to descend three flights of stairs to find the blessed third floor and, perhaps, Rennie. She was not long in descending. Then, such a silent cry of joy as escaped her lips as she saw Rennie's light still dimly burning in the far corner. Slipping on the cape, the better to hide the dust and dirt she had collected from many falls, she at last tiptoed up close to the desk where Rennie was working. "Hello, dearie," said Rennie, smiling up at her through her thick glasses. "Ready to go? In just one moment." Lucile caught her breath in astonishment. Then the truth burst upon her. The whole wild adventure through which she had been driven at lightning speed had consumed but half an hour. So intent upon her work had dear old Rennie been that she had not noted the passing of time. Some three minutes later, arm in arm, they were making their way down the dark and gloomy marble stairs; and a moment later, having safely passed the guard, they were out on the deserted street. The instant they passed through the door they were caught in a great whirl of wind and snow that carried them half the way to State Street before they could check their mad gait. For Rennie, who was to take the surface line, this was well enough; but for Lucile it meant an additional half block of beating her way back to her station on the "L." With a screamed "Good-night" that was caught up and carried away by the storm, she tore herself away and, bending low, leaped full into the teeth of the gale. A royal battle ensued. The wind, seeming to redouble its fury at sight of a fresh victim, roared at her, tore at her, then turning and twisting, appeared to shake her as some low born parent shakes his child. Snow cut her face. The blue cape, wrapping about her more than once, tripped her for a near fall. "But it's warm! Oh, so warm!" she breathed. Then, even in the midst of all this, she asked herself the meaning of all this strange mystery of the night, and, of a sudden, the sight of Laurie stepping into that tortuous chute flashed back upon the screen of her memory. Stopping stock still to grasp a post of the elevated's steel frame, she steadied herself and tried to think. Should she turn back? Should she make one more attempt to rescue Laurie from whatever plight he may have gotten himself into? For a moment, swaying like a dead leaf on a tree, she clung there. "No! No!" she said at last, "I wouldn't go back there to-night! Not for worlds!" She made one desperate leap across the street and was the next moment beating her way up the steel stairway to the elevated. Once aboard the well heated train, with the fur lined cape adding its cozy warmth to her chilled and weary body, she relaxed for the first time to think in a quiet way of the night's affair. A careful review of events convinced her that she had behaved in quite a wild and insane manner at times, but that on the whole the outcome was quite satisfactory. Certainly she could not have been expected to return home without a wrap on a night such as this. Surely she had had nothing whatever to do with Laurie's giving away his pass-out, nor of his flinging himself so recklessly down the parcel chute. He was almost a stranger to her. Why, then, should she concern herself with the outcome of an affair which he had clearly entered into of his own free will? On this last point she could not feel quite comfortable, but since the elevated train was hurling her homeward and since she could not, had she used her utmost will-power, have driven herself back into that great darkened store, and since there was no likelihood of her being admitted without a pass, she concluded that she must still be moving in the path of destiny. In strange contrast to the wild whirling storm outside, she found her room a cozy nook of comfort. After throwing off her street clothes and going through a series of wild gymnastics that came very near to flying, she drew on her dream robe, threw a dressing gown across her shoulders then sank into a great overstuffed chair. There, curled up like a squirrel in a nest of leaves, she gave herself over to cozy comfort and to thoughts. She had arrived at a very comforting one--which was that since she had worked until ten this night she need not report for duty until twelve the next day--when a spot of color caught her eye. A tiny flash of crimson shone out from a background of midnight blue. The midnight blue was the rare cape which she had hung against the wall. "Wonder what that touch of scarlet means?" she whispered drowsily. Immediately she thought of Hawthorne's "Scarlet Letter." She shuddered at the thought. She had dreamed bad dreams for weeks after reading that book. Gathering up her robe, she sprang lightly from the chair to put out a hand and take up the folds of the cape. "A thread," she mused, "a crimson thread!" That the thread had not been accidentally caught up by the garment she saw at once. With a needle it had been passed twice through the cloth, then tied in a loose knot. It was at the place on the cape that rested over one's heart. "Now why would one wear such a curious ornament?" she asked herself while a puzzled look came on her face. "The Scarlet Letter, a crimson thread across one's heart. How similar! How very strange!" she mused. Again she shuddered. Was this some ominous omen? With deft fingers she untied the knot, and drawing the thread free, carried it to her great chair where, intent upon examining the thread in detail, she again curled herself into a position of perfect comfort. "Huh!" she exclaimed after a time. "Strange sort of thread! Looks like ordinary silk thread at first. About size 40 I'd say, but if you examine it closely you discover a strand of purple running through it, a very fine strand, but unmistakable, running from end to end. How very, very unusual." "Anyway," she said slowly after another moment's thought, "the whole affair is dark, hidden, mysterious. And," she exclaimed, suddenly leaping from her chair and clasping her hands in ecstasy, "how I do adore a mystery. I'll solve it, too! See if I don't! And I must! I must! This cape is not mine. I cannot keep it. It is my duty to see that it is returned to the owner, whoever she is and whatever her motive for entering our store at that unearthly hour and for leaving her wrap instead of mine." Drawing a needle from the cushion on her chifforobe, she threaded it with the crimson bit with its purple strand, then, after selecting the spot from which it had been taken, she drew it through the wonderful cloth twice and knotted it as it had been before. "There," she breathed, "that's done. Now for bed." Two thoughts passed across her dreamy mind before she fell asleep: "I may sleep until ten. How perfectly gorgeous! The first person I shall look for when I enter the store will be Laurie Seymour. I wonder if I shall see him? How exciting. I wonder--" In the midst of this last wonder she fell asleep. CHAPTER III A NEW MYSTERY It was a very satisfactory reflection that Lucile's mirror returned to her next morning at ten. After fifteen minutes of such gymnastics as even a girl can perform in her own room with the shades down, followed by five minutes of a cold shower, she stood there pink and glowing as a child. The glow of health and joy remained on her cheeks even after her drab working dress had been drawn on. It was heightened by the half hiding of them in that matchless white fox collar. Almost instantly, however, a look of perplexity overspread her face as her eyes caught the reflection of a tiny spot of crimson against the darker color of the gorgeous cape which had so mysteriously come into her possession. "The crimson thread," she whispered. "I do wonder what it could mean." The elevated train whirled her swiftly to her place of toil. To her vast relief, the first familiar figure to catch her eyes as she passed between the tables of books in her own corner at the store was that of Laurie Seymour. Could it be that as he smiled and nodded to her she caught in his eye a look of witching mockery? One thing she did see plainly enough--there were slight bruises and two freshly plastered cuts on his right hand. "Got them when he went down the chute," she told herself. As she paused before him she threw back the broad front of the mysterious cape and said: "You should know something about this, I am sure." "Beg pardon?" He started and Lucile thought she saw a sudden flush on his cheek. "You should know something about this," she repeated. "Why, no, begging your pardon again," he answered easily. "Having had no sisters and having never ventured into matrimony, I know almost nothing about women's garments. I should say, though, that it was a fine cape, a corking fine one. You should be proud of it, really you should." This was all said in such a serious tone, and yet with such a concealed touch of mockery in it, that Lucile abruptly turned away. Plainly there was nothing to be learned from him concerning the mystery, at least not at the present moment. As she turned, her eyes chanced to fall upon a stack of books that stood by the end of the table. "Well, well!" she exclaimed. "There were two hundred books in that stack last night! Now they are at least a third gone!" "Yes," Laurie smiled, and in his smile there was a look of personal interest. "Yes, they are going very well indeed. We shall need to be ordering more soon. You see, it's the critics. They say it is a good book, an especially good book for young folks. I can't say as to that. It sells, I can assure you of that, and is going to sell more and more." As Lucile made her way to the cloak room, she was reminded of a rumor that had passed through the department on the previous day. The rumor had it that Jefrey Farnsworth, the author of this remarkable book "Blue Flames," (of which she and Laurie had just been speaking, and which was proving to be a best seller in its line and threatening to outsell the latest popular novel) had disappeared shortly after the publication of his book. The rumor went on further to dilate upon the subject to the extent that this promising young man (for he was a young man--no rumor about that) had received a letter the very day he had vanished. There was no mystery about the letter. Having been found on his table, it had proven to be but a letter from his publishers saying that his book would undoubtedly be a great success and that, should he be willing to arrange a lecture to be given before women's clubs regarding his work and his books, they had no doubt but that he would greatly profit by it and that in the end his sales would be doubled. Women's clubs all over the land would welcome him with open hands and sizable checks. The letter had said all this and some few other things. And upon that day, perhaps the most eventful day of his life, Farnsworth had vanished as completely as he might had he grown wings and flown to the moon. "Only a rumor," Lucile said to herself, "but if it's true, it's mystery number two." Instantly there flashed through her mind the puzzling look of unusual interest that she had noticed on Laurie's face as he spoke of the huge sales of the book. With this recollection came a strong suggestion which she instantly put from her mind. After hanging the mysterious cape in a secluded corner, she hunted out her sales-book and plunged into her work. Even a sales-book of soiled red leather may be entrusted with a mystery. This she was to learn soon enough. Such an afternoon as it proved to be! She had need enough for that robust strength of hers. Saturday afternoon it was--two weeks before Christmas. As the clock struck the noon hour the great office buildings poured forth people like a molten stream. Bosses, bookkeepers, stenographers, sales-managers, office boys, every type of man, woman and overgrown child flooded the great stores. Mingling with these were the thousands upon thousands of school children, teachers, and parents, all free for an afternoon of pleasure. A doubtful sort of pleasure, this. Jostling elbow to elbow, trampling and being trampled upon, snatching here, snatching there, taking up goods and tossing them down in the wrong place, they fought their way about. The toy department, candy department, children's book department--these were the spots where the great waves of humanity broke most fiercely. Crowded between a fat woman with a muff and a slim man with a grouch, Lucile wrote a sale for a tired looking little lady with two small children. In the meantime an important appearing woman in tight fitting kid gloves was insisting that Lucile had promised to "wait upon" her next. As a matter of fact Lucile had not seen her until that very moment, and had actually promised to sell a large book to a small person who was in a hurry to catch a train. "Catch a train!" Lucile exclaimed to the checking girl. "There must be a train leaving every two minutes. They're all catching trains." So, crowded, pushed and jostled about, answering a hundred reasonable questions and two hundred unreasonable ones every hour; smiling when a smile would come, wondering in a vague sort of way what it was all about, catching the chance remark of a customer about "Christmas spirit," Lucile fought her way through the long day. Then at last, a half hour before closing time, there came the lull. Blessed lull! Almost as abruptly as it had come, the flood ebbed away. Here and there a little group of people moved slowly away; and here someone argued over a long forgotten book or hurried in to snatch up a book and demand instant attention. But in the main the flood-tide had spent itself. Creeping back into a dark corner and seating herself upon the floor, Lucile added up her sales and then returned to assist in straightening up the tables which had taken on the appearance of a chip yard. "People have a wonderful respect for books," she murmured to Laurie. "Yes, a lot of respect for the one they buy," smiled Laurie. "They'll wreck a half dozen of them to find a spotless copy for their own purchasing." "Yes, they do that, but just think what a shock to dear Rollo or Algernon if he should receive a book with a slightly torn jacket-cover for a Christmas present!" "That _would_ be a shock to his nervous system," laughed Laurie. For a time they worked on in silence. Lucile put all the Century classics in order and filled the gaps left by the frenzied purchasers. Laurie, working by her side, held up a book. "There," he said, "is a title for you." She read the title: "The Hope for Happiness." "Why should one hope for it when they may really have it?" Laurie exclaimed. "May one have happiness?" Lucile asked. "Surely one may! Why if one--" Lucile turned to find a customer at her elbow. "Will you sell me this?" The customer, a lady, thrust a copy of Pinocchio into her hand. "Cash?" "Yes. I'll take it with me, please." There was a sweet mellowness in the voice. Without glancing up, Lucile set her nimble fingers to writing the sale. As she wrote, almost automatically, she chanced to glance at the customer's hands. One's hands may be as distinctive and tell as much of character as one's face. It was so with these hands. Lucile had never seen such fingers. Long, slim, tapering, yet hard and muscular, they were such fingers as might belong to a musician or a pickpocket. Lucile felt she would always remember those hands as easily as she might recall the face of some other person. As if to make doubly sure that she might not forget, on the forefinger of the right hand was a ring of cunning and marvelous design; a dragon wrought in gold, with eyes of diamonds and a tongue of ten tiny rubies. No American craftsmanship, this, but Oriental, Indian or Japanese. Without lifting her eyes, Lucile received the money, carried her book to the wrapper and delivered the package to the purchaser. Then she returned to her task of putting things to rights. Scarcely a moment had elapsed when, on glancing toward her cash book which lay open on a pile of books, she started in surprise. There could be no mistaking it. From it there came a flash of crimson. Imagine her surprise when she found that the top page of her book had been twice pierced by a needle and that a crimson thread had been drawn through and knotted there in exactly the same manner as had that other bit of thread on the blue cape. It required but a glance to assure her that through this thread there ran the single strand of purple. The next instant she was dashing down the aisle, hoping against hope that she might catch a glimpse of the mystery woman with the extraordinary fingers and the strange ring. In this she failed. The woman had vanished. "And to think," she exclaimed in exasperation, "to think that I did not look at her face! Such a foolish way as we do get into--paying no attention to our customers! If I had but looked at her face I would have known. Then I would have demanded the truth. I would have--" she paused to reflect, "well, perhaps I shouldn't have said so much to her, but I would have known her better. And now she is gone!" But there was yet work to be done. Drawing herself together with an effort, she hurried back to her table where the disorderly pile of books lay waiting to be rearranged. "Speaking of happiness," said Laurie, for all the world as if their conversation had not been interrupted, "I don't see much use of writing a book on the hope for happiness when one may be happy right here and now. Oh, I know there are those who sing: "'This world's a wilderness of woe. This world is not my home.' "But that's religion, of a sort; mighty poor sort, too, I'd say. Idea being that this world's all wrong and that if you enjoy any of it, if the scent of spring blossoms, the songs of birds, the laugh of children at play, the lazy drift of fleecy clouds against the azure sky, if these things make you happy, then you're all wrong. I guess they'd say: 'Life here is to be endured. Happiness only comes after death.' Huh! I don't think much of that." "How can one secure happiness?" Lucile asked the question almost wistfully. She was over-tired and not a little perplexed. "There's a lot of things that go with making people happy," said Laurie as his nimble fingers flew from book to book. "I'm quite sure that happiness does not come from long hours in a ball-room nor from smoking cigarettes, nor any one of the many things that put dark rings about the eyes of our young new rich or near rich, and that set their eyelids twitching. "Happiness," he mused, throwing back his head and laughing softly. "Why, it's as easy to be happy as it is to tell the truth. Have friends and be true to them. Find a place you love to be and be there. Keep your body and mind fit. Sleep eight hours; eat slowly; take two hours for quiet thinking every day. Have a crowd you love, a crowd you feel that you belong to and fit in with. Of course they'll not be perfect. None of us are. But loveable they are, all the same. "For instance, take the crowd here," he said, lowering his voice. "You and I are transients here. Christmas eve comes and out we go. But look at Donnie and Rennie, Bob, Bettie, and dear old Morrison over there in the corner. They're the regular ones, been here for years, all of them. "See here," he continued earnestly, "I'll bet that when you came in here you had the popular magazine notion of the people who work in department stores; slang of the worst kind, paint an inch thick, lip stick, sordid jealousy, envy, no love, no fellowship. But look! What would happen if Rennie, the dear mother and straw-boss of us all, should slip before a car and be seriously injured to-night? What would happen? Not a soul of us all, even us transients, but would dig down and give our last penny to buy the things that would help her bear it. That's what I mean, a gang that you belong to, that you suffer with, endure things with and enjoy life with! That's the big secret of happiness." As Lucile listened to this short lecture on happiness, she worked. At last her task was done. Then with a hurried: "Thanks awfully. Goodnight," she rushed for the cloak-room preparatory to donning the fur-lined cape. She half expected to find it gone, but it was not, and after throwing it across her shoulders she dashed down the stairs to join the homeward rushing throng. As she snuggled down beneath the covers that night, she found her mind dwelling with unusually intense interest upon the events of the past two days. Like pictures on a screen, strange, unanswerable questions passed through her mind. Who was the mystery woman of the night shadows in the book department? Why had Laurie given her his pass-out? Why had she left her gorgeously beautiful cape behind for a shop girl to wear home? How had the unusual crimson thread come to be drawn into the cloth of the cape? Had the mystery woman put it there? Had she drawn that thread through the page of Lucile's cash book? It seemed that she must have. But why? Why? Why? This last word kept ringing in her ears. Why had Laurie given up his pass-out? Where had he slept that night? How did it happen that an elevator in a department store at night ran of its own accord with no one to work the lever? Surely here were problems enough to keep one small brain busy. Then again, there was the problem of the missing author of that wonderfully successful book. What did Laurie know about that? Why had he talked so strangely about it? When she had allowed all these problems to pass in review before her mind's eye, she came to but one conclusion--that she would believe Laurie a sincere and trustworthy person until he had been proven otherwise. Her faith had been shaken a bit by the revelation of the night before. "Life," she whispered sleepily to herself, "is certainly strange. Surely one who can talk so wonderfully about happiness can't be bad. And yet it's all very mysterious." Right there she concluded that mysteries of the right sort added much to the happiness of us all, and with that she fell asleep. CHAPTER IV THE PICTURE GIRL Little dreaming of the stirring events that awaited her, and without the slightest anticipation of the new mystery and unusual responsibilities that were crowding in upon her that day, Lucile took her Monday morning train with the quiet composure of one who, having enjoyed a perfect Sunday of rest, looks forward with enthusiasm to a day of interesting service. The supreme moment of that day arrived in a rather unusual place at a time when the clock's hands were nearing the hour of 1:00. Before that, however, there came hours of the usual toil which many would call drudgery. From eight-thirty until ten there were few customers. Every moment was taken up. Two truckloads of books had come down from the apparently inexhaustable storerooms above. These must be placed on the tables. Tables must be dusted; cash-books filled with blanks for the day; books out of place must be returned to the proper section. As Lucile came and went in the performance of her allotted tasks, she was more and more impressed with what Laurie had said about this group of loyal friends, this company of sales-people who were so much like a very large family. "They are all my friends, almost my kinsfolk," she told herself with a little gulp of joy that was very near to tears. And so they were. Even outside her little corner they greeted her with a comradely smile. There was the pleasing lady who sold new fiction, and the tumbled haired lady who sold travel books and had sold books in stores from coast to coast. In the first alcove was the worried lady who handled standard sets; in the second was the dignified one who murmured in low, church-like tones of prayer books and rosaries; while in the farthest, deepest alcove of all was dear old Morrison, the young-old man with premature gray hair and a stoop. But his lustrous eyes were lighted with an earnestness such as one seldom looks into, and he had an air of poise and refinement and a smile of perfect fellowship. He sold fine bindings, and knew them well. Besides that, he could tell you the name and publishers of every book for serious minded people published since the days of Ben Franklin. Working among such people as these, and in spite of all her strenuous hours of labor, Lucile dreaded the coming of Christmas Eve when she must bid them all farewell and return to her studies. Never before had she been so tempted to relinquish her cherished hope of university training and to settle down to work among a host of interesting and loyal friends. So the forenoon wore away, and with the passing of each hour the great and startling event of that day came sixty minutes nearer. The noon hour at last arrived. Having hastily eaten her paper-bag lunch, Lucile hurried from the store. There was yet three-quarters of an hour to spend. She would spend the time sauntering through a place of great enchantment, the Art Museum. Five minutes of battling with wind and intense cold, and she was there. Racing up the stone steps, she paused an instant for breath. Then she entered and hurried up the broad marble stairway. At last she came to a place where a great circular leather cushioned seat in the center of a room offered opportunity for perfect repose. There she sank down, to hide her eyes with her hands until the frost and the glare of snow had left them, then to open them slowly and to squint away contentedly toward the wall which lay before her. Before her, and a little to the left, was a painting from Ireland, the work of a great master. It was a simple thing in a way, a boy clad in humble garb shoveling snow, and a girl with a shawl thrown over her shoulders, coming down the well cleaned path. Very simple people these, but happy and kind. There were sparrows perched along the path. A very humble theme, but such masses of wonderful color! Had she not seen it, Lucile would not have believed that artists could have achieved such perfection. To the left was an equally lovely picture; dawn on the heather, the sun rising from the dripping dewy green and a girl reaper going to her toil with the song of a lark on her lips and joy in her eye. These were the pictures that brought rest and joy to Lucile's half hour of leisure and helped prepare her for events that cast no shadow before them. She had descended the marble stairs and was about to leave the building when a picture arrested her attention; a living picture of a girl. And such a girl as she was! A supple grace to her waist and shoulders, a proper curve at the ankles, and a face--such a face! Cheeks aglow with the color the frosty out-of-doors had given them. Cheeks offset by dark, deep-set eyes, made darker still by eyelashes that were like hemlocks in a snow covered valley, and a smooth oval forehead backed by a wealth of short, wavy hair. This was the picture; only faintly sketched, for behind all this beauty there was a certain strength of character, a force of will that seemed a slumbering fire gleaming from her eyes. In the background were people and marble pillars. The girl had just entered the Museum and, uncertain of her way, stood irresolute. "She's from the country," Lucile whispered to herself. "Her clothes show that. But how startling, how unusual, how--how striking she is! "She's like the pictures I've been seeing, they were unusual and priceless. She is the same. And yet," a feeling of fear and sadness swept over her, "those priceless pictures are carefully guarded night and day. I wonder if she is? She seems alone. It's not to be wondered at, their guarding those pictures. Who would not like one for his room? Who would not love to open his eyes each morning upon the girl in the 'Song of the Lark'? But they'd wish to possess that girl, too. A father, a mother, sister, brother, would be proud to possess her, to look at her every morning, a--anyone would. And yet, she's not--" Her meditations were cut short by sight of a figure standing not ten feet from her; a tall, slim, young man whose features might have been carved from marble, and in whose eyes Lucile had surprised a steely glance such as she had once caught in the beady eye of a down-swooping hawk. And then, as if enacting her part in a play, the girl of this living picture suddenly wavered where she stood. Her face went white, then with a little, wavering cry, she crumpled in a heap on the marble floor. Lucile could have sworn the girl was alone and uncertain of her next move. She understood what had happened. Having traveled far in the intense cold, the girl had been overcome by the heavy warmth of the museum and had fainted. The thing that happened next puzzled Lucile beyond belief. After ten seconds of motionless panic, a half score of people sprang to her assistance. But the young man, he of the marble features and steely eye, was first up. "It's all right," he was saying in a quiet, even tone, "she's my sister. I'll take care of her. We have a car outside." Lifting the unconscious girl in his arms, he started for the door. "It's not all right! It's not all right!" Lucile fairly shrieked the words. To her vast astonishment, the next moment she was gripping a burly guard by the arm and saying in a voice hoarse with emotion: "It's not all right! He's not her brother. He--he's stealing her! Stop them!" To her further astonishment, the guard believed her. With three strides he reached the door and blocked it. "Here! Here!" he said in the tone of one who is accustomed to be obeyed. "It won't do. You can't take her out like that." "Oh, all right," there was a note of forced indifference in the young man's voice, but there was murder in his cold, hard eyes. "All right, if you know so much. Fetch some water and get her out of it. She'll tell you I'm her brother. But be quick about it. You're a beef-head for ordering a gentleman about." Lucile's heart went to the bottom of her shoes. What was this? Had her emotions led her astray? Was he indeed the girl's brother? It would seem so, else why would he consent so readily to the delay, which must mean proof one way or another? She was soon to see. Tremblingly, she awaited the outcome. Dropping upon the marble floor, she pillowed the girl's head in her lap and brushing away the hair from the face, caressed the cold forehead with a soft hand. When the water had been brought Lucile dampened her handkerchief and laid it icy cold on the other's forehead. Almost instantly the eyes opened and the girl, having dragged herself to a sitting position, stared about the museum. "Wha--where am I?" she asked. "What has happened?" "You're in the Art Museum. You fainted." "Faint--fainted!" There was terror in her eyes. "It was the cold. It's nothing, really nothing." Lucile put a steadying arm about her. "You'll be quite all right in a moment." "Now where is that brother of hers?" grumbled the guard. "He's nowhere to be seen! He's gone!" "Gone?" echoed Lucile. "Brother?" said the girl in astonishment. "I have no brother. I am alone." Such a wave of feeling swept over Lucile as made her sick and faint. She had been right, dreadfully right. She had saved this girl, this wonderful creature, from--she dared not think from what. For a moment, rocked by her emotions, she sat there in silence. At last, with a supreme effort, she dragged herself to her feet. "You look the worst of the two," said the guard, giving her a keen glance. "I'm all right," she protested stoutly. To the girl, whom she had assisted to her feet, she said, "You may come with me if you wish. Our store's only two blocks away. There's a rest room. You'll be all right there until you sort of get your bearings. Perhaps I can help you." "I'd--I'd be glad to," said the other, clinging to her impulsively. So they left the museum together. Though she kept a sharp watch to right and left, Lucile caught no sign of the volunteer brother, but she shivered once or twice at the very thought of him. * * * * * * * * It was a very much perplexed Lucile who curled up in her big chair that night for a few moments of quiet thought before retiring. A new mystery had been added to her already well filled list of strange doings. "First," she said to herself, telling them off like beads on a rosary, "there comes the beautiful mystery woman and the cape she left behind; then Laurie Seymour and the vanishing author; then the crimson thread; and now this girl." As she whispered this last she nodded toward the bed. There, lying wrapped in slumber, was the beautiful girl she had saved in the museum. "She's even more beautiful in sleep than when awake," Lucile murmured. "And such a strange creature! She hasn't told me a thing." The last statement was entirely true. Any notion Lucile had of the girl, any guess at her hidden secrets, was based on observation and conjecture alone. Not one word regarding them had escaped the strange girl's lips. Having accompanied Lucile to the store, she had lain upon a couch in the "quiet room" for three hours. Whenever Lucile had stolen a moment from work to look in upon her, the girl had appeared to be day-dreaming. Far from being worried about events of the past or the immediate future, she had appeared to be enjoying the recalling of an interesting adventure or anticipating one. At five she had risen from the cot and, having brushed her hair and arranged her clothing, had insisted upon helping her new-found friend to put her tables to rights. She had accepted Lucile's invitation to pass the night with her with the nonchalance of one who is offered this courtesy from a long-time friend. Innocent of one scrap of baggage, in the same manner she had accepted Lucile's offer of a dream robe. In only one respect had she showed her independence. Having produced a dollar bill from somewhere on her person, she had insisted on paying for her own frugal lunch. "Her clothes are the strangest of all," Lucile whispered to herself. "When a girl comes upon a run of hard luck, she's likely to try to keep up an appearance even though she is shabby underneath. But look at her; a countrified suit of shiny blue serge, two years behind the times, and her undergarments are new and of the finest silk, up to the minute, too. How is one to explain that?" She was not disturbed in the least about the girl's morals. She was as sweet and clean as a fresh blooming rose. Lucile would have sworn to that. With the lights turned out, and with the tingling winter air entering the open window, before retiring the girl had joined Lucile in the nightly "setting up" exercises and had appeared to enjoy them, too. The strange girl's skin was like the finest satin. Her lines were perfect, her muscles superb. Through lack of knowledge of the exercises, she often blundered. But she could whirl more quickly, leap higher and swing about more gracefully than Lucile, who had never failed to throw her whole heart into her gym work. "All that," Lucile murmured as she drew off her bathrobe preparatory to slipping beneath the covers, "all that, and she has not told me one word about herself. For a country girl she certainly has her full supply of reserve. To-morrow I am to try to get work for her as a wrapper. No doubt I can do it. And then?" She thought about the future for a moment. She was alone this year. If you have read our book, "The Cruise of the O'Moo," you will remember that while living in the yacht in dry dock she had two companions--Florence and Marion. Florence had gone home. Marion was in Alaska. Now Lucile was alone. She would welcome a friend and, unless she had misread her character, this girl had the qualities of a steadfast and loyal pal. "But her past?" Lucile whispered as she placed her slippers beneath the bed and drew back the covers. "Ah well, we shall see." Once during the night she was wakened by the girl, who was evidently talking in her sleep. "Don't let them. Don't! Don't!" she all but screamed as she threw out her arms for protection from some dream foe. Putting her arms about her, Lucile held her tight until the dream had passed and she fell back once more into peaceful slumber. CHAPTER V "COME AND FIND ME" "I'll pull some wires." The kindly face of Morrison, the man of fine bindings, gleamed as he said these words to Lucile next morning. "That's the way things are done these days. I haven't much notion how they were done in the past. But now, if I want anything, I pull some wires. For instance, your young friend whom you found in the Art Museum and whose name is Cordelia but whom you choose to call Cordie for short, wants work in this store. You ask me to pull wires and I pull 'em. I pull one and Miss So and So comes bowing out of her box of an office and I whisper what I want. 'I'll pull some wires,' says she, putting on her best smile. 'I'll put in a wedge, a very thin wedge.' "She puts in her thin wedge. She pulls some wires and Mr. So and So up on the eleventh floor bobs bowing out of his box and inclines his ear to listen. "'Ah! Yes, I see, I see,' he murmurs. 'I shall pull some wires.' "He pulls some wires. A slip of paper appears. It is signed. It is given to your friend. She goes here, she bobs there, and presently here she is. She has accepted 'the iron ring,' wrapping packages with very gay company all about her, having a good time and getting pay for it. But let me assure you it could not be done without wires pulled and thin wedges inserted. No, it could not be done. Nothing these days is done without wires and wedges. Wires and wedges, wedges and wires, my dear." With this very lucid explanation of the way the world is run these days, the benevolent Morrison bowed himself away. True to his prediction, two hours later the mysteriously silent Cordelia was installed in an obscure corner of the book section, working at the wrapping counter. She had accepted "the iron ring," said ring being an affair of solid iron into which, in a semi-circular bump on its edge, had been set a sharp bit of steel. The theory is that the steel edge cuts the stout cord with which the bundles are tied. Truth was that more often the sharp edge cut the girls' fingers than did the steel the string. So, in time having learned wisdom, Cordie discarded this doubtful bit of jewelry and used a knife. However, she worked on steadily and quite skillfully. Before night it had become evident to all that the girl was proving a credit to her young protector, and that, take it all in all, wires had not been pulled nor wedges inserted in vain. Two matters of interest came to Lucile's attention that day. A rumor was confirmed and a discovery made that in the end was to take someone somewhere. First in regard to the discovery. Someone had left a morning paper on Lucile's table of books. She snatched it up and was about to consign it to the waste box when a headline caught her eye: "COME AND FIND ME" Beneath this was a second headline: "Two Hundred Dollars for a Handshake." There was not time to read what followed. Hastily tearing the corner from the page, she thrust this scrap into her pocket to be read later. "The rumor's confirmed," said Laurie a moment later as he thrust a clipping from a publisher's weekly in her hand. There were but a few lines. Lucile read them in a moment. It had to do with the disappearance of the promising young writer, Jefrey Farnsworth, author of "Blue Flames." "There can be no doubt," the article went on to say, "that the young man has utterly disappeared. Being a single man with few intimates, and a man who lived a rather secluded life, he has either slipped away without being noticed or has met with some grave mishap. His publishers are greatly disturbed over his disappearance. Without doubting his willingness to assist in the task of being made famous, they had booked him for talks before no less than twenty women's clubs. "As the popularity of his book, 'Blue Flames,' had grown by leaps and bounds, every woman in the country was ready to be told by him just what her son or daughter should or should not read. There was not the least doubt but that here was the first genuine best seller in the line since the first days of Treasure Island and Huckleberry Finn. Yes, the world was ready to hear him speak. But Farnsworth was not ready--at least he has vanished." "Twenty women's clubs," exclaimed Laurie, doing a feint in pantomime. "Think of speaking to twenty women's clubs! Thousands and thousands of kid-gloved, well fed, contented women! Oh! Wow! Twenty clubs, then twenty more and twenty after that! To drink tea with 'em and to have them grip your hand and tell you how they enjoyed the rot you fed to them! Oh! Ow! Ow!" "Women's clubs are all right," protested Lucile, her face lighting with anger. "Their work is constructive. They do a great deal of good." "Beg a thousand pardons," said Laurie, coloring in his turn. "I didn't mean to say they weren't. They're all right, and the ladies too, Lord bless 'em. But how does that go to prove that a poor, innocent young writer, who happens to have struck gold with his pen but who never made a speech in his life, should be chained to a platform and made to do tricks like a trained bear before thousands of women? Women's clubs are all right, but they couldn't club me to death with their clubs." He threw back his shoulders to join Lucile in a laugh over his rather bad pun, and there, for the time being the matter ended. Lucile was destined to recall the whole affair from time to time. Hours later, she had an opportunity to study his face unobserved. She noted his high forehead, his even and rugged features, his expressive hands, and when she saw him selling away on that stock of "Blue Flames" as if his life depended upon it, she was led to wonder a great wonder. However, she kept this wonder to herself. The noon hour had come before Lucile found time to again look at the scrap of printing she had torn from the discarded newspaper. In the employees' lunch room, over a glass of milk and a sandwich, and with the wonderful Cordie sitting opposite, she read the thing through. "Come and find me. I am the Spirit of Christmas," it ran. "I offer gold, two hundred in gold, for a shake of the hand, yet no one is so kind as to give me the clasp of cheer. I am the Spirit of Christmas. I am tall and slim, and of course I am a woman--a young woman whom some have been so kind as to call fair. To-day I dress in the garb of a working woman. Yesterday it was the coat of a sales-girl. At another time it was in more gorgeous apparel. But always my face and my hands are the same. Ah yes, my hands! There is as much to be learned from the hands as from the face. Character and many secrets are written there. "Yesterday I walked the Boulevard, as I promised I should, yet not one of the rushing thousands paused to shake my hand and say: 'You are the Spirit of Christmas.' Had one done so, tho' he had been but a beggar in rags, the two hundred of gold would have clinked into his pocket. Yet not one paused. They all passed on. "I entered a little shop to purchase a tiny bit of candy. The saleslady, a little black-eyed creature, scowled at me and refused to sell so little, even though I looked to be a shop-girl. She did not shake my hand, and I was glad, for had she done so and had she said: 'You are the Spirit of Christmas,' the gold would have clinked for her. I left my mark, which is my sign, and passed on. "Later I entered a busy shop, a great shop where tired girls rushed here and there constantly. I troubled a dear little girl who had a wan smile and tender eyes, to show me many things. I bought nothing in the end, but she was kind and courteous for all that. I wished--Oh, how I wished that she would grasp my hand and whisper ever so softly: 'You are the Spirit of Christmas.' But she said never a word, so the gold did not clink for her. After leaving my mark, which is also my sign, I passed on. "To-day I shall join the throngs that shop among the windows of State Street. I shall enter a store here and another there. I shall pause here to examine goods and there to make a purchase. At every place, as I pass on, I shall leave my mark, which is also my sign. If you chance to see me, if you know me, if you read my secret in my face or in my hands, grasp those hands and whisper: 'You are the Spirit of Christmas.' Then gold will clink for you, two hundred in gold. "I am the Spirit of Christmas. Everywhere I go I leave a crimson trail behind." This was the end. Lucile glanced up with a dazed and puzzled look in her eyes. "What in the world can it mean?" she asked, holding the bit of paper before Cordie. Cordie laughed. "That's something the paper is doing. I think it's just to make people buy the paper. No one has ever recognized her. She's clever." "I'd like to find her," mused Lucile. "Wouldn't you, though? Who wouldn't? You'd get the gold if you did; but you never will. She's keen. Why, only two days ago she was in this store for a half hour. Bought a book, mind you, and you may have sold it to her. Think of that! The day before that she was in the store for six hours. Think of that! And no one knew her. They'll never get her, trust her for that. But if they do, the gold will clink." The girl laughed a merry laugh, then hurried away for a cream-puff. Left to herself, Lucile had time for a few moments of quiet thinking. She found her pulse strangely quickened by the news story and her companion's interpretation. Somehow, almost as if some strange power outside her were whispering it to her, she felt forced to believe that she could connect this new and interesting discovery with some of the other mysteries which had come to haunt her. "But how?" she asked herself. "How?" Cordie appeared to know a great deal about this "Spirit of Christmas" lady and the gold that would clink for a handshake. But after all, she had revealed no facts that were not known to hundreds of thousands who had followed the matter closely. It had all been in the papers. "No, it doesn't tell me anything about Cordie," Lucile whispered, "except--" she paused suddenly. Cordie had told of things that had happened in the city four days back. Could she have been in the city all this time? Probably had been. And without baggage, or so much as a dream-robe. How very strange! But had she been without baggage? Might she not owe a board bill? Might not her belongings be in the hands of some landlady at the present time? "It's a wonder she doesn't tell me about herself," Lucile murmured. "It's no use to ask her. A person who is forced to reveal her past is almost sure to tell anything but the truth. I must wait her time. It's true she has a little money; but perhaps not enough to pay the bill. "I wonder," she went on thoughtfully, "why I don't cut her adrift? Why should I be looking after her? Haven't I enough to do in looking after myself?" It was true that she had her own responsibilities, but she knew right well that if need be she would do a great deal more for the girl before casting her off to become an easy prey to the human hawks and vultures who haunt a great city. "But this lady of the Christmas Spirit," she murmured. "The good fates surely know I need that gold. And if this strange little beauty, Cordie, costs me something, which she promises to do, I shall need it more than ever." Once more her eyes ran over the scrap of paper. They came to a sudden pause. "Behind me I leave a crimson trail," she read. For a moment her brow was wrinkled in puzzled thought. Then she gave a sudden start. "If it should be! If it meant just that!" she exclaimed half aloud. "But then, of course it couldn't. A crimson trail--a crimson trail----" "Here's one for you," exclaimed Cordie, setting a delicious cream-puff before her. "There's just time for devouring them before we go back to work. Work! Oh, boy! I say it's work! But it's heaps of fun, anyway. "Say!" she exclaimed suddenly, "Do you know James?" "Who is James?" "The man who carries away the packages from my desk." "A stooped old man." "Not a bit of it." "They always are." "He's not. Take a look at him. He's a sight for tired eyes. He--he's intriguing. I--I'm working on him. He's awful reserved, but I think he likes me. He's got a story. I'll get it. Leave that to me." "So even little Cordie loves mysteries and has found one to study out," thought Lucile with an amused smile as she turned to go. CHAPTER VI THE IRON RING Cordie's description of James proved quite true. An intriguing figure was this James; a stalwart man of forty, a straight, square-shouldered six-footer, with face as brown as a coffee bean. He was unmistakably American, yet he seemed oddly out of place as, with arms piled high with bundles, he moved steadily through the crowd. There was a certain directness, and with all that a slight roll about his walk, that suggested some sort of sea craft. He was not unlike some port-to-port steamer, waiting at dock for its load, then steaming away to the port of discharge. "A silent man, and one who has been accustomed to command, not to plod," was Lucile's mental comment. "He's not accustomed to being called James, like a chauffeur or a butler. You can see that by the twinkle in the corner of his eye when someone calls him by that name. I wonder what could have brought him to the extremity of carrying bundles for twenty dollars a week. I'm sure he doesn't drink to excess. His face would show it if he did. Oh well, that's Cordie's little mystery. Let her fathom it when the opportunity comes." Cordie's opportunity came a little later, and in a decidedly startling manner. In the meantime this was another busy afternoon; one of the busiest of the season. "Only listen to them!" Lucile said to Cordie as she waited for a parcel. "Most of them are women trying to select books for boys and girls. Not one in ten really knows what she wants or what boys and girls read these days. Listen--" Cordie listened as she worked, and this, from a score of pairs of lips, is what she heard: "Have you got the Alger books?" "Do you keep Peck's Bad Boy? That's such a splendid story. Don't you think so?" "I want a--a book for a boy fourteen years old. What can you recommend?" "Have you the Elsie books? Those are _such_ sweet stories!" "I want a book for a boy twelve years old. I don't want anything trashy, though. Which of these fifty-cent books would you recommend?" "Is this a good book?" "The answer," whispered Lucile with a little giggle, "the answer, if they say 'Is this a good book?' is always 'Yes.' Always yes, whether you think so or not. I'll tell you why. Nine times out of ten, when a woman customer says 'Is this a good book?' she has already made up her mind that it is a good book. If you say 'Yes' she'll smile and buy it. If you say 'No,' she'll frown and buy it anyway. So why provoke a frown, and Christmas only two weeks away?" Only her untiring good nature and her native sense of humor, kept Lucile on her feet and going. There were times, however, when even these deserted her. One of those unfortunate moments arrived this very afternoon. A particularly unpleasant customer had said to her: "I want a book about a boy who was brought up by the monks." After suggesting everything that seemed akin to this, she happened upon "Tarzan." "Oh yes!" exclaimed the customer, "That's it. Tarzan." A second customer wanted "Laddie." When the modern "Laddie" was produced, the customer insisted that this was not the original "Laddie," but a cheap substitute; that the first "Laddie" was written years ago by a person who's name she did not recall, but who had written another book called something else. She had insisted on Lucile's asking everyone in the section about it and, after leaving very warm and unhappy, reappeared ten minutes later with another clerk, still looking for the original "Laddie." In the midst of all this Lucile came upon a fidgeting customer whose fingers were constantly plaiting stray locks of hair and whose lips were saying: "I must make a train. I really must. Do you think you could get them to hurry. Do you? Do you really? That would be so nice of you!" After hurrying the sale through and getting many a sharp look for stepping in ahead of her turn, Lucile had the pleasure of seeing the customer meet a friend an aisle over and pause for a prolonged spell of gossip. "Who could believe that they could be such children?" she murmured. "No, we haven't the Broncho Buster Boys," she turned to answer a query. "That's a fifty-cent series which we do not carry." The person who asked the question was a rather pompous lady in kid gloves. "Have you the Broncho Buster Boys?" She caught the words spoken behind her back. The customer, ignoring her decided negative, had deliberately turned about and asked the same question of a girl who had come on the floor that morning and knew nothing about the stock. "I told her," Lucile said in as steady a tone as she could command, "that we do not carry them." Instantly the customer flew into a towering rage. Her words, though quite proper on the lips of a society lady, were the sort that cut to the very soul. A sharp retort came to Lucile's lips and she said it. She was in the midst of it when a hand touched her shoulder and a steady voice said: "Here! Here! What's this?" The words, while not said in an unkindly tone, had a ring of authority to them. Wheeling about, Lucile found herself facing a beautiful lady, one of the most beautiful she had ever seen; black hair, full cheeks of wonderful color, and eyes of the deepest blue. Lucile took in all the beauty of her for the first time at a glance, and at the same moment cold terror struck to her heart. This was Miss Bruce, the head of the section, the one who could dismiss a salesgirl at a word. And she had just heard Lucile break the most rigid rule of the house! She had talked back to a customer! White faced, staring, endeavoring to speak but uttering no sound, Lucile stood there as if frozen to the spot. "There, there, dearie! I know how it is. Don't do it again, that's all." Lucile felt a friendly pressure on her arm, then the great lady of the section was gone. In spite of her bravest efforts, tears rushed to Lucile's eyes. One splashed down on either cheek before she could check them. Were they tears of vexation or gratitude, or merely tired tears? Who could say? Through the tears Lucile dimly saw a face. It was an electrifying vision, and dashing away the tears, she became at once her own, keen, better self. "Yes, yes, it is! It's the Mystery Lady," she assured herself. "She's--she's talking to Cordie. I must----" As she started toward the wrapping stand where stood the Mystery Lady, a voice at her elbow said: "Will you sell me this? Could you have them hurry a little? I must make a train. I really must." It was the harried and hurried lady of a half hour previous. She had found another book and was making another train. With great reluctance and much pent-up anger, Lucile waited upon her; and in the meantime, as was her wont, the Mystery Lady, the lady of the crimson thread, had vanished. "Who--who was the tall lady you were speaking to a moment ago?" she breathlessly asked Cordie a moment later. "How should I know? She asked me for a string to tie a package. Lots of them ask for string, or a piece of corrugated paper, or a card to write a greeting on." "Was that all?" "That was about all." "Look!" exclaimed Lucile. "Who put that there?" She was pointing to a loose end of wrapping paper through which had been drawn and neatly tied a bit of crimson thread with a single purple strand. "Search me," smiled Cordie. "How should I know?" While Lucile was disengaging the thread and thrusting it in her pocket, Cordie was searching the top of her desk. "That's funny," she said at last. "It was here a moment ago. Now it's gone." "What?" "My iron ring." "The one you cut cord with?" "I'm supposed to use it for that," Cordie tossed her head. "The thing cuts my finger. All the same, I ought to have it. You're supposed to turn such things in when they lay you off. But if it's gone, it's gone." Shrugging her shoulders, she promptly forgot it. So did Lucile, but the time came when she was reminded of the loss in a most forceful manner. "I wonder," she whispered as she moved away, "I do wonder what she does that for. This is the third time. It's the strangest thing I ever heard of." She fingered the crimson thread. The melting away of great stocks of the year's most popular book for young people, "Blue Flames," was most amazing. A fresh truck load, three or four hundred copies, had come down that very morning. By mid-afternoon they were two-thirds gone. For a time, as she watched, Lucile's astonishment grew; then it began to ebb. She was learning the secret of it. Laurie Seymour hovered over the pile constantly. Hardly a customer left him without purchasing one or more copies. Apparently well informed regarding the contents of the book, he told still more regarding the personality of the author and how he had gone about the task of gathering the material. All of the local color of the book was penned with minute exactness; the characters were true to life; their actions, while not pedantic, were such as would lead girls and boys to higher thinking and unselfish living. More than that, the story contained precisely the elements which young people of to-day demand. Action, adventure, suspense, mystery--all were here in proper and generous proportions. Thus he would describe the book. "Yes," he would assure the prospective purchaser, "it's this year's publication; not six weeks off the press and it sells for a dollar. How is that possible? That it might have a large sale the author cut his royalty to one-third, and the publishers cut their profits accordingly. The book compares favorably with many a book selling for nearly twice the price." What customer could refuse such a book? Few did. Even more important than this was the fact that the other salespeople, especially those who were new and had little knowledge of the stock but who were zealous for quick sales, listened to his lucid story of the book, and having learned it by heart, joined in selling it. There were times when clerks fluttered as thickly about that pile of books as sparrows around a crust of bread. "Who is Laurie Seymour; why is he so greatly interested in that particular book, and how does he come to know so much about it?" Having put these questions to herself, Lucile went about the task of asking others about him. She asked Rennie and Donnie, the inseparable two who had worked in that corner so long. She searched out Tommie, the young man of twenty who knew all about boys' books. She asked Morrison, of the fine bindings section, and even Emmy, the veteran inspector. All shook their heads. They had come down one morning, and there he was selling books. That had been two weeks previous. Someone had pulled some wires and here he was. By-and-by the rush would be over, then out he would go. That was the way things were done at Christmas time. It wasn't worth while to care too much! But Lucile did care. Her curiosity had been aroused. She wanted to know more about Laurie Seymour. Her curiosity was given a trace of satisfaction that very evening. At least she found out who knew about Laurie. Yes, she found out, but then---- She had come hurrying round a pillar when she all but ran into Laurie. He had been talking in low tones and laughing in notes quite as low. To her great surprise she saw that the person he was talking to was none other than the perfectly beautiful Miss Bruce, the head of the section. "And to think," Lucile said to herself, "he actually appeared to be joking her about something! And he a sales-person! Ah well, our chief is a star--would have been a star on any stage, and a star has a right to be friendly with any member of the cast." "Well," she smiled to herself, "I know now who could tell me all about Laurie Seymour; but I'd never dare ask. Never! I'll have to find out some other way." One impression coming from this incident bore down heavily upon her. Laurie Seymour was a young man with a past broader than the four walls of the juvenile book section. Just what that past might have been, she could not guess. "Perhaps," she told herself, "he is some artist getting pictures from life; or an actor gathering local color for a play, or--" "Is your table in order?" It was Rennie who broke in upon her meditations. It wasn't, so she hurried away to forget, for the time being, Laurie Seymour and her perplexing problems. CHAPTER VII CORDIE'S MAD FLIGHT "Cordie, there's something I should tell you." Cordie looked up from the book she was reading, stared at Lucile for a moment, then with a toss of her pretty head exclaimed: "If you should, why don't you?" They were at the end of another day. Some time had passed since the Mystery Lady had last appeared in the store. Work had increased; crowds of buyers had grown denser, more insistent in their demands. Two perpendicular lines had appeared between Lucile's eyes. Cordie, too, had felt the strain of it. Her nerves were tense. She had been upon Lucile's bed for a half hour, trying to relax. It was no use. "Why don't you tell me?" she demanded impatiently. "I'm afraid it may frighten you." "Frighten me?" the girl's eyes went wide with surprise. "Yes, but I think I should tell you. It may put you on your guard." Cordie sat bolt upright. "Do you remember the time I found you--when you fainted in the Art Museum?" Lucile asked in a quiet voice. "I couldn't forget that. Wasn't it terrible?" "More terrible than you think, or at least I believe it might have been." "Why?" Cordie stared. "A few seconds after you fainted, a strange young man picked you up in his arms. He said you were his sister. He started to carry you out and would have, too, if I hadn't made the guard stop him." "Oh!" breathed Cordie, wild eyed, incredulous. "So that was what the guard meant when he asked where my brother was? Oh, how--how sort of romantic!" "It may have been," said Lucile in a very sober tone. "He may have been romantic, but he also may have been very bad. That's why I thought you ought to know. He may be keeping a watch on you. Men who are fascinated by a face often do. You ought not to go alone upon the streets. You should not have been alone that day. No girl from the country, unacquainted with the ways of the city, is safe alone upon its streets and within its public buildings." "Why, I'm not--" Cordie halted in the midst of the sentence and began again. "Did you think--" then drawing her lips tight as if to keep in a secret that was about to escape, she lapsed into silence. When she broke the silence a moment later the look on her face was very serious. "I do realize the danger," she said slowly. "Truly I do. I will be careful, very, very careful. It was wonderful of you to save me from that--that man. How can I ever thank you enough?" Hopping down from the bed, she wound her arm about Lucile and planted a kiss upon her forehead. Just at that instant a question entered Lucile's mind. "I wonder when her appreciation will reach down as deep as her pocketbook? That's a sordid thought. I ought not to think it," she told herself, "but I just can't help it." Lucile was having to pay an increased rent on her room because of the girl's occupying it with her. A pay day had come and gone, yet her young charge had shown no desire to bear her share of this burden. "No! No! I mustn't let myself wonder that," Lucile corrected herself stoutly. "She'll pay when she can. She's probably saving up for her rent which is in arrears somewhere else. I do wonder, though, what she was about to tell me when she said: 'I'm not--' and 'Did you think--' I truly wish she'd tell me about herself, but I can wait her time for revealing." Half of the following day had not passed before Lucile repented having told Cordie of her volunteer brother. "He'll probably never be seen again by any of us," she told herself, "and now look at the poor girl. She's all unnerved; grips her desk and stares in a frightened manner every time a man looks at her. And yet," she reflected, "if anything happened and I hadn't told her I'd never forgiven myself. Surely life is full of perplexing problems." Ere that day was done something was destined to happen which would make this particular problem many times more perplexing. Since she knew nothing of this, Lucile went serenely on selling books. "Let me tell you something," said Rennie, the veteran book-seller, who had apparently made an excuse for going to lunch with Lucile that day. "You're letting this work get on your nerves. Look at those puckers between your eyes. It's no use. You mustn't let it. You'll go to pieces and it's not worth it. You've got your life to live. You--" "But Rennie--" Rennie held up a finger for silence. "You're young; haven't learned the gospel of repose. You, perhaps, think of repose as the curling of one's self up in a soft-cushioned chair. That's not repose; it's stagnation. Did you ever see a tiny bird balancing himself on a twig over a rushing waterfall and singing his little heart away? That's repose. You can have poise and repose in the midst of the crowding throng. The bird, only half conscious of the rushing water beneath him, sings the more sweetly because of it. We, too, may have our service sweetened by the very rush of things if we will. "And it is service! You believe that, don't you?" There was a new light in the veteran saleslady's eyes. Lucile, as she looked at her frail body, thought to herself: "She's more spirit than body. She's given half herself away in service." "Why yes," she replied slowly, "I suppose selling juvenile books is a service in a way." "You suppose!" Rennie gripped her arm until it hurt. "Don't you know it is? It may be made a great, a wonderful service. There are books and books. You have read many of them. You know them. You are young. You have read. Some you have loved, some despised. Which do you sell? Which?" "Why, the ones I love, of course." "That's just it. Being endowed by nature with taste, good taste, and having had that taste improved by education, you are able to choose the best. "Books are like water. Some are like foam, the white caps of the sea; pure enough but effervescent. They pass in a moment and are lost forever. Others are like scum from a stagnant pool; they are poison. Then there are those blessed others which are like the cool, pure, refreshing water that comes bubbling up from a mountain spring. Reading has an untold and lasting influence on a child. Do you believe that? When you have put one of those better books into the hand of a boy or girl, you have conferred a lasting blessing upon someone. Do you believe that?" "Ye--yes." "Of course you do. Now, when you go back to your work this afternoon, do it with the consciousness that you are really being a benefactor to your generation. Say to yourself: 'See all those people. Some of these are to go away from here this afternoon richer because I have been here to serve them, to advise them, to select for them the thing they really need.' Then watch the little annoyances, the petty troubles that tempt you to fret, 'Fold their tents like the Arabs and silently steal away.' "Sales-people?" Rennie continued. "Why, we are far more than that. We may, if we will, take our place beside teachers, nurses, librarians, and all those whose names will be written high on the tablet of the future where will appear all those who have truly benefited their race. "Pardon me," she smiled again, "I didn't mean to preach, but really I hope it may do you good." "I--I'm sure it will." There was a mist in the girl's eyes as she said this. She had caught a vision of what real life work meant to this frail woman. Once more she was tempted to give up her education in favor of a career as a vendor of juvenile books. At ten minutes before closing time Lucile, having promised to meet Cordie at the northeast door, hurried down the stairs to the first floor. Then things began to happen with lightning-like rapidity. She had just started on her little journey across the store to the northeast entrance when, all in a flash, she caught sight of a hand, such a hand as she had seen but once and would never forget. The long, slim, muscular fingers and the ring of the dragon's head were there. She could not be mistaken. Somewhere in that jostling throng was the Mystery Lady. And--yes, Lucile was sure of it, there she was off there to the right. She could not mistake that face. With a bound she was after her. "Not so fast there! Not so fast!" exclaimed a floor man. "There isn't any fire. What made you think there was?" Wedged in between a tall lady from the city and a very broad-shouldered, bear-skin coated man from the country, Lucile could but heed the floorman's admonition. "She's making for the door," she whispered breathlessly. "I'll follow her out. Can't fail to catch her in the street. I'll get her before she has gone a block. And then--" Ah yes, and then--well, she'd decide what was to be done when the time came. She'd trust to inspiration. She did not catch up with her in the first block, nor the second or third, either. The sidewalks were rivers of people; the cross streets filled with automobiles. Considering the fact that this was an obstacle race of an exceedingly unusual type, the Mystery Lady made wonderful progress. As for Lucile, she was not to be outdone; indeed, she gained a little here, and a little there. She dodged through an open space on the sidewalk and sprinted down a stretch of street where no autos were parked or traveling. "I--I'll get her in the next block," she panted. "Suppose there'll be a scene, but who cares? Here goes!" A policeman's whistle, releasing the flood of autos on the cross street, had just blown. With a leap she sprang away before them. Grazed by the wheel of a gray sedan, drawing an angry hoot from a huge touring car, she crossed the channel and was about to dash on when a hand seized her firmly by the arm and gave her such a turn as fairly set her whirling. "Here you!" exclaimed a gruff voice. "What you tryin' to do? Tryin' to commit suicide? Autos has their right as well as them that walks. Give 'em their turn, can't you?" What was there to do? She could not tell this policeman of her cause for speed. She could but stand there panting until he chose to release her. And as she stood there, with time to think, a startling question came to her mind: "Cordie! What of Cordie? I promised to meet her at the northeast entrance! Closing time has now passed." For a moment her head whirled, but as the grip on her arm relaxed she murmured: "Well, whatever is to happen has happened back there. I'll get madamoiselle of mysteries yet!" At that she crept slowly away until she was lost from sight of the officer; then again raced on at breakneck speed. * * * * * * * * She was right. Something indeed had happened by the door of the northeast entrance. Cordie had been prompt in keeping her appointment; especially so since her nerves, disturbed by Lucile's revelation of the night before, were on edge. Surprised at not finding Lucile waiting for her, she had moved back into a secluded alcove to watch the passing throng crowd through the doors. Crowds always amused her. Some of the people were short and some tall; some young, some old; but all were interesting. Each had his story to tell if only he could be induced to tell it. This is why the flow of a river of people is so interesting. Just when it was that her attention was drawn from the moving throng to a single stationary individual, the girl could not tell. The instant she saw the man she felt he had been watching her; felt too that she had recognized in him her volunteer brother of the Art Museum. "Yes," she whispered as cold dread gripped her heart, "there is the hawk-like eye, the marble face. It is he. Oh! How shall I escape?" Losing her power to reason, she dashed away from the door and into the crowd that was now thronging toward the exits. * * * * * * * * Lucile found it rather difficult to again locate the Mystery Lady. When at last she succeeded it was to get a good square look at her, the first she had been afforded. "How strangely she is dressed!" she murmured. "Like some countrywoman come to the city for shopping." For a second she was inclined to doubt her judgment. It could not be the lady--yet, yes, there was her profile. There could be no mistake; so, again she dashed along after her. Although she maintained a pace that appeared to be a leisurely one, the Mystery Lady was hard enough to overtake. Turning to the right, she crossed two streets to at last come out upon the Boulevard. Swinging to the left, she joined the home-going throng. Lucile, gaining moment by moment, was all but upon her when she turned quickly to enter a broad, open door. "Now I have you!" Lucile murmured. She passed through the broad door just in time to see the mysterious one push back a heavy curtain and disappear. Lucile was about to follow, when a guard, touching her on the shoulder, demanded: "Got a pass?" "Why--why no," Lucile stood there nonplussed. "This is Opera Hall. You can't go back of that curtain without a pass." "But--but that lady gave you no pass." The guard made no reply. He merely shrugged and smiled. Dropping back a step or two, Lucile stood staring at the curtain. Her head was whirling. What a strangely privileged woman this one must be. She entered and left a great department store at two hours before midnight, and no one said to her "No." She steps into a vestibule of a great musical hall and passes behind the curtain without a pass. What would she do next? Suspended from one brass post to another, a heavy silk rope hung before the curtain. There were gaps in the curtain. Through one of these gaps, as Lucile stood staring at it, a hand was thrust. It was the hand of the mysterious lady. And upon it, beside the dragon's head ring, was another. And this ring one more unusual and startling than the other. It was the iron ring of a bundle wrapper! "Cordie's ring," Lucile whispered, "and, as I live, a diamond has been set in it. A magnificent diamond, worth hundreds of dollars! How strange! How weird! A diamond set in iron!" Even as she thought this, the hand disappeared. Instantly the heavy purple curtain began to sway. Expecting anything, the girl stood there breathless. A needle flashed twice through the cloth of the curtain, then in its place there appeared a tiny spot of crimson. "The crimson thread!" Lucile whispered. "And I may not pass beyond the curtain!" CHAPTER VIII THE DIAMOND-SET IRON RING When Cordie fled from the man of the hawk-like eye and the marble features she dashed directly into the moving throng of shoppers. In this, however, she found scant relief. No matter which way she might turn she felt sure that the man pursued her and would overtake her if she did not flee faster and faster. Putting her utmost strength into this flight, she dashed past counters strewn with goods, round a bank of elevators, through narrow aisles jammed with shoppers, across a narrow court and again into the throng. At last, in utter desperation, she fled down a stairway; then another and another. Little dreaming that she had been descending into the very depths of the earth, she came up at last with a little suppressed scream to a place where from out a long row of small iron doors fire gleamed red as a noonday sun. Where was she? Surely she had not dreamed there could be such a place as this in a great department store. After wavering unsteadily for a moment, she turned, stumbled, righted herself, and would have gone racing back up the stair had not a heavy hand fallen upon her shoulder and a gruff, kindly voice said: "Beg pardon, Miss Cordelia, are you in trouble?" Surprised at hearing herself called by her own name, she turned about to find herself staring into the face of James, the bundle man. For a few seconds she wavered between pause and flight. There was, however, such a light of kindness in the man's eyes as could not be questioned. So, stepping back from the stairs, she said: "Yes, I am in trouble. The--the man; I think he was following me." "He'd do well not to follow you too far this way, if he meant you any harm." The bundle man shook his powerful frame, then glanced at the fires. "Wha--what are they?" Cordie stammered. "Where are we?" "Don't you know?" he looked incredulous. "Them's the boilers that heat the buildin'. I suppose you never wondered before how this huge building got heated? Well, that's how. Them's the boilers that does it. "Sometimes I come down here to sit after hours," he half apologized. "The boys down here that tends to the stokers let me come. I like it. It's the nearest thing to the sea that one finds about the buildin'. You see, it's sort of like a ship's hold where the stokers work." "Oh, you belong to the sea." "Yes, Miss. I'll tell you about it; but that will do for another time. You'll be going home. If it's all right, I'll see you safely on your way, or if you want I'll see you safely home. You need have no fear of me. I'm old enough to be your father, an' I took a sort of interest in you from the first. I'd be glad to help you--" He broke short off to stare at the door through which Cordie had entered. Framed by the outer darkness, a face had appeared there. However well shaven and massaged it might be, it was not a pleasing face to look upon and hawk-like eyes were set in a countenance as expressionless as marble. "That's him!" whispered James, staring as if his eyes would pop out of his head. "That's the very man." The next instant the man disappeared. There was reason enough for this too, for with every muscle of his face drawn in lines of hate, the stalwart James had leaped square at the door. And what of Lucile? After gazing for a moment in astonishment at the purple curtain with the touch of crimson shining out from it, (beyond which the Mystery Lady had disappeared,) she stepped close enough to make sure that same purple strand ran through the thread. Then she turned and walked out of the building. She found herself more mystified than ever. When would all this maze of mysteries be solved? Why had the Mystery Lady done that? Why the crimson thread? Why the iron ring? That was the fourth time the crimson thread had appeared, and this time there could be no doubt but that it had been she who had held the needle. Strangely enough, at this moment there flashed through her mind one sentence in that clipping relating to the lady who called herself the Spirit of Christmas. "I am the Spirit of Christmas," she whispered it as she recalled it. "I am the Spirit of Christmas. Wherever I go I leave my mark which is also my sign." She wondered vaguely what she could have meant by that. This lady of the Christmas Spirit had the whole city on tip-toes. Everyone was looking for her; everyone hoping to come downtown some fine morning to meet her and to claim her bag of gold. Shoppers gazed into faces of fellow shoppers to wonder: "Are you the Spirit of Christmas? Shall I grasp your hand?" News boys, staring up at lady customers who slipped them pennies for papers, wondered: "Are you the Christmas Lady?" Every day the paper told how she had been dressed on the previous day, where she had been and what she had done. One day, in the guise of a farmer's wife, she had visited the stockyards and had spent hours wandering through great buildings or on board-walks above the cattle. The next day found her again among the throngs of shoppers. Here she had purchased a handkerchief and there a newspaper. She described the clerk and the newsboy. The clerk and the boy read it and groaned. For them the great moment had come and was gone forever. "Who will discover her? When will it be? Who will get the gold?" These were the questions that were on every tongue. There could be no doubt but the paper was reaping a golden harvest from it, for did not everyone in the city buy a paper that they might read of her latest exploits and to discover where she was to be on that day, and to dream that this day he might be the lucky one; this day he might hear the gold coin jingle? Lucile thought all this through as she hurried back toward the store. At the same time she chided herself for being so foolish as to miss her appointment with Cordie for such a wild goose chase. She hoped against hope that she would find Cordie still waiting. She found the door closed. As she pressed her face against the glass she saw but one person near the entrance--the night watchman. Cordie was not there. "Gone," Lucile murmured. "I only hope nothing has happened to her." At that she turned about and raced away to catch an on-coming elevated train. * * * * * * * * As James disappeared through the door of the furnace room of the department store, Cordie sank down in a chair. The chair was black and greasy, but she had no thought for that. Indeed, so excited and frightened was she that for a time she was unable to think clearly about anything. When at last the full meaning of the situation had forced its way into her consciousness, she leaped to her feet, exclaiming: "Stop him! Stop him! He'll be killed!" "I bet you he won't," a burly furnace tender smiled quietly. "He's a hard boiled egg, that boy; muscles like steel and quick as a cat. If anybody does him in you'll have to give him credit. Y'ought t' see him box. There ain't a man among us that can touch him." Somewhat reassured by this glowing description of her companion, the girl settled back again in her seat. She knew that she was safe enough here with these rough but kindly men. As she sat there thinking, there came to her mind a question. Why did James go into such a fit of anger at sight of the stranger at the door? "Surely," she told herself, "it could not have been because the man had been following me. That wouldn't be natural. James scarcely knows me. Why should he suddenly become such a violent champion of my cause? And besides, he had no way of knowing that that was the man who was following me. He did not wait to ask a single question; just whispered: 'That's him!' and rushed right at him." "No he didn't do it because of me," she concluded after a few moments of thought. "He's seen that man before. I wonder when and where. I wonder what he's done to James?" Then came another, more startling question. What would James do to the man if he caught him? Instantly her keen imagination was at work. Quickening her sense of hearing, it set her listening to sounds which she told herself were the dull thud of fist-blows, the sickening rush of a blade as it sped through the air, a low groan of pain, and then sharper, more distinct, the pop-pop of an automatic. In vain she told herself that with the hiss of steam, the dull thud-thud of revolving grates and the general noises of the boiler-room, it was quite impossible for her to distinguish sounds ten yards away, and that in all probability the two men were hundreds of feet away from her, on some other floor. The illusion still persisted. So certain did she become that a battle was being fought just outside the door that she found herself gripping the arms of her chair to keep from crying out. The nickel-plated clock against the wall had ticked away a full half hour. The suspense had grown unbearable when of a sudden, with face grimy, hair tousled, and clothing all awry, James appeared at the door. "You--you," Cordie started up. "Yes, miss," James grinned. "I know I look as if I'd come in from a long and stormy voyage. My deck needs swabbin' down and my sails a furlin', but I'll be shipshape and ready to take another cruise before the clock can strike eight bells." This talk sounded so quaint to the girl that she quite forgot the recent danger James had been in, and sat staring at him as he thrust his head into a huge basin of water and proceeded to scrub it with a course brush, much as one might some huge vegetable. By the aid of a comb and whisk broom, he succeeded in making himself presentable. "Now," he smiled a broad smile, "your Uncle James, once a seaman and now a land fighter, is ready to pilot you home. What's the port?" "Sixty-first and Drexel," said Cordie. "All right. Port 'er bow. We're off." Concerning his recent combat--if there had been a combat--James said not a word. Cordie wondered at this, but eager as she was to know the outcome of the battle, if there had been one, she dreaded quite as much to hear the whole truth. Visions of an inanimate form, lying bruised and bleeding in some dark corner of the stair, set her shuddering. So in the end she asked no question. Their passage to the upper floor and out of the building was uneventful. The watchman at the door recognized them and allowed them to pass. Previous to this time James had seemed quiet and uncommunicative, but now as they rattled along on the L train he told her many a wild tale of the sea journeys he had made. In his deep mellow drawl he talked of the whale ship _Addler_ in northern seas; of Eskimo and polar bear and the gleaming northern lights; and then he talked of the Cutter _Corwin_ among the palm shadowed South Sea Islands. It was with a real feeling of regret that Cordie, hearing her own station announced, realized that their visit was at an end. Five minutes later, brimming over with excitement, she burst into Lucile's room. "Wait!" exclaimed Lucile as she read in Cordie's eyes the story of some thrilling experience. "You've had an adventure. So have I. Let's not spoil 'em in the telling. Let's set the stage for a story. You haven't had a bite to eat, have you?" "No--o," Cordie admitted, "not a single bite. I'd forgotten." "Neither have I. You'll find a loaf of bread and a slice of cream pimento cheese in the upper dresser drawer. There are some vanilla wafers, too. You make the sandwiches and I'll have the cocoa piping hot in a minute. No, I'll tell you, let's dress for it first." Fifteen minutes later they sat in their bright colored dressing gowns, sipping the delicious hot beverage and hungrily devouring sandwiches. "Now," said Lucile after the last sandwich had vanished and fresh cups had been poured, "now's the time for spinning yarns. You tell yours first." With many a gesture and dramatic pause, Cordie told of her startling discovery, her wild dash through the throng, her descent into the depths of the earth, and of the strange doings down there beneath the surface of the city's streets. "Yes," said Lucile, sipping her chocolate thoughtfully as Cordie's narrative ended, "that surely was the young man who attempted to carry you away when you fainted in the Art Museum. Dear little girl, you must be careful, very careful indeed. You must never be left alone; never! Never! Even if the Mystery Woman beckons or the Lady of the Christmas Spirit clinks her gold in my very ears, I will not desert you again." It was a very warm and friendly hand that Lucile felt tucked into her own, and a suspiciously husky voice that said: "Thank you, my dear big sister. "But," Cordie exclaimed suddenly, "I must not tell them. It would never do. They wouldn't let me----" Suddenly checking her speech as if about to unwittingly reveal a secret, she changed the subject abruptly. "Please tell me of your adventure," she said. "My adventure?" smiled Lucile. "Compared with yours, it was no adventure at all--merely an episode. However, since it throws some light on a mystery and reveals the whereabouts of a bit of stolen property, I must tell you about it." Then, while Cordie leaned back among the cushions, her eyes half closed as if she were day dreaming, Lucile told of her experience with the Mystery Lady. "My iron ring!" exclaimed Cordie, sitting bolt upright as Lucile came to that part of the story. "My iron ring! The old mischief! I might have known! I----" Again Cordie checked herself. "Might have known what?" asked Lucile. "Might have known that someone had stolen it, I suppose," finished Cordie lamely. "Anyway, someone did, didn't they? And isn't it funny that she should have a diamond set in it? Wouldn't it be a joke to come upon her wearing it? Wouldn't it, though? I'd march right up and say, 'Lay-d-e-e give me the ring! You stole it. My precious, my onliest, only iron ring!'" She threw back her head and laughed. Lucile joined her in the laugh, and with this forgot for a time that Cordie had said something very unusual about the ring and the lady who had taken it. At last Cordie broke the silence: "James is a very unusual person." "Yes, he must be." "Do you suppose he caught that man--the one who had been following me?" "I hope so, but perhaps not. You say he was all mussed up when he came back?" "Uh-huh." "But not bruised, nor bloody, nor anything like that?" "No, I guess not--no, not a bit." "Then probably he didn't. When I got through my wild race about the place the other night I was good and mussed up, and I hadn't been in a fight either. It wouldn't be easy to catch anyone in that labyrinth." Again there was silence for a little while. "Lucile," whispered Cordie, bending forward eagerly, her face alight with some strange idea. "James is so mysterious. Do you suppose he could be a pirate in hiding?" "A pirate! Why child, there aren't any pirates." "Not any at all?" "You don't read about any, do you?" "You don't read about lots of things. You never read about my wrapping bundles, did you? But I am, just the same. Everything doesn't get in the papers. I think it would be wonderful if he turned out to be a real pirate. You'd think he was one if you heard some of the stories he told me to-night about the sea." "All right," laughed her companion, "if you can make him out a pirate, a nice friendly sort of pirate who is kind to ladies and all that, you're welcome. But for my part, I'd give a lot more to know what that self appointed brother of yours has done to James. It must have been something rather terrible." "Yes," agreed Cordie, "it surely must." "Listen!" exclaimed Lucile. "There go the chimes! Ten o'clock, and you work in the morning!" Leaping from her chair, she began cleaning up the remnants of their little feast. Ten minutes later the room was darkened for the night. Though the room was dark, and though Lucile was tired enough for sleep, her eyes did not close at once. She was thinking and her thoughts were not of the most cheerful sort. The outlook, she was forced to admit, was gloomy enough. She had hoped to save enough money from her pay at the store to start her in the new term at school. This hope was fast dwindling away. Her own expenses had been greater than she had thought they would be. Added to this was the increase in her room rent due to the presence of Cordie. Her dream that Cordie was saving money had been blighted only the night before, for on that night Cordie had brought home the gorgeous dressing gown she had worn as they sat over the cocoa cups. "And it must have cost her every penny she possessed," groaned Lucile. "How extravagant! How--how----" She wanted to say ungrateful, but could not quite do it. The girl appeared so impractical, so lovable, so irresponsible, that she could not find the heart to blame her. Quickly she switched her thoughts to a more cheering subject--Laurie Seymour. He had proven such a jolly fellow-worker--so cheerful, so kind and helpful, so ever ready to bear the heavy burdens--that Lucile had all but forgotten the fact that he had given his pass-out to the Mystery Lady on that night when she had in such a surprising manner come into the possession of the valuable fur lined cape. Equally strange was the fact that she had come to think of the Mystery Lady in a new way. She found that she could no longer think of the lady as a thief. "And yet," she mused, "what could have been her reason for haunting our store at that hour of the night? Why should she have left the cape?" The cape. Ah yes, there was vexation enough in that! Too precious to be worn to work, it had hung for days in Lucile's closet while she had gone to work all too scantily clad in a sweater and broad scarf. She wished that she might have her own coat. Poor as it might be, it was at least her own and it was comfortable. Next morning, having arrived at the door of the store a full fifteen minutes before the opening hour, the two girls were enjoying a few moments of window shopping before the gorgeous windows of State street. Suddenly, above the rattle of distant elevated trains and the honk of auto horns, Lucile caught clear and distinct the calling neigh of a horse. Wheeling quickly about, she stared around her. True enough, there were still many horses on the streets of the city, but where before, in the din and rattle of the streets, had she caught that one clear call of a horse? What she saw caused her to start and stare. Cordie was no longer at her side. Instead she was in imminent danger of being run down by a cab as she dashed madly across the street toward the spot where, like a statue in blue, a young policeman sat rigidly erect on his police horse. The thing the girl did, once she had safely crossed the street, was even more surprising. Without the least glance at the young policeman, she threw both arms about the horse's neck and hid her face in his mane. Far from objecting to this unusual procedure, the horse appeared to rather enjoy it. As for the stern young minion of the law, he was so overcome by surprise that he did not alter his statue-like pose by so much as a movement of a finger. Lucile flew across the street. "Cordie! Cordie! What in the world are you doing?" she fairly screamed. Paying not the least attention to this, Cordie repeated over and over: "Dick, you old darling. Dear old Dick. You knew me, Dick, you did! You did!" This lasted for a full moment. Then, appearing to come to herself, the girl dropped her hands and stepped back upon the sidewalk. One glance at the stern young officer, and a quite different emotion swept over her. Her face turned crimson as she stammered: "Oh, what have I done? I--I beg--beg your pardon." "It's all right," grinned the young man, coming to life with a broad smile. "Friend of yours, I take it?" "Yes--Oh yes,--a very, very good friend." "My name's Patrick O'Hara," there was a comradely tone now in the young officer's voice. "He's a friend of mine too, and a mighty good one. Shake." Solemnly drawing off his gauntlet, he swung half way out of his saddle to grasp the girl's hand. "Thanks. Thanks awfully. Is this--this where you always stay? I--I'd like to see Dick real often." "This is my beat; from here to the next cross street and back again. I'm here every morning from seven to one. We--we--Dick, I mean, will be glad to see you." The way he smiled as he looked at Cordie's deep colored, dimpled cheeks, her frank blue eyes, her crinkly hair, said plainer than words: "Dick won't be the only one who will be glad to see you." "Lucile," implored Cordie, "I wish you'd do me a favor. I haven't a lump of sugar for poor old Dick. I can't leave him this way. I--I never have. Won't you please talk to this--this policeman until I can go to the restaurant on the corner and get some?" "It's all right, Miss--Miss----" "Cordie," prompted the girl. "It's all right, Cordie," Patrick O'Hara grinned, "I'll not run away. Duty calls me, though. I must ride up a block and back again. I--I'll make it snappy. Be back before you are." Touching Dick with his spurless heel and patting him gently on the neck, he went trotting away. Five minutes later, the lump of sugar ceremony having been performed to the complete satisfaction of both Dick and Cordie, the girls hurried away to the scenes of their daily labors. This little drama made a profound impression upon Lucile. For one thing, it convinced her that in spite of her expensive and stylish lingerie, Cordie was indeed a little country girl. "For," Lucille told herself, "that horse, Dick, came from the country. All horses do. He's been a pet of Cordie's back there on the farm. His owner, perhaps her own father, has sold him to some city dealer. And because he is such a thorobred and such a fine up-standing beauty, he has been made a police horse. I don't blame her for loving him. Anyone would. But it shows what a splendid, affectionate girl she is. "I'm sort of glad," she told herself a moment later, "that she's gotten acquainted with that young officer, Patrick O'Hara. He seems such a nice sort of boy, and then you can never tell how soon you're going to need a policeman as a friend; at least it seems so from what happened last night." She might have shuddered a little had she known how prophetic these thoughts were. As it was, she merely smiled as she recalled once more how her impetuous little companion had raced across the streets to throw her arms about the neck of a horse ridden by a strange policeman. "I wonder," she said finally, "I do wonder why Cordie does not confide in me? Oh well," she sighed, "I can only wait. The time will come." Had she but known it, Cordie had reasons enough; the strangest sort of reasons, too. It was in the forenoon of that same day that a rather surprising thing happened, a thing that doubled the mystery surrounding the attractive young salesman, Laurie. Lucile was delivering a book to a customer. Laurie was waiting at the desk for change and at the same time whispering to Cordie, when of a sudden his eyes appeared ready to start from his head as he muttered: "There's Sam!" The next instant, leaving wrapped package, change and customer, he disappeared as if the floor had dropped from beneath him. "Where's Laurie?" Cordie asked a moment later. "His customer's waiting for her change." Though Lucile didn't know where he was, she was quite sure he would not return, at least he would not until a certain short, broad-shouldered man, who carried a large brief case and stood talking to Rennie, had left the section. She felt very sure that Laurie wished to escape meeting this man. "That man must be Sam," Lucile thought to herself as she volunteered to complete Laurie's sale. "Now I wonder what makes him so much afraid of that man! "He looks like a detective," she thought to herself as she got a better look at him. "No, he smiles too much for that. Must be a salesman trying to get Rennie to buy more books." The conversation she overheard tended to confirm this last. "Make it a thousand," he said with a smile. "I won't do it!" Rennie threw her hands up in mock horror. "Oh! All right," Sam smiled. "Anything you say." Having been called away by a rush of customers, Lucile had quite forgotten both Laurie and Sam when she came suddenly upon the large brief case which Sam had carried. It was lying on her table. "Whose is that?" a voice said over her shoulder. "That's Sam's, confound him! He's always leaving things about. Now he'll have to come back for it and I'll--" "Who's Sam?" Lucile asked. She turned about to receive the answer. The answer did not come. For a second time that day Laurie had vanished. CHAPTER IX HER DOUBLE "Two more shopping days before Christmas," Lucile read these words in the paper on the following morning as she stepped into the elevator which was to take her to a day of strenuous labor. She read them and sighed. Then, of a sudden, she started and stared. The cause of this sudden change was the elevator girl. "Why, Florence!" she exclaimed half incredulous. "You here?" "Sure. Why not?" smiled the big, athletic looking girl who handled the elevator with skill. "Well, I didn't know--" "Didn't know I needed the money badly enough," laughed Florence. "Well, I do. Seems that one is always running out of cash, especially when it comes near to Christmas. I was getting short, so I came down here and they gave me this job. Thought I could stand the rush I guess," she smiled as she put one arm about her former chum in a bear-like embrace. If you have read our other books, "The Cruise of the O'Moo" and "The Secret Mark," you will remember that these two girls had been the best of chums. But a great University is a place of many changes. Their paths had crossed and then they had gone in diverging ways. Now they were more than pleased to find that, for a time, they were employed in the same store. "Speaking of Christmas," said Florence, "since I haven't any grand Christmas surprises coming from other people, I've decided to buy myself a surprise." "How can you do that?" asked Lucile, a look of incredulity on her face. "Why, you see----" "Here's my floor. See you later." Lucile sprang from the elevator and was away. "It's nice to meet old friends," the elevator girl thought to herself as she went speeding up the shaft, "especially when the holiday season is near. I must try to see more of Lucile." Running an elevator in a department store is a dull task. Little enough adventure in that, you might say, except when your cable begins to slip with a full load on board. But Florence was destined to come under the spell of mystery and to experience thrilling adventure before her short service as an elevator girl came to an end. Mystery came leaping at her right out of the morning. She left her car in the basement and went for a drink. She was gone but a second. When she came back the elevator door was closed and the cage cables in motion. "Gone!" she whispered. "I never heard of such a thing. Who could have taken it? "Might have been the engineer taking it for a testing trip," she thought after a few seconds of deliberation. "But no, that doesn't seem probable. He'd not be down this early. But who could it be? And why did they do it?" If the disappearance of her car had been startling, the thing she witnessed three minutes later was many times more so. With fast beating heart she saw the shadow of the car move down from fifth floor to fourth, from fourth to third, then saw the car itself cover the remaining distance to the basement. Her knees trembled with excitement and fear as she watched the cage in its final drop. The excitement was born of curiosity; the fear was that this should mean the last of her position. She had never been discharged and this gave her an unwonted dread of it. The car came to a stop at the bottom. Three passengers got off and one got on, and the car shot upward again. And Florence did nothing but stand there and stare in astonishment! Had she seen a ghost, a ghost of herself? What had happened? Her head was in a whirl. The girl at the lever was herself. Broad shoulders, large hands, round cheeks, blue eyes, brown hair, even to freckles that yielded not to winters indoors. It was her own self, to the life. "And yet," she reasoned, "here I am down here. What shall I do?" As she faced the situation more calmly, she realized that the girl driving her car must be her double, her perfect double. She remembered reading somewhere that everyone in the world had a double. And here was hers. But why had her double made up her hair in her exact fashion, donned an elevator girl's uniform and taken her elevator from her? "That is what I must find out," she told herself. "There's no use making a scene by jumping in and demanding my cage," she reasoned, after a moment's reflection. "I'll just get on as a passenger and ride up with her." There was something of a thrill in this affair. She was beginning to enjoy it. "It's--why, it's fairly mysterious," she breathed. In spite of all, she found herself anticipating the next move in the little drama. Driving an elevator was frightfully dull business. Going up and down, up and down; answering innumerable questions all day long about the location of silks, shoes, baby rattle, nutmeg graters, boxing gloves, garters and fly-swatters--this was a dull task that tended to put one to sleep. And often enough, after her noon luncheon, she actually had to fight off sleep. But here, at last, was a touch of mystery, romance and adventure. "My double," she breathed. "I'll find out who she is and why she did this, or die in the attempt." Again the cage moved downward. This time, as the last customer moved out of the door, she stepped in. Moving to the back of the car, she stood breathlessly waiting for the next move of her mysterious double. The move did not come at once; in fact she had to wait there in the back of the car a surprisingly long time. The girl at the lever--her double--had poise, this was easy enough seen, and she had operated an elevator before, too. She brought the cage to its position at each floor with an exactness and precision that could but be admired. The cage filled at the first floor. It began to empty at the third. By the time they had reached the eleventh, only two passengers, beside Florence, remained in the back of the car. Only employees went beyond the eleventh; the floors above were stock rooms. The girl at the lever threw back a fleeting glance. Florence thought she was about to speak, but she did not. The car went to the thirteenth landing. There two people got off and three got on. Florence remained. The car dropped from floor to floor until they were again in the basement. Once more the mysterious double gave Florence a fleeting glance. She did not speak. Florence did not move from her place in the corner. The car rose again. To Florence the situation was growing tense, unbearable. Again the car emptied. At the eleventh floor Florence found herself in the car alone with her double. This gave her a strange, frightened feeling, but she resolutely held her place. "Say!" exclaimed the girl, turning about as the car moved slowly upward. "Let me run your car, will you? Take my place, won't you? You won't have a thing to do. It--it'll be a lark." As she said all this in a whisper there was a tense eagerness on her face that Florence could not miss. "But--but your car?" she managed to whisper back. "Haven't any. Don't go on until to-morrow. Here's my locker key. Get--get my coat and furs and hat out and wear them. Stay in the store--Book Section and Rest Room. All you have to do. "Only," she added as an afterthought, "if someone speaks to you, tells you something, you say, 'Oh! All right.' Just like that. And if they ask you what you said, you repeat. That's all you'll have to do." "Oh, but I can't--" "It isn't anything bad," the other girl put in hastily. There was a sort of desperate eagerness about the tense lines of her face. They were nearing the thirteenth floor. "Not a thing that's bad--nor--nor anything you wouldn't gladly do yourself. I--I'll explain some time. On--only do it, will you?" They had reached the thirteenth floor. She pressed the key in Florence's reluctant hand. A tall man, with an arm load of socks in bundles, got on the car. He looked at Florence. He looked at her double. Then he stared at both of them. After that his large mouth spread apart in a broad grin as he chuckled: "Pretty good. Eh?" Three minutes later Florence found herself in a kind of daze, standing at the tenth floor landing, staring down at her steadily dropping car. "Oh, well," she whispered, shaking herself out of her daze, "sort of a lark, I suppose. No harm in it. Might as well have a half day off." With that she turned and walked toward the locker room. The coat and hat she took from the mysterious one's locker were very plain and somewhat worn, not as good as her own. But the fur throw was a thing to marvel at; a crossed fox, the real thing, no dyed imitation, and so richly marked with gray that it might easily be taken for a silver gray. "Some strange little combination," she breathed as she threw the fur about her neck and started once more for the elevator. As a proof of the fact that she was carrying out her share of the compact, she waited for her own elevator. The strange girl shot her a quick smile as she entered and another as she got off on the third floor where was the rest room and book section. "Seems terribly queer to be walking around in another girl's clothes," she whispered to herself as she drifted aimlessly past rows of people resting in leather cushioned chairs. "Especially when that other girl is someone you've spoken to but once in your life. I wonder--I do wonder why I did it?" She meditated on this question until she had reached the book section. "It was the look in her eyes; an eager, haunted look. She's all right, I'd swear to that, and she's in some sort of trouble that's not all her own fault. Trouble," she mused. "Part of our reason for being here in the world is that we may help others out of trouble. I--I guess I'm glad I did it." Of this last she could not be sure. She had sometimes been mistaken, had bestowed confidence and assistance on persons who were unworthy. Should this girl prove to be such a person, then she might be helping her to get away with some unlawful act. And she might lose her position, too. "Oh well," she sighed at last, "it's done. I'll lose my memory of it here among the books." To one who is possessed of a real love for books, it is a simple task to forget all else in a room where there are thousands of them. So completely did Florence forget that she soon lost all consciousness of the role she was playing, and when a rough looking man with a seafaring roll to his walk came marching toward her she could do nothing but stare at him. And when he said, "Howdy Meg," she only stared the harder. "The train leaves at eleven thirty," he said, twisting his well worn cap in his nervous fingers. "The--the--" she hesitated. Then of a sudden the words of the girl came back to her. "Oh! All right," she said in as steady a tone as she could command. "What say?" asked the man. "I said 'Oh, all right.'" "Right it is, then," he said and, turning about, disappeared behind a pile of books. With her head in a whirl, the girl stood and stared after him. "The train leaves at eleven thirty," she whispered. It was a few minutes past ten now. Should she go and tell the girl? She had not been instructed in this regard. What sort of an affair was this she was getting into, anyway? Was this girl hiding from her people, attempting to run away? The man had looked rough enough, but he had looked honest, too. She had wandered about the place in uncertainty for another half hour. Then a kindly faced women, in a sort of uniform and a strange hat with gold lettered "Seaman's Rest" on its band, accosted her. "Why, Meg!" she exclaimed. "You still here? The train leaves at eleven-thirty." There it was again. This time she did not forget. "Oh! All right!" she exclaimed and turning hurried away as if to make a train. An hour later, still very much puzzled and not a little worried, she returned to the locker room, took off the borrowed clothes, gave the wonderful fox fur a loving pat, deposited it with the coat and hat, then locked the door. After that she went to her own locker, put on her wraps preparatory to going to lunch, then walked over to the elevator. A moment's wait brought her car to her. The other girl was still operating skillfully. Florence pressed the locker key into the girl's hand and stepped to the back of the car. Five minutes later she found herself in the crisp air of a midwinter day. "And to think," she whispered to herself, "that I'd do that for a total stranger." As she ate her lunch a resolve, one of the strongest she had ever made, formed itself in her mind. She would become acquainted with her mysterious double and would learn her secret. "The train leaves at eleven-thirty," she mused. "Well, wherever it might have been going, it's gone." She glanced at the clock which read twelve-fifteen. And then, of a sudden, all thought of the other girl and her affairs was blotted out by a resolve she had made that very morning. This was Friday. Day after to-morrow was Christmas. She wanted a surprise on Christmas. She had started to tell Lucile about it that morning, but while just in the middle of the story the elevator had reached the Book Department and Lucile had hurried away. Soon after came the strange experience of meeting her double and Florence had quite forgotten all about it until this very minute. "Have to provide my own surprise," she said to herself, while thinking it through. "But how am I to surprise myself?" This had taken a great deal of thinking, but in the end she hit upon the very thing. Her old travelling bag had gone completely to pieces on her last trip. Her father had sent her fifteen dollars for the purchase of a new one. She had the money still. She would buy a travelling bag with a surprise in it. Only a few days before, a friend had told her how this might be done. Every great hotel has in its store room a great deal of baggage which no one claims; such as hat boxes, trunks, bags and bundles. Someone leaves his baggage as security for a bill. He does not return. Someone leaves his trunk in storage. He too disappears. Someone dies. In time all this baggage is sold at an auctioneer's place to the highest bidders. They have all been sealed when placed in the store room, and here they are, trunks, bundles and bags, all to be sold with "contents if any." "With contents if any." Florence had read that sentence over many times as she finished scanning the notice of an auction that was to be held that very afternoon and night. "With contents if any," that was where her surprise was to come in. She would pick out a good bag that had a woman's name on it, or one that at least looked as if a woman had owned it, and she would bid it in. Then the bag would be hers, and the "contents if any." She thrilled at the thought. Her friend had told of diamond rings, of gold watches, of a string of pearls, of silks and satins and silver jewel boxes that had come from these mysterious sealed bags and trunks. "Of course," Florence assured herself, "there won't be anything like that in my bag, but anyway there'll be a surprise. What fun it will be, on my birthday, to turn the key to the bag and to peep inside. "I know the afternoon is going to drag terribly. I do wish I could go now," she sighed, "but I can't. I do hope they don't sell all the nice bags before I get there." With this she rose from the table, paid her check and went back to her elevator, still wondering about her mysterious double and still dreaming of her birthday surprise. CHAPTER X CORDIE'S STRANGE RIDE Twice a day, after Cordie had discovered him, the police horse, Dick, had a lump of sugar--one in the morning and another at noon. And Mounted Officer Patrick O'Hara, very young, quite handsome and somewhat dashing, received a smile with each lump of sugar. It would have been hard to tell which enjoyed his portion the most, Dick or Patrick O'Hara. Apparently nothing could have pleased Cordie more than this discovery of an old friend. Yes, there was one other thing that would have pleased her much more. She found herself longing for it more and more. Every time she saw the horse she secretly yearned for this privilege. And then, quite surprisingly, the opportunity came. It was noon. Having come out from the store to give Dick his daily portion, she was surprised to find him standing alone, head down, and patiently waiting. A glance down the street told her there had been an auto collision in the middle of the block; not a serious one probably, as the cars did not seem badly smashed, but of course Patrick O'Hara had gone over there to take down the numbers. Since traffic had been jammed, he had dismounted and walked. "Wha--what a chance," Cordie breathed, her heart skipping a beat. "Do I dare?" She looked up at the splendid saddle with its broad circle of brass and other trappings. She studied Dick's smooth, sleek sides. "I know I shouldn't," she whispered, "but I do so want to. Dick, do you suppose he'd care?" The temptation was growing stronger. Glancing down the street, she caught a glimpse of Patrick O'Hara's cap above the crowd. His back was turned. The temptation was no longer to be resisted. With a touch and a spring, light as air, Cordie leaped into the saddle. "Just for old times," she whispered. She had meant to hover there for an instant, then to leap right down again. But alas for the best laid plans. Old Dick had apparently remembered things about the past which she had quite forgotten, and with a wild snort his head went up, his four feet came together, and with a leap that completely cleared him from the autos that blocked his way, he went tearing down the street. For a second the girl's head was in a whirl. So unexpected was this mad dash that she was all but thrown from the saddle. Apparently an experienced rider, she regained her balance, clung to the pommel of the saddle for an instant, then gripping the reins, she screamed: "Whoa, Dick! Whoa! Whoa!" Had her scream been "Go Dick! Go!" it would not have had a different effect. He simply redoubled his speed. Then it was that the State Street throng of shoppers viewed a performance that was not on the program and one they would not soon forget--a hatless, coatless girl, hair flying, cheeks aflame, dashing madly down the street astride a sturdy police horse. Some laughed, some cheered, others gasped in astonishment and fright. A corner policeman leaped for the reins, but missed. Panic spread through the cross streets. It was a bad morning for jay-walkers. Having failed to see the on-coming charger, they would leap boldly before a slow-moving auto to give one startled look upward, then to register the blankest surprise and shy suddenly backward. Had it not been such a serious business, Cordie would have laughed at the expressions on their faces; but this was no laughing matter. To all appearances she had stolen a policeman's horse, and that in broad daylight. Suddenly a second police horse swung out into the street. "Stop! Stop! I arrest you!" shouted the rider. "That's easy said," the girl murmured in an agony of fear lest Dick should trample someone under his feet. "It's easy said. I wish you would." Evidently Dick did not agree with these sentiments, for the instant he sensed this rival his head went higher, a great snort escaped his nostrils and he was away with a fresh burst of speed which left the surprised officer three lengths behind. "Oh! Oh! What shall I do!" groaned the girl. The more she tugged at the reins the faster flew Dick's splendid limbs. He had the bit between his teeth. Suddenly, as if aggravated by the crowds that threatened to block his way, he whirled to a side street and went dashing toward the Boulevard. "The Boulevard! Oh, the Boulevard! We will be killed!" Before them lay the Boulevard where autos, thick as bees in clover, raced forward at twenty miles an hour. What chance could there be of escape? Trust a horse. While pedestrians stared and screamed in terror, while policemen vainly blew whistles and auto drivers set brakes screaming, Dick, without slackening his pace, raced ahead of a yellow limousine, grazed a black sedan, sent a flivver to the curb, and with one magnificent leap cleared the sidewalk and the low chain at its edge, landing squarely upon the soft, yielding turf of the park. "Ah, that's better," he all but seemed to say. Then, heading south along the narrow park that extended straight away for a mile, he continued his mad career. Cordie, risking one backward look, gasped in consternation and fear. "Dick, Dick, you old villain! You've got me in for life! Never, never again!" Three policemen, each mounted on his steed, came dashing after her in mad pursuit. A straight, broad course lay before them; a pretty enough course to tempt anyone. Seeming to gain new strength from the very touch of it, Dick gripped his bit and fairly flew. And Cordie, in spite of her predicament, regardless of impending arrest, was actually getting a thrill out of it. For one thing, there were now no pedestrians to be run down. The park was deserted. For another thing, ahead of Dick lay a clear stretch of turf which she hoped would satisfy his lust for speed. Finding herself in a more cheerful frame of mind, Cordie took to studying her pursuers. That they were of different ages she guessed more by the way they rode than by a clear view of their faces; Dick had left them too far behind for that. The foremost rider was a man of thirty-five or so, a stern minion of the law, and he was plainly angry. It had been he who had informed her on State Street that she was arrested. He had an unusually long nose--she remembered that. He rode a poor mount very badly indeed. The punishment he was getting, as he jounced up and down in the saddle, he would doubtless attempt to pass on to her and to Dick. She ardently wished that he might never catch up, but realized at the same time that it could not well be avoided. The race must come to a close. The other policemen were different. One was heavy and well past middle age; the other young, perhaps no older than Patrick O'Hara. They rode with the easy grace of an aged and a young cowboy. She had seen some like that in the movies not so long ago. She fancied she saw a smile on the younger man's face. Perhaps he was enjoying the race. She sincerely hoped he might be, and the older man, too. As for the one of the long nose--not a chance. All things have an end. Dick's race did. Having come close to an iron fence, beyond which towered a brick structure, he appeared to assume that he had reached the goal. Dropping to a slow trot, he circled gracefully to the right, and as he came to a standstill he threw his head high as much as to say: "We won, didn't we; and by a handsome margin!" "Yes, you old goose," the girl breathed. "And now, instead of a blue ribbon for you and a purse for me, we get an invite to some dirty old police court." There was no time for further thought. The foremost policeman, he of the long nose, rode up and snatching at the reins, snarled: "Suppose you call that smart, you--you flapper!" Staring angrily at the girl, he gave Dick's rein such a yank as threw the magnificent horse on his haunches. Instantly Cordie's eyes flashed fire. They might take her to jail and welcome; but abuse Dick he might not! Dick, however, proved quite equal to caring for himself. With a snort he leaped to one side, and jerking his rein from the policeman's grasp, went dashing away. So sudden was this turn that Cordie, caught unawares, was thrown crashing to the ground. The officer wheeled and rode after the horse. It was the older man, the one with gray about his temples, who, quickly dismounting, helped the girl to her feet. "Are you hurt?" he asked in a tone that had a fatherly touch in it. That did the trick for Cordie. All her anger was gone. She was not injured, but tears came trickling out from beneath her eyelids as she half sobbed: "I--I'm sorry. Truly I am. I didn't, didn't mean to. Truly--truly I didn't! I--I used to ride him in races, on--on the farm. And I thought--thought it would be fun to just sit--sit a minute in his saddle. I tried it and I guess--guess he thought it was to be another race. Anyway, he--he bolted with me and I couldn't stop him. Truly, truly I couldn't!" "That's all right, Miss," said the elderly one, putting a fatherly hand on her shoulder. "It may not be so bad, after all." The younger policeman had also dismounted and now stood smiling at them and appearing to wish he might take the place of his older friend. "That is Pat O'Hara's horse," he said at last. "He's the smartest mount on the force. And I'll tell you one thing, if we wait for Hogan to catch him we'll be here until to-morrow morning." Hogan, the irate policeman, was certainly having his troubles catching Dick. With the skill and mischief of a trained performer, Dick was playing tag with him in a masterly fashion. He would stand with head down as if asleep until his pursuer was all but upon him; then with a snort he would dash away. No amount of coaxing, cajoling or cursing could bring him any nearer to capture. This little play went on for several minutes. Then, at a time when Dick had circled quite close to her, Cordie suddenly put two fingers to her lips and let out a shrill whistle. Instantly the splendid horse pricked up his ears and came trotting toward her. "Good old Dick," she whispered, patting him on the neck and not so much as putting out a hand for his rein. "Well I'll be--" mumbled the younger policeman. "There's lots like 'em, both horses and girls," the old man smiled, "and I'll swear there's not more bad in the girl than the horse." "No, now Hogan," he held up a warning hand to the one who came riding up. "You leave this to me. Where's O'Hara's stand?" "State and Madison," volunteered the younger man. "Good, we're off. You men can ride back to your posts. I'll tend to this matter myself." The younger man grinned. Hogan growled; then they rode away. "You better mount and ride back," suggested the older man to Cordie. Seeing her hesitate, he reached for her rein, "I'll steady him a bit, but he's had his race. Guess he'll be satisfied. But," he said suddenly, "you're not dressed for this. You must be half frozen." Unstrapping a great coat from Patrick O'Hara's saddle, he helped her into it and together they rode away. And so it happened that on this day, only a few days before Christmas, the throngs along State Street viewed a second unusual sight. Though quite different from the first, it was no less mystifying. Who ever heard of a gray haired policeman and a bobbed haired girl in a policeman's great coat, riding police horses and parading up the city's most congested street in broad daylight? "What a fool I've been," the girl whispered to herself as she hid her face from a camera. "It will all be in the papers. And then what?" They found young Patrick O'Hara nervously pacing his beat on foot. His face lit up with a broad grin as he saw them approaching. "I sort of figured," he drawled, "that whoever took Dick would bring him back. Can't anybody do a good job of riding him except me." "If you think that," exclaimed Tim Reilly, the elderly policeman, "you just take any horse on the force, give this girl and Dick a three-length start, and see if you'd catch 'em. You would--not! Not in a thousand moons!" Patrick O'Hara grinned as he helped the girl down. "Now you beat it," said Tim in as stern a voice as he could command. "I suspect you work around here somewhere close. You've overdone your noon hour, and this the rush season. You'll be in for it now." Cordie threw him one uncertain glance to discover whether or not he was in earnest. The next moment she went racing across the street. CHAPTER XI AS SEEN FROM THE STAIRWAY "Where in the world have you been?" Lucile exclaimed, pouncing upon Cordie as soon as she came in sight. "Rennie's been worrying her poor old head off about you, and Miss Mones, who's in charge of the checking girls, is furious." "Oh," Cordie drawled, "I was out to lunch. Then I took a spin down the park on my favorite steed. It's a won-der-ful day outside." "You'll have a lot of time to spend outside," scolded Lucile, "if you don't get right back to your stand." A moment later, having somehow made her peace with Miss Mones, Cordie was back at her task, rustling paper and snipping cord. Late that afternoon Lucile was sent to the twelfth floor storeroom to look up a special order. She enjoyed these trips to the upper realms. This vast storeroom was like a new world to her. As she walked down long, narrow, silent aisles, on either side of which were wired in compartments piled high with every conceivable form of merchandise: rugs, piano lamps, dolls, dishes, couches, clothes-pins, and who knows what others, she could not help feeling that she was in the store house of the world, that she was queen of this little ward and that there remained only for her to say the word and a house would be handsomely furnished, a beautiful bride outfitted with a trousseau, or a Christmas tree decorated for a score of happy children. Yes, these aisles held a charm and fascination all their own. She liked the silence of the place, too. After the hours of listening to the constant babble of voices, the murmur of shoppers, the call of clerks, the answers of floormen, this place seemed the heart of silent woods at night. Captivated by such thoughts as these, and having located the missing books and started them on their journey down the elevator, she decided to walk down the nine flights to her own floor. Here, too, as she skipped lightly down from floor to floor, she caught little intimate glimpses of the various lives that were being lived in this little world of which she was for a time a part. Here a score of printing presses and box making machines were cutting, shaping and printing containers for all manner of holiday goods. The constant rush of wheels, the press and thump of things, the wrinkles on the brows of operators, all told at what a feverish heat the work was being pushed forward. One floor lower down the same feverish pace was being set. Here nimble fingers dipped and packed chocolate bon-bons, while from the right and left of them came the rattle and thump of drums polishing jelly beans and moulding gum drops at the rate of ten thousand a minute. Ah yes, there was the Christmas rush for you. But one floor lower down there was quiet and composure such as one might hope to find in a meadow where a single artist, with easel set, sketches a landscape. It was not unlike that either, for the two-score of persons engaged here were sketching, too. The sketches they made with pen and ink and water-colors were not unattractive. Drawings of house interiors they were; here the heavily furnished office of some money king, and there the light and airy boudoir of one of society's queens; here the modest compartment of a young architect who, though of only average means, enjoyed having things done right, and there the many roomed mansion of a steel magnate. These sketches were made and then shown to the prospective customer. The customer offered suggestions, made slight changes, then nodded, wrote a check, and a sale amounting to thousands of dollars was completed. "That must be fascinating work," Lucile whispered to herself as an artistic looking young woman showed a finished sketch to a customer. "I think I'd like that. I believe----" With a sudden shock her thoughts were cut short. Two persons had entered the glassed-in compartment--a woman of thirty and a girl in her late teens. And of all persons! "The Mystery Lady and Cordie! It can't be," she breathed, "and yet it is!" It was, too. None other. What was stranger still, they appeared to have business here. At sight of them one of the artists arose and lifting a drawing which had been standing face to the wall, held it out for their inspection. Cordie clasped her hands in very evident ecstasy of delight, and, if Lucile read her lips aright, she exclaimed: "How perfectly wonderful!" The expression on the Mystery Lady's face said plainer than words, "I hoped you'd like it." The sketch, Lucile could see plainly enough from where she stood, was a girl's room. There was a bed with draperies, a study table of slender-legged mahogany, a dresser, one great comfortable chair surprisingly like Lucile's own, some simpler chairs of exquisite design. These furnishings, and such others as only a girl would love, were done in the gay tints that appeal to the springtime of youth. "Cordie?" Lucile stared incredulously. "A simple country girl, what can she know about such things? That room--why those furnishings would cost hundreds of dollars. It's absurd, impossible; and yet there they are--she and the Mystery Lady." The Mystery Lady! At thought of her, Lucile was seized with an almost uncontrollable desire to rush down there and demand the meaning of that lady's many strange doings. But something held her back. So Cordie was acquainted with the Mystery Lady! Here was something strange. Indeed, Lucile was beginning to wonder a great deal about Cordie. "She has her secrets, little Cordie!" exclaimed Lucile. "Who would have thought it?" Perhaps it is not strange that Lucile did not feel warranted in breaking in upon those secrets. So there she stood, irresolute, until the two of them had left the room and lost themselves in the throngs that crowded every aisle of this great mart of trade. "Now," Lucile sighed, "I shan't ever feel quite the same about Cordie. I suppose, though, she has a right to her secrets. What could she possibly know about interior decorating and furnishing? Perhaps more than I would guess. But a country girl? What does she know about the Mystery Lady? Little, or much? Have they known each other long? I--I'll ask her. No--n-o-o, I guess I won't. I wasn't supposed to see. It was too much like spying. No," this decisively, "I'll just have to let things work themselves out. And if they don't work out to something like a revelation, then I'll know they haven't, that's all. More than half the mysteries of the world are never unravelled at all." After this bit of reasoning, she hastened on down the remaining flights of stairs to her work. "Where's Cordie?" she asked of Laurie. "Out on a shopping pass. Swell looking dame came in and called for her." There was a knowing grin on Laurie's face as he said this, but Lucile, who had turned to her work, did not notice it. Cordie returned a few moments later, but not one word did she let fall regarding her shopping mission. CHAPTER XII SILVER GRAY TREASURE "What do you think!" exclaimed Cordie. "It was such a strange thing to happen. I just have to tell some one, or I'll burst. I daren't tell Lucile. I am afraid she'd scold me." James, the mysterious seaman who carried bundles in the book department, looked at her and smiled. "I've heard a lot of stories in my life, and them that wasn't to be repeated, wasn't. If you've got a yarn to file away in the pigeon holes of somebody's brain, why file it with me." She had come upon James while on the way from the cloak room. She would have to wait a full half hour before Lucile would have finished her work, and she felt that she just must tell some one of her thrilling adventure with Dick and the policeman. Seated on the edge of a table, feet dangling and fingers beating time to the music of her story, she told James of this thrilling adventure. "You came out well enough at that," he chuckled when she had finished. "Lots better'n I did the last time I mixed into things." Cordie wondered if this remark had reference to his chase after the hawk-eyed young man who had followed her to the furnace room that night. But asking no questions, she just waited. "Funny trip, that last sea voyage I took," James mused at last, his eyes half closed. "It wouldn't have been half bad if it hadn't been for one vile crook. "You see," he went on, "sometimes of a summer I run up to Nome. I've always had a few hundred dollars, that is up until now. I'd go up there in the north and sort of wander round on gasoline schooners and river boats, buyin' up skins; red, white, cross fox, and maybe a silver gray or two. Minks and martin too, and ermine and Siberian squirrel. "Always had a love for real furs; you know what I mean, the genuine stuff that stands up straight and fluffy and can't be got anywhere far south of the Arctic Circle--things like the fox skin that's on that cape your pal Lucile wears sometimes. When I see all these pretty girls wearin' rabbit skin coats, it makes me feel sort of bad. Why, even the Eskimos do better than that! They dress their women in fawn skin; mighty pretty they are, too, sometimes. "Well, last summer I went up to Nome, that's in Alaska, you know, and from there I took a sort of pirate schooner that ranges up and down the coast of Alaska and into Russian waters." "Pirate," breathed Cordie, but James didn't hear her. "We touched at a point or two," he went on, "then went over into Russian waters for walrus hunting--ivory and skins. "We ran into a big herd and filled the boat up, then touched at East Cape, Siberia. "There wasn't any real Russians there, so we went up to the native village. Old Nepassok, the chief, seemed to take a liking to me. He took me into his storeroom and showed me all his treasure--walrus and mastodon ivory, whale bone, red and white fox skins by the hundred, and some mink and beaver. Then at last he pulled out an oily cotton bag from somewhere far back in the corner and drew out of it--what do you think? The most perfect brace of silver fox skins I have ever seen! Black beauties, they were, with maybe a white hair for every square inch. Just enough for contrast. Know who wears skins like that? Only the very wealthiest people. "And there I was looking at them, worth a king's ransom, and maybe I could buy them." "Could you?" breathed Cordie. "I could, and did. It took me four hours. The chief was a hard nut to crack. He left me just enough to get back to Chicago, but what did I care? I had a fortune, one you could carry in two fair sized overcoat pockets, but a fortune all the same. "I got to Chicago with them," he leaned forward impressively, "and then a barber--a dark faced, hawk-eyed barber--done me out of them. Of course he was a crook, just playing barber. Probably learned the trade in jail. Anyway he done me for my fortune. Cut my hair, he did, and somehow got the fox skins out of my bag. When I got to my hotel all I had in my bag was a few clothes and a ten dollar gold piece. I raced back to the barber shop but he was gone; drawed his pay and skipped, that quick. "That," he finished, allowing his shoulders to drop into a slouch, "is why I'm carrying books here. I have to, or starve. Just what comes after Christmas I can't guess. It's not so easy to pick up a job after the holidays. "But do you know--" he sat up straight and there was a gleam in his eye, "do you know when I saw that barber fellow last?" "Where?" "Down below the sub-basement of this store, in the boiler room at night." "Not--not the one who was following me?" "The same. And I nearly got him, but not quite." "You--you didn't get him?" Cordie hardly knew whether to be sorry or glad. She hated violence; also she had no love for that man. "I did not get him," breathed James, "but next time I will, and what I'll say and do for him will be for both you and me. G'night!" He rose abruptly and, shoulders square, gait steady and strong, he walked away. "What are you dreaming about?" Lucile asked as she came upon Cordie five minutes later. "Nothing much, I guess. Thinking through a story I just heard, that's all." CHAPTER XIII LUCILE'S DREAM That evening on the L train Lucile read a copy of the morning paper, one which she had carefully saved for a very definite reason. It was the paper which was exploiting the Lady of the Christmas Spirit. Lucile always got a thrill out of reading about the latest doings of that adventurous person who had managed to be everywhere, to mingle with great throngs, and yet to be recognized by no one. "Well, I declare!" she whispered to herself as a fresh thrill ran through her being. "She was to be in our store this very afternoon; in the art room of the furniture store. That's the very room in which I saw Cordie and the Mystery Lady. This Lady of the Christmas Spirit may have been in the room at that exact moment. How very, very exciting!" Closing her eyes, she tried to see that room again; to call back pictures of ladies who had entered the room while she had been looking down upon it. "No," she thought at last, "there isn't one that fits; one was tall and ugly, one short, stout and middle aged, and two were quite gray. Not one fits the description of this Christmas Spirit person; unless, unless--" her heart skipped a beat. She had thought of the Mystery Lady. "But of course it couldn't be," she reasoned at last. "It doesn't say she was to be there at that very moment. I was not standing on the stair more than ten minutes. There are six such periods in an hour and nine and a half working hours in a store day. Fine chance! One chance in fifty. And yet, stranger things have happened. What if it were she! What----" Her dreamings were broken short off by the sudden crumpling of paper at her side. Cordie had been glancing over the evening paper. Now the paper had entirely disappeared, and Cordie's face was crimson to the roots of her hair. "Why Cordie, what's happened?" exclaimed Lucile. "Noth--nothing's happened," said Cordie, looking suddenly out of the window. That was all Lucile could get out of her. One thing seemed strange, however. At the stand by the foot of the elevated station Cordie bought two copies of the same paper she had been reading on the train. These she folded up into a solid bundle and packed tightly under her arm. "I wonder why she did that?" Lucile thought to herself. As often happens in bachelor ladies' apartments, this night there was nothing to be found in their larder save sugar, milk and cocoa. "You get the cocoa to a boil," said Lucile, "and I'll run over to the delicatessen for something hot. I'm really hungry to-night." She was down the stairs and away. Somewhat to her annoyance, she found the delicatessen packed with students waiting their turn to be supplied with eatables. The term had ended, and those who were too far from home to take the holidays away from the University were boarding themselves. After sinking rather wearily into a corner seat, Lucile found her mind slipping back over the days that had just flown. "To-morrow," she told herself soberly, "is the day before Christmas. It is my last day at the store. And then? Oh, bother the 'and then'! There's always a future, and always it comes out somehow." That she might not be depressed by thoughts of the low state of her finances, she filled her mind with day dreams. In these dreams she saw herself insisting that Cordie reveal to her the secret hiding place of the Mystery Lady. Having searched this lady out, she demanded the return of her well worn, but comfortable, coat. In the dream still she saw the lady throw up her hands to exclaim: "That frayed thing? I gave it to the rag man!" Then in a rage she, Lucile, stamps her foot and says: "How could you! Of course now I shall keep your cape of fox skin and Siberian squirrel." "Ah," she whispered, "that was a beautiful dream!" Glancing up, she saw there were still six customers ahead of her and she must wait for her turn. "Time for another," she whispered. This time it was the Lady of the Christmas Spirit. She saw her among the throngs at the store. Feeling sure that this must be the very person, that she might steal a look at her hands, she followed her from department to department. Upstairs and downstairs they went. More than once she caught the lady throwing back a mocking glance at her. Then, of a sudden, at the ribbon counter she caught sight of her hands. "Such hands!" she whispered. "There never were others like them. It is the Lady of the Christmas Spirit." Putting out her own hand, she grasped one of the marvelous ones as she whispered: "You are the Lady of the Christmas Spirit." At once there came a mighty jingle of gold. A perfect shower of gold went sparkling and tinkling to the floor. "Oh! Oh!--Oh! It will all be lost!" she cried, leaping forward. She leaped almost into the delicatessen keeper's arms. To her surprise she saw that the store was empty. Her day-dream had ended in a real dream; she had fallen asleep. Hastily collecting her scattered senses, she selected a steaming pot of beans and a generous cylinder of brown bread, then drawing her scarf about her, dashed out into the night. CHAPTER XIV THE NEWSPAPER PICTURE Lucile may have been dreaming, but Cordie was wide awake and thinking hard. The instant Lucile had closed the door behind her she had spread one of the papers she had bought out before her and, having opened it at page 3, sat down to look at a picture reproduced there. For a full two minutes she sat staring at it. "Well anyway, it's not such a bad picture," she chuckled at last. After the chuckle her face took on a sober look. Then suddenly she exclaimed: "Let's see what they say about it!" "Well of all things! Nothing but a line of question marks! Well, at least the reporters know nothing about it." For a moment she stared at the long line of interrogation points, then her face dimpled with a smile. "Just think," she murmured. "They never whispered one word! Not one of them all! Not Patrick O'Hara, nor the old one they called Tim, nor the young one, nor even Hogan, who was so angry at me. And I'll bet the reporters begged and tempted them in every way they could think of. What wonderful good sports policemen must be. I--I'd like to hug every one of them!" Then she went skipping across the floor and back again, then paused and stared again at the picture. Truth was, all unknown to her, and certainly very much against her wishes, Cordie's picture had gotten into the paper. This was the picture she was still staring at: Crowds thronging State Street, a gray-haired mounted policeman, and by his side, also riding a police horse, a bobbed haired young girl in a policeman's great coat. "What if they see it!" she murmured. "They wouldn't let me stay. They will see it too--of course they will." "But then, what does it matter?" she exclaimed a moment later. "To-morrow's the day before Christmas. What will I care after that?" Hearing steps on the stairs, she hastily tore a page out of each of the two papers, folded them carefully and thrust them into a drawer. Then she threw the remaining part of the paper into the waste basket. "To-morrow is the day before Christmas," whispered Lucile as two hours later she sat staring rather moodily at the figures in the worn carpet. "A great Christmas, I suppose, for some people. Doesn't look like it would be much for me. With term bills and room rent staring me in the face, and only a few dollars for paying them, it certainly doesn't look good. And here I am with this little pet of mine sleeping on me and eating on me, and apparently no honest way of getting rid of her." She shook her finger at the bed where Cordie was sleeping. "If only you were an angora cat," she chided, still looking at the dreaming girl, "I might sell you. Even a canary would be better--he'd make no extra room rent and he'd eat very little." "And yet," she mused, "am I sorry? I should say I'm not! It's a long, long life, and somehow we'll struggle through." "Christmas," she mused again. "It will be a great Christmas for some people, be a wonderful one for Jefrey Farnsworth--that is, it will be if he's still alive. I wonder when they'll find him, and where? They say we've sold two thousand of his books this season. Think of it!" After that she sat wondering in a vague and dreamy way about many things. Printed pages relating to the Lady of the Christmas Spirit floated before her mind's vision to be followed by a picture of Cordie and the Mystery Lady in the art room of the furnishings department. Cordie's iron ring, set with a diamond, glimmered on the strange, long, muscular fingers of a hand. Laurie sold the last copy of "Blue Flames." Jefrey Farnsworth, in the manner she had always pictured him, tall, dark, with deep-set eyes and a stern face wrinkled by much mental labor, stood before an audience of women and made a speech. Yellow gold glittered, then spread out like a molten stream. With a start she shook herself into wakefulness. Once more she had fallen asleep. "Christmas," she whispered as she crept into bed. "To-morrow is the day before----" CHAPTER XV "WITH CONTENTS, IF ANY" In the meantime Florence had come upon an adventure. The place she entered a half hour after quitting time was a great barn-like room where dark shadows lurked in every corner but one. The huge stacks of bags and trunks that loomed up indistinctly in those dark corners made the place seem the baggage room of some terminal railway depot. As she joined the throng in the one light corner of the room she was treated to another little thrill. Such a motley throng as it was. Jewish second-hand dealers, short ones, tall ones, long-bearded ones; men of all races. And there were two or three women, and not a few vagabonds of the street, who had come in for no other purpose than to get out of the cold. Such were those who crowded round the high stand where, with gavel in hand, the auctioneer cried the sale: "How much am I bid? Ten dollars! Thank you. Ten I have. Who'll make it eleven! 'Leven, 'leven, 'leven. Who'll make it twelve?" There was not an attractive face in the group that surrounded the block. Florence was tempted to run away; but recalling the surprise she had promised herself, she stayed. Presently her eyes fell upon a face that attracted her, the kindly, gentle face of a woman in her thirties. She was seated at a desk, writing. "She's the clerk of the sale," Florence thought. "They're selling trunks now. She may be able to tell me when they will sell bags." She moved over close to the desk and timidly put her question. "Do you really want one of those bags?" the woman asked, surprise showing in her tone. "Yes. Why not?" the girl asked. "No reason at all, I guess," said the clerk. Then, after looking at Florence for a moment, a comradely smile spread over her face. "Come up close," she beckoned. "He'll be selling bags in fifteen minutes or so," she whispered. "Sit down here and wait. Why do you want one of those bags so badly?" "I--I need one," said Florence. "That's not all the reason." "No--not--not all," Florence hesitated, then told her frankly of the surprise she had planned for herself. The woman's face became almost motherly as she finished. "I'll tell you what to do," she whispered. "There are just five bags to be sold in the next lot. You won't want the first one. She--the woman who owned it, died." "Oh, no," Florence whispered. "You won't get the second nor the third. That long bearded Jew, and the slim, dark man standing by the post, will run them high if they have to. They know something about them." "How--how--" "How did they find out? I don't know, but they did. The last two bags are quite good ones, good as you would purchase new for fifteen or twenty dollars, and I shouldn't wonder," she winked an eye ever so slightly, "I shouldn't wonder a bit if there'd be a real surprise in one of them for you. There now, dearie," she smiled, "run over and look at them, over there beside the green trunk. And don't whisper a word of what I have told you. "The one nearest the block will be sold first, and the others just as they come," she added as the girl rose to go. Making her way around the outskirts of the crowd, Florence walked over to the place of the green trunk. The bags were all good, and most of them nearly new. Any one of them, she concluded, would see her safely through college, and that was all that mattered. Then, lest she attract too much attention, she slunk away into a dark corner. Her heart skipped a beat when the first bag was put up. Her hopes fell when she saw it sell for thirty-two dollars. Her little roll of fifteen dollars seemed to grow exceedingly small as she clutched it in her right hand. Was her dream of a surprise for Christmas morning only a dream? It would seem so, for the second and third bags also sold for a high figure. But, recalling the little lady's advice, she kept up her courage. "How much am I bid?" said the auctioneer as the fourth bag was handed him. Florence caught her breath. She tried to say "Ten dollars," but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. A round faced man relieved her of the task. The bag went to eleven dollars, then twelve. Then it came to a halt, giving time for Florence to regain her voice. "Twelve and a half," her voice seemed piping and thin in that great place. But the auctioneer got it. "Thank you. Twelve and a half, a half, a half." "Thirteen! Thank you. Thirteen I have. Now the half," he nodded to Florence and she nodded back, "And a half, I have it. And a half. Now fourteen. Thirteen and a half. Now make it fourteen." "Fourteen," someone shouted. Again the girl's heart sank. What was the use? "And a half?" The auctioneer nodded at her and she nodded back. "Now fifteen. Now fifteen. Now fifteen," he shouted hoarsely. "Who'll make it fifteen? Fifteen once. Fifteen twice!" Florence crushed her money into a solid mass, "Fifteen three times, and SOLD to the young lady in blue!" His gavel came down with a bang. Scarcely believing her senses, the girl groped her way forward to receive the bag, then hurried over to the desk. "You got it?" smiled the clerk. "Here's hoping it's a beautiful, wonderful surprise!" she whispered as she pressed a lonely half dollar into the palm of her hand. Curiosity regarding the price that would be bid for the last bag of the lot held Florence to the spot for the space of three minutes. And that was a bit of curiosity which she was destined to regret. As she stood there listening to the bids she could not help but notice a dark man, with burning, hawk-like eyes hurry into the place, glance frantically about, race back to the place where the five bags had been, then stand stock still. His dark eyes roved about the place until they came to rest on one spot and that spot was the one occupied by the bag which Florence held in her hand. From that time until she left the room, although he pretended to be looking at everything else, she was sure his eyes did not leave that bag for a space of more than five seconds at any one time. The cold glitter of his eyes made her feel strangely weak at the knees. She had not gone twenty rods from the place when she heard footsteps behind her. Looking back, she saw that same small dark man coming behind her. "Just happened to come out then," she tried to reassure herself. But it was no use. Something within her told her that she was being followed, followed on the deserted city streets at night. At once a mad procession of questions began racing through her mind. Who was this man? Was it the bag he wanted? Why? What did he know about the bag? What did it really contain? To none of these questions could she form an adequate answer. Only one thing stood out clearly in her mind--the bag was hers. She had come by it in an honest manner. The hotel had a right to give it to the auctioneer to sell. She had a right to purchase it. She had paid for it. She had the bill of sale. It was rightfully hers. But even as these thoughts crystallized in her mind she realized that she was desperately afraid. The man with his burning black eyes was enough to inspire fear, and added to that it was night. "What am I to do?" she asked herself. "The elevated station is only two blocks ahead, but he will board the train I take. He will follow me after I get off and there are five desolate blocks to travel to my room." Suddenly a solution came to her. Just before her was the entrance to the LaSalle Street Railway Station. Why not walk in there and leave the bag at the checking room? She could return for it in the morning and carry it to the store where she could check it again and leave it until closing time. No sooner thought than done. Five minutes later, looking neither to right nor left, she walked demurely out of the station. She did not know what had become of her pursuer, and she did not care. The bag was safe. He could not get it, and aside from that, what did he care for her, an elevator girl going home from work? Very evidently he cared nothing at all, for she did not see him again that night. "Fooled him," she smiled to herself as she settled herself comfortably in a seat where she might watch the winter whitened city speed past her. "That's the last I'll ever see of him." In coming to this conclusion she overlooked one trifling detail. Since the night was cold, she had worn beneath her coat her elevator girl's uniform. The auction room was warm. While there she had unbuttoned her coat, displaying plainly the uniform and the monogrammed buttons on it. The greatest of stores employ few enough elevator girls. To visit each bank of elevators and to get a look at each girl is but the work of an hour or two at most. The man would have no trouble in locating her if he cared to do so. Since she had not thought of this she rode home humming in a carefree manner and, after a meal of sandwiches, cocoa and pie, followed by an hour of reading, she went to bed to dream of mysterious treasures taken by the truck load from the depths of a heavy, dark brown travelling bag. She awoke in the morning with a pleasing sense of mystery and anticipation lurking about in the shadowy corners of her brain. Leaping from bed, she went through a series of wild calesthenics which set every ounce of blood in her veins racing away with new life. An hour later, with a little suppressed feeling of excitement tugging at her heart and with fingers that trembled slightly, she passed her check over the counter at the depot. She had some slight feeling that it had all been a dream. But no, there it was, her mysterious bag, as big and handsome as ever. It was quite light, but she felt sure it was not empty. What could it contain? She was tempted to draw the key from her pocket then and there and have a peek. But no--to-morrow was Christmas. She could wait. So, seizing the bag, she hurried away to her work. Once the bag was checked at the store and she back at her lever in the cage that went up and down, up and down all day, she found herself thinking of that other girl, the mysterious double of hers. Where was she to-day? Had she really gone to work, or had she vanished? What manner of plot had she been mixed up in? What train had gone at eleven-thirty? Whose train? Was that girl supposed to go? If so, why did she not wish to go? Where did she live? Who was she anyway? While the elevator went up and down, up and down, these questions, and a score of others, kept revolving themselves in her mind. At last she found herself forming a firm resolve that should she happen upon her mysterious double again she most certainly would keep in touch with her until she found out more about her. She saw her mysterious double shortly after she had gone to work, but under conditions which gave her no opportunity to either study or question her. The girl, dressed in her uniform and apparently ready to go to work, was standing before the bank of elevators on the thirteenth floor. She had been talking in low and excited tones to a tall, square shouldered man who, in spite of the fact that he was on a floor of this great store where only employees are allowed, had in his bearing and walk something that spoke strongly of boats and the sea. "He's been a captain or a mate or something," Florence said to herself as she sent her cage speeding downward. "I wonder if that girl belongs to the sea." CHAPTER XVI A GREAT DAY "The day before Christmas! Oh joy! Joy! Joy!" Lucile leaped out of bed. Throwing off her dream-robe, she went whirling about the room for all the world as if she were playing roll the hoop and she were the hoop. The day before Christmas! Who cared if room rent was due to-night? Who cared if the school term loomed ahead with little enough cash in her stocking to smooth its way? Who cared about anything? It was the day before Christmas. This day work would be light. Tommie had said that. Donnie had said it. Rennie and all the others of the sales group who stayed from year to year had said it. What was more, for this one day, if never again, Lucile had resolved to wear the magnificent cape of midnight blue and fox-skin. And at night, when the day was done, the week ended, the season closed, there was to be a wonderful party. A party! Oh joy! A party! Laurie, the mysterious Laurie Seymour, had invited them, just they of his corner--Donnie and Rennie, Tommie, Cordie and herself. A grand party it was to be, a supper at Henrici's and after that Laurie was to take them to a symphony concert! And to this party she would wear the midnight blue cape. For one night, one reckless, joyous night, she would travel in the height of style. And then? "Oh, bother the 'and then'! It's the day before Christmas!" She went through another series of wild whirls that landed her beneath the shower. When at last she was fully dressed for this last day of work in the book department, Lucile drew on the cape. Then, having told Cordie that she would wait for her outside, she went skipping down the stairs. It was one of those crisp, snappy, frosty mornings of winter that invite you to inhale deeply of its clear, liquid-like air. After taking three deep breaths Lucile buried her radiant face in the warm depths of the fox skin. "How gorgeous," she murmured. "Oh, that I might own it forever!" Even as she said this all the unanswered questions that grouped themselves about the cape--its owner, and the girl's associates at the store--came trooping back to puzzle her. Who was the Mystery Lady? Why had she left the cape that night? Why did she not return for it later? How had it happened that she was in the store that night at two hours before midnight? Who was Laurie Seymour? Why had he given the Mystery Lady his pass-out? How had he spent that night? What had happened to the vanished author of "Blue Flames"? Who was Cordie? Was she really the poor, innocent little country girl she had thought her? What was to come of her, once the season had closed? Who was the "Spirit of Christmas"? Had she ever seen her? Who would get the two hundred in gold? What had she meant by the crimson trail she left behind? Who was Sam? Why was Laurie so much afraid to meet him? Above all, what were the secrets of the crimson thread and the diamond set iron ring? Surely here were problems enough to put wrinkles in any brow. But it was the day before Christmas, so, as Cordie came dancing down to a place beside her, Lucile gripped her arm and led away in a sort of hop-skip-and-jump that brought them up breathless at the station. There was just time to grab a paper before the train came rattling in. Having secured a seat, Lucile hid herself behind her paper. A moment later she was glad for the paper's protection. Had it not been for the paper she felt that half the people on the train might have read her thoughts. The thing she saw in the Spirit of Christmas column, which daily told of the doings of the lady by that name, was such a startling revelation that she barely escaped a shriek as her eyes fell on it. "You have been wondering," she read in the column devoted to the lady of the "Christmas Spirit," "what I have been meaning by the crimson trail which I have left behind. Perhaps some of you have guessed the secret. If this is true, you have made little use of that knowledge. None of you have found me. Not one of the hundreds of thousands who have passed me has paused to grip my hand and to whisper: 'You are the Spirit of Christmas.' "Now I will give you some fresh revelations. It is the day before Christmas. At midnight to-night Christmas comes. As the clock strikes that magic hour my wanderings cease. If no one has claimed my gold by then, no one will. "I have told you always that hands ofttimes express more than a face. This is true of my hands. They are strange hands. Stranger still are the rings I wear upon them. For days now I have worn an iron ring set with a diamond. Had someone noticed this, read the secret and whispered: 'You are the Spirit of Christmas,' not only should my gold have clinked for him, but the diamond should have been his as well." Lucile caught her breath as she read this. Here indeed was revelation. Could it be--There was more. She read on. "As for the crimson trail I have left behind. That is very simple. I marvel that people can be so blind. I have left it everywhere. It is unusual, very unusual, yet I have left it everywhere, in hundreds of places, in newsboys' papers, in shopgirls' books, in curtains, shades, and even in people's garments, yet not one has read the sign. The sign is this: a bit of crimson thread drawn twice through and tied. There is a purple strand in the thread. It is unusual, yet no one has understood; no one has said 'You are the Spirit of Christmas'." "The crimson thread," Lucile breathed. "Why, then--then the Mystery Lady and the Spirit of Christmas Lady are one, and I have seen her many times. I saw her at two hours before midnight. I sold her a book. Twice I saw her talking to Cordie. I followed her upon the street. Had I but known it I might have whispered to her: 'You are the Spirit of Christmas.' Then the gold would have been mine. Two hundred in gold!" she breathed. "Two hundred in gold! And now it is gone! "But is it? Is it quite gone yet? There is yet this day, the day before Christmas." Again her eyes sought the printed page. And this is what she read: "Today I shall not appear before sunset. Early in the evening, and again between the hours of ten and midnight, I shall be somewhere on the Boulevard. I shall attend the Symphony Concert in Opera Hall." "The concert," Lucile murmured with great joy. "We, too, are going there to-night. We shall be on the Boulevard. There is yet a chance. And the beauty of it all is I shall know her the instant I see her. Oh! You glorious bag of gold, please, please do wait for me!" As the car rattled on downtown, her blood cooled and she realized that there was a very slight hope. With these broad hints thrown out to them, all those who had been following the doings of this mysterious lady would be eagerly on the alert. There may have been some, perhaps many, who had found the crimson thread and had marvelled at it. Perhaps, like her, they had seen the Mystery Lady's face and would recognize her if they saw her on the Boulevard. There may have been many who had seen and marvelled at the diamond set iron ring. "Ah well," Lucile whispered to herself, "there is yet hope. 'Hope springs eternal--'" At the downtown station she dismissed the subject for matters of more immediate importance, the last great day of sales before Christmas. Trade until noon was brisk; mostly business men rushing in for "cash and carry." At noon she arranged to have lunch with her old chum, the elevator girl and, because it was the day before Christmas, instead of the crowded employees' lunch room, they chose as their meeting place the tea room which was patronized for the most part by customers. Here, in a secluded corner, they might talk over old times and relate, with bated breath, the events of the immediate past and the future. Enough there was to tell, too. Lucile's Mystery Lady, who had turned so suddenly into the one of the Christmas Spirit, her Laurie Seymour, her hoped for $200 in gold, her James, the bundle carrier and last but not least, Cordie. And for Florence there was her mystifying double and the bewitching bag that contained her Christmas surprise. Did ever two girls have more to tell in one short noon hour? As Florence finished her story; as she spoke of seeing her double talking with the broad shouldered man of the seaman-like bearing, Lucile suddenly leaned forward to exclaim: "Florence, that man must have been our bundle carrier, James. He has told Cordie of his trips upon the sea. There could scarcely be two such men in one store." "It might be true," smiled Florence, "but don't forget there are two such persons as I am in this store. You never can tell. I'd as soon believe he was the same man. Wouldn't it be thrilling if he should turn out to be a friend of my double's and we should get all mixed up in some sort of affair just because I look exactly like her. Oh, Lucile!" she whispered excitedly, "the day isn't done yet!" And indeed it was not. "And this man who followed you after you had bought the bag," said Lucile thoughtfully. "He sounds an awful lot like the one who tried to carry Cordie away. Do you suppose----" "Now you're dreaming," laughed Florence as she reached for her check, then hurried away to her work. CHAPTER XVII AN ICY PLUNGE Florence's opportunity for following her surprising double came sooner than she expected; that very evening, in fact. She had quit work at the regular time, had donned hat and coat, had gone to the checking room to retrieve her Christmas bag. She was just leaving by a side door when, ahead of her in the throng, she caught a glimpse of that splendid cross fox which her double had insisted on her wearing the day before. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Here's where I solve a mystery." Without a thought of what it might lead to, she followed the girl to a surface car and boarded it just behind her. At Grand Avenue the girl got off and Florence followed her again, boarded an eastbound car and, almost before she knew it, found herself following the girl through a blinding swirl of snow that swept in from the lake. The street the girl had taken was covered with untrodden snow. It led to the Municipal Pier, the great city pier that like some great black pointing finger of destiny reached a full half mile out into the white ice-bound lake. "Where--where can she be going?" Florence asked herself. "Boo! How cold!" she shivered. The next moment she shivered again, but this time it was from fear. Having chanced to look about, she was startled to see a man all but upon her heels. And that man--no, there could be no mistake about it--that man was the one of the night before, he of the burning black eyes. Not knowing what else to do, the girl redoubled her speed. A half formed hope was in her mind, a hope that she might catch up with the other girl. Two were better than one, even if both were girls. Hardly had this hope come when it vanished. In the shadows of the three-story brick structure that formed the base of the pier, her double suddenly disappeared and left her, a lone girl on a wind-swept, deserted street that led to an empty pier. And here was a dark-faced, villainous looking man at her heels. She could see but one chance now; that she might find her way out upon the pier and there, amid its labyrinth of board walks, freight rooms and deserted lunch rooms, lose herself from her pursuer. She resolved to try it. The next moment she dashed into the shadows of that great black building. The pier, upon which she had placed hopes of escape, was used in summer as a recreation center. On warm days its board walks and its wind-swept pavilions were thronged. Now it was still as a tomb. Florence had once been here with the throng, but had taken little notice of things then. The very silence of the place was confusing. She fancied that she heard her own heart beat. Which way should she turn? Above, two stories up, she remembered was a broad board walk a half mile long. She might race up the stairs to this; but after all it offered no place of hiding. To her right was a hallway which led to a long narrow loading place for trucks. At this place, in summer, ships docked; here their hundreds of tons of fruit, grain, flour, manufactured articles, and a hundred other commodities, were unloaded. She had a vague notion that just back of this loading place, beyond the fast closed doors, was a labyrinth of freight rooms. "If only one of those doors were open," she breathed. "Perhaps one is unlocked. It's my best chance." All this thinking consumed less than a moment of time. The next instant she went racing over the cement floor. She was across it and out upon the landing in a moment. This she knew was a perilous position. There was a night watchman about somewhere. Here she was in plain view. What would the watchman do if he found her? Her pursuer was not far behind. With a trembling hand, she gripped the latch of a door. It lifted, but the door did not open. "Locked," she whispered in a tone of despair. "Try another," was her next thought. She was away like a shot. Again the latch lifted; again the door refused to budge. She thought she saw a dark figure pass from pillar to pillar in the place she had just left. She could not see him, but she caught the thud-thud of his feet on the cement platform. Fighting her way against the wind, racing fast, breathing hard, she battled onward. And all the time something within her was whispering: "It's no use, no use, no use." Yet, setting her teeth hard, she raced on. The man was gaining, she was sure of that. Yes, now as she looked back she saw him, only some fifty yards behind her. This drove her to frantic effort. But to no avail. He continued to gain; a yard, two yards, five, ten, twenty. "It's no use," she panted sobbingly. And then--she could not believe her eyes--before her, to the right, was an open door. Like a flash she was inside. Grasping the door she attempted to shut it, but the snow blocked it. One glance about her showed great dark bulks on every hand. "Freight," she breathed, "piles of freight. Here--here is a chance yet." The next instant she was tip-toeing her way softly in and out among the innumerable piles of boxes, bags and crates that extended on and on into the impenetrable darkness. She ran along as softly as she could, yet each time as she paused she fancied that she caught the stealthy footsteps of that horrible man. "What does he want? Is it the bag that he wants? Whose bag was it? Was it his? If so, why did he let it get away from him?" These questions kept racing through her brain. Then came another question even more disturbing. Perhaps this man had been unfortunate, had been sick or had lost all his property. It might be that he had returned just in time to miss the opportunity of redeeming this lost possession which contained something he prized, perhaps of great value. "In that case he is more to be pitied than feared," she thought. For an instant she contemplated going back to him; yet she dared not. So, in the end, she continued tip-toeing about. Round a great pile of sacks, filled with sugar or beans, past boxes of tin cans and in and out among massive pieces of machinery, she wandered, all the time wondering in a vague sort of way what was to be the end of it all. The end to her stay in the store-room came with lightning-like rapidity. She had just tiptoed around a huge steel drum of some sort when all of a sudden there burst upon her ear a deafening roar that shattered the stillness of the place. The next instant a great black dog leaped at her. He was not three feet from her when, with an agility that surprised her, she leaped from box top to box top until she found herself ten feet above the floor. But the dog, who appeared to be an utterly savage beast, could climb too. She could hear him scrambling and scratching his way up, growling as he came. Her head was in a whirl. What was to be done? Suddenly she realized that just before her, beyond the boxes, was a window. Dragging her bag after her, she succeeded in reaching the window. She found it locked. In her desperation she dropped her bag and began kicking at the sash. With a sudden snap the fastenings gave way. She was caught so unawares that she plunged straight out of the window. With a bump that knocked all the wind from her lungs and most of her senses from her head, she landed on something hard. Without being able to help herself, she rolled over once, then fell again. This time, to her surprise and consternation, she did not bump; she splashed. She sank. She rose. With all her nerves alert, she swam strongly in the stinging lake water. She had fallen from the narrow pier ledge and had landed in the lake. A white cake of ice loomed up before her. She swam to it and climbed upon it. What was to be done? The thermometer was near zero. She was soaked to the skin, and far from anyone she knew. "Got--got to get to shore somehow," she shivered. "I'll freeze here, sure. Freeze in no time." She looked back at the place from which she had come. The window was still open. The dog had stopped barking. She wondered in a vague sort of way what had become of her pursuer. "And--and my bag," she chattered. "It--it's in there." She was coming almost to hate that bag. "Can't get up there anyway," was her final comment. It was true; between the water line and the surface of the pier landing was a sheer wall of cement, eight feet high and smooth as glass. Her gaze swept a broad circle. Off to her right was a solid mass of ice which appeared to reach to shore. "One swim and then I can walk to land," she shuddered. Two steps forward, a sudden plunge, and again she was in the freezing water. Once on the ice she dashed away at top speed. It was a race, a race for her life. Already her clothing was freezing stiff. Here she leaped a chasm of black water; there she tripped over a hole and fell flat; here dodged a stretch of honeycomb ice and raced across a broad level stretch. Almost before she knew it she was alongside a row of steamships tied up in a channel close to shore. Then, to her surprise, she caught the gleam of a light in a cabin on the upper deck of the smallest boat tied there. "There's a rope cable hanging over the side," she told herself. "I--I could climb it. There must be someone up there, and--and a fire. A fire! Oh, a fire and warmth! I must do it, or I'll freeze. "Of course they are strangers--a man, two men, maybe a family, but sea folks are kind people, I'm told. They know what it means to be wet and cold. I--I'll risk it." The next moment, hand over hand, she was making her way up the cable. Once on deck, she raced along the side until she came to a stair. Up this she sprang, then down the side again until she was at the door of the room where the light still gleamed into the night. Without a moment's hesitation she banged on the door. "Who--who's there?" came in a distinctly feminine voice. Florence's heart gave a great throb of joy. "It's me. Only me," she answered. "You don't know me, but let me in. I fell in the lake. I--I'm free--freezing!" At once the door flew open and she was dragged inside. Then the door slammed shut. For a fraction of a moment the two girls stood staring at one another, then as in one voice, they burst out: "It's you!" "It's you!" The girl in the ship's cabin was none other than Florence's double. There was no time for explaining. The girl began tugging away at her double's frozen garments. Ten minutes later, with her clothing on a line behind the glowing stove, Florence sat wrapped in a blanket by the fire, sipping a cup of cocoa. For a time she sat looking at the girl who was so marvelously like herself in appearance. Then she said quietly: "Would you mind telling me about yourself?" "Not a bit. Guess I ought to. You did me a good turn. My name's Meg." "I guessed that much." "How?" "That's what the man and the woman called me." "The man and the woman?" For a moment the girl's face was puzzled. Then, "Oh yes, I----" She paused for a moment as if about to tell something about the strange man and woman who had told Florence that the train left at eleven-thirty. If this had been her intention she thought better of it, for presently she said: "My mother and father are dead. Since I was ten years old I've lived with my uncle, mostly on ships." "How--how thrilling!" "Well, maybe, but you don't learn much on ships. There's an old saying: 'You can't go to school if you live on a canal boat.' Ships are about as bad. I've got through eighth grade, though, and I want to go some more. That day I took your place and you wore my clothes I----" "Who--who's that?" Florence had heard the movement of feet outside. "No friend of mine; not this time of night. Must be yours." "It might be the man!" "What man? Your friend?" "No. Not my friend; an awful man who wanted the bag." "What bag?" "A bag I bought at an auction. My--my Christmas surprise. There--there he is," she whispered tensely as there came a knock at the door. "Come in," said Meg. "Oh, don't!" Florence struggled to her feet. "Don't let him in!" "Why not?" Meg had risen. In her hand was an affair resembling a policeman's club, only it was made of iron--a heavy belaying pin. "Why not?" she repeated. "If I don't fancy him, he'll let himself out fast enough." At the same time there came a rattle at the door knob. Florence sank back into her chair. CHAPTER XVIII THE MYSTERY LADY'S NEW ROLE Such a party as it was; that one which was being enjoyed by Lucile and her friends of the juvenile book corner. Such crisp brown cream biscuits! Such breast of turkey with cranberry sauce and dressing! Such pudding! Even in the days of her childhood at home Lucile had never seen a more sumptuous feast. All this, in the midst of the gayest of Christmas spirit, made the occasion one long to be remembered by any person whose mind was not too much occupied by bewitching thoughts of other important things. As for Lucile, her mind was indeed engaged with dreams that were far from the realm of food and drink. She was thinking of that meeting she had so long dreamed of and which she still had the courage to hope might come to pass, her own meeting with the Mystery Lady of the Christmas Spirit. "I shan't fail to recognize her," she assured herself, "though she be dressed like an Eskimo or a South Sea Island maiden." At last the time came for strolling down the Boulevard toward the music hall. Lucile stared at the passing throngs until Laurie teasingly asked her whether she hoped to see in one of them the face of a long lost brother. At last she found herself in the opera chair of the great hall. Now, at least, she was in the same room as the Mystery Lady, or soon must be, for if the Mystery Lady had not entered she soon would. In ten minutes the first note would be struck. There was a thrill in that. It was to be a truly wonderful program, such a one as the girl had perhaps never listened to before. And she loved music, fairly adored it. As she thought how her interest this night must be divided between the fine music and the Mystery Lady, she found herself almost wishing that the Mystery Lady had not brought into her life so much that was unusual, perplexing and mysterious. "Perhaps I shall be able to locate her before the music begins," she thought to herself. "Then, during a recess, I'll glide up to her and whisper, 'You are the Spirit of Christmas.'" Though she scanned the sea of faces near and far, not one of them all, save those of her own little group, was familiar to her. It was with a little sigh of resignation that she at last settled back in her seat and allowed her program to flutter to her lap. The time for the first number had arrived. The musicians had taken their places. The rows of violinists and cornetists, the standing bass viol player, the conductor with his baton, all were there. Like soldiers at attention, they waited for the soloist. Mademoiselle Patricia Diurno, the country's most talented young pianist, was to lead that night in the rendition of three master concertos. There was an expectant lull, then mighty applause. She was coming. At a door to the right she appeared. Down a narrow way between rows of musicians she passed, a tall, slim, gracefully beautiful lady. In the center of the stage she paused to bow in recognition of the applause, then again, and yet again. Then, turning with such grace as only a trained musician knows, she moved to her place and with a slight nod to the leader, placed her hands upon the keys, then sent them racing over the keys, bringing forth such glorious music as only might be learned beside a rushing brook in the depths of the forest. Lucile gripped her seat until her fingers ached. She strove to remain seated while her face went white and then was flushed with color. "It is she," she whispered to herself. "It cannot be, yet it is! The same eyes, the same nose, the same hair. I cannot be mistaken. It is she! Patricia Diurno, the celebrated, the most wonderful virtuoso, is the Mystery Lady and the Spirit of Christmas! And I? How am I to remain in this seat for two mortal hours while before me sits a woman pouring forth bewitching music, a woman who for a handclasp has the power to make me rich, yes, rich? Two hundred in gold. How--how can I?" CHAPTER XIX MEG WIELDS A BELAYING PIN Florence started back at sight of the one who opened the door in response to Meg's "Come in." It was indeed the small man of the burning, hawk-like eyes. His disposition appeared to have been changed by his battle with the storm. It was plain from the first that he was now a man not to be trifled with; at least not by two girls in a lonely ship's cabin at an hour fast approaching midnight. He twisted his face into an ugly grin. His smile was more horrible than a snarl would have been. His white teeth showed like an angry dog's. "The bag!" he said in a tone that was a command. It was evident that he was both angry and desperate. "What bag?" said Meg, rising as her companion, wrapping her blanket closer about her, slunk further into the corner. "My bag!" His tone was threatening. He advanced a step. Florence could see a deep red stealing up beneath the natural tan of the daughter of the sea as she too advanced a step. Meg showed not the slightest fear. "There's no bag here." Her hand was behind her, gripping the belaying pin. "No bag at all unless you call that thing a bag." She pointed to a canvas duffel bag that hung in the corner. "That's mine. You can't have it. You can't have anything in this cabin. You can't even touch anything or anybody, so you better get out." "So!" The man's word was more like a hiss than a real expression of the word. At the same time his teeth were so uncovered that one might count them. "So!" He advanced another step. There came a faint click. Something bright gleamed in his right hand. A scream came to Florence's lips, but she did not utter it; she only sat and stared. "Yes," said Meg in an even tone, while the red mounted to the roots of her hair. "We get your kind on the ships too. We get all kinds." Then, like a tiger in the jungle, she leaped forward. There followed a resounding thwack; a heavy knife went jangling to the floor. The stranger's usually dark face turned a sickly white as, gripping a bruised wrist, he backed out of the room. Stepping to the door Meg closed it, but did not bother to lock it. Stooping, she picked up the knife and examined it carefully. "That," she said in a matter of fact tone, "is a good knife, much better than the one I use for slicing bacon. I shall keep it. "See," she said, holding it close to Florence, "it has a six-inch blade that locks when you open it. That's what made it click." Florence shrank from the thing. "He had no right to carry it," said Meg, closing it and dropping it into a chest. "It's a concealed weapon, and they're against the law. So I'll keep it. Now what about this bag?" she asked suddenly. "Why, you see," smiled Florence, "to-morrow's Christmas. Since I didn't expect a surprise from anyone, I decided to buy myself one. So I went down to an auction sale and bought a bag with 'contents if any.' I meant to buy a bag anyway, and the 'contents if any' was to be my surprise." "What did you get?" Meg asked, leaning forward eagerly. "I didn't look. I meant to keep the bag until to-morrow. It wouldn't be a Christmas surprise if I opened it before hand. And now it's gone!" "What--what did you expect to find?" "It might have been anything--silk scarfs, some splendid furs, jewelry, a watch--anything. And then again," her voice lost its enthusiasm, "it might have contained a man's collar and a suit of pajamas. I couldn't tell. Maybe it was just nothing at all. It was awful light." "All those things," said Meg, her eyes shining, "or any of them. What a pity! What fun you would have had!" For a moment she sat there in silence. Then suddenly, "Where's it gone?" "I--I lost it on the pier." "Where?" Meg sat up all alert. Florence told her as best she could. "I'll go get it." Meg dragged her coat from its hanger. "No! No! Don't!" Florence exclaimed, springing up. "It's dangerous." "What's to be afraid of?" laughed Meg. "Don't everybody on the pier know me? Even the watch-dog knows me? As for your late friend and follower, I'll just take my belaying pin along. But I guess he's far enough away by now. Watch me. I'll be back in half an hour with that bag--you wait and see." With a rush that let in a great gust of cold air and snow, she was out of the cabin and away. The greater part of what she had said to Florence was true. She did know the dock as well as any ship on which she had ever sailed. She knew the watchman and his dog. But, without her knowledge, there was one person in authority by the pier that night who did not know her and this the two girls were to learn to their sorrow. * * * * * * * * Seeing a heavy dressing gown hanging in the corner, Florence rose and, discarding her blanket, put this robe on. Then, after feeling of her slowly drying clothes and moving her skirt closer to the stove, she walked to the door and locked it. "Meg may not be afraid of that man," she whispered to herself, "but I am." At once, as she began walking the floor of the narrow cabin, her mind went to work on the many unanswered questions stored away in her mind. Like some scientist examining specimens, she drew these questions one at a time from their mental pigeon holes. Why did this evil looking man with the scar above his eye want her bag so badly? Suddenly it occurred to her that he might be a thief, or a safe blower, and this bag might contain some of his valuable loot. She remembered reading of criminals who had locked their booty in trunks or bags and stored them in some public place until the police had gotten off their trail. "In that case," she told herself, "my surprise will be a disappointment. No matter how wonderful the contents may be, I will not keep the least bit of it, but turn it over to the police. "But then," she thought again, "probably Meg will not be able to get the bag. She may not be able to get in. Probably the watchman heard the dog and closed the door and window. And again, she may find it and that terrible man may take it from her." This last she doubted. Meg appeared abundantly able to take care of herself. Florence could not but admire her strength and bravery. It had been magnificent, the way she had put that villainous intruder to flight. She thought of what the girl had said about being reared on a steamship and wanting more education. She found herself longing to help her. And why not? She roomed alone. Hers was a large bed, large enough for two, and she thought she could get a scholarship for her in the academy connected with the university. Anyway, it could be managed somehow. There were elevators in great hotels close to the school that must be run. Perhaps she could find her a part time position on one of these. She would talk to her about it as soon as opportunity offered. But who was she, after all? She had been telling her story when that man broke in upon them. Would she have told why she asked Florence to wear her clothes for a half day and play the role of Meg? If she had, what would her reason have been? During the time that these problems had passed in review in her memory she had been walking the cabin floor. Now she came to a sudden pause. Had she heard footsteps on the deck below? She thought so. Yes, there it was again, more plainly now. They were mounting the stairs. Who could it be? Was it that man? She shuddered. Springing to the corner, she put out a hand for Meg's belaying pin. It was gone. The door was locked, but the lock looked very weak. What was she to do? It did not seem possible that Meg could be back so soon. She had---- A hand tried the door. What should she do? Should she let the person in? Certainly she should, for in Meg's unmistakable voice she heard: "Let me in." When Florence threw open the door she saw at a glance that Meg had the bag and that the seal was unbroken. "Tell you what," began Florence, "you go home with me to-night. To-morrow is Christmas. We don't have to get up early. We'll have something hot to drink and some cakes, and we'll talk a little. Then, just as the clock strikes twelve, we'll break the seal to the bag. Won't that be romantic?" "I should say!" said Meg with gleaming eyes. "That would be spiffy! When do we start?" "At once," said Florence, pulling her clothing from the line. They were not destined to get away so easily, however. Unfortunately for them, there was a person near the entrance to the pier that night whom Meg did not know, had in fact never seen. The wharf to which the boats were tied lay a distance of about a block south of the entrance to the pier, and the particular boat on which Meg had taken up quarters was tied about two blocks from the end of the pier. In order to reach the car line they were obliged to battle their way against the storm, which had increased in violence, until they were near the entrance to the pier. They had covered these three blocks and had paused to catch their breath and to watch for the light of a street car boring its way through the whirl of snow, when a gruff voice said: "Where y' think y'r goin'?" "Why, we--" Florence hesitated. "What you got in that bag?" Florence turned to find herself looking into the face of a young policeman. She flashed a glance at Meg. That one glance convinced her that Meg did not know him. "Where--where's Tim?" Meg faltered. "Tim who?" "Tim McCarty. This is his beat." "'T'aint now. It's mine. He's been transferred. What's more," he paused to lay a gloved hand on the travelling bag, "since this is my beat, part of my job's findin' out what comes off them ships at night. What y' got in that bag?" "I--I don't know," Florence said the words impulsively, and regretted them the instant they were said. "Don't know--" he ceased speaking to stare at her. "Say, sister, you're good! Don't know what you've got in that bag! In that case all I can do is take you to the station for questioning. "No," he said in a kindlier tone after a moment's thought, "maybe if you'll unlock it and let me see what's inside I'll let you go." Open it and let him see what was inside? Florence's head was in a whirl. Open it? What if her fears proved true? What if it contained stolen goods? Why, then she would see the first light of Christmas morning behind prison bars. Was ever anyone in such a mess? Did ever a girl pay so dearly for her own Christmas surprise? But Meg was speaking: "Say, you see here," she said to the young policeman, her voice a low drawl. Florence heard them indistinctly against the roar of the storm. So there she stood with her back to the wind, clinging tightly to the handle of her bag and hoping against hope that she would not be obliged to reveal her secret there and then. CHAPTER XX THE GREAT MOMENT The revelation that had come to Lucile as she sat there listening to the first notes of a great concerto, led by a famous virtuoso, was so unusual, so altogether startling, that she felt tempted to doubt her senses. "Surely," she whispered to herself, "I must be mistaken. There is a resemblance, but she is not that woman. Imagine a great virtuoso, one of the famous musicians of our land, being in a department store at two hours before midnight! Fancy her going up and down streets, in and out of the stores and shops dressed in all manner of absurd costumes, playing the star role in a newspaper stunt to increase circulation! How impossible! How--how utterly absurd!" She paused for reflection and as she paused, as if to join her in quiet thought, the great musician allowed her flying fingers to come to rest on the keyboard while a violin soloist did his part. Then, quick as light, but not too swiftly for Lucile's keen eyes, she slipped something from her finger, a something that sent off a brilliant flash of light. This she placed on the piano beside the keyboard. To Lucile, resting as it did against the black of the ebony piano, this thing stood out like a circle of stars against the deep blackness of night. She felt her lips forming the words: "Don't put it there! A hundred people will see it!" That dull gray circle with the flashing spot of light was a ring; Cordie's iron ring with its diamond setting. There was no longer a single vestige of doubt in the girl's mind regarding the identity of the Mystery Lady and the Spirit of Christmas. They were one and the same, and together they were Patricia Diurno, the celebrated virtuoso. Somehow Lucile got through that two hours without screaming or jumping from her seat to hurl herself upon the platform, but she will never quite know just how she did it. At times she drove the whole affair from her mind to think of other unsolved problems--of Laurie and the lost author; of Cordie, and of Sam. At other times she found herself completely absorbed by the wonderful music which poured forth. The majesty of the music grew as the evening passed. When at last the orchestra struck out into that masterpiece, Tschaikowsky's Concerto in B minor, she forgot all else to lose herself in the marvelous rise and fall of cadent sound that resembled nothing so much as a storm on a rockbound coast. The piano, leading on, called now to the violin to join in, then upon the cello, the bass viols, the cornets, the saxophones, the trombones, the trap-drums, until all together, in perfect unison, they sent forth such a volume of sound as shook the very walls. The great virtuoso, forgetful of all else, gave herself completely to her music. Turning first this way, then that, she beckoned the lagging orchestra on until a climax had been reached. Then, after a second of such silence as is seldom experienced save after a mighty clap of thunder, as if from somewhere away in a distant forest there came the tinkle, tinkle of the single instrument as her velvet tipped fingers glided across the keys. A single violin joined in, then another and another, then all of them, until again the great chorus swelled to the very dome of the vast auditorium. This was the music that, like the songs of mermaids of old, charm men into forgetfulness; that lifts them and carries them away from all dull care, all sordid affairs of money and all temptation to the mean, the low and the base. It so charmed Lucile that for a full moment after the last note had been struck and the last echo of applause had died away, she sat there listening to the reverberations of the matchless music that still sounded in her soul. When she awoke from her revery it was with a mighty start. "Where is she?" she exclaimed, leaping from her seat. "Who?" said Laurie. "Patricia Diurno! The Mystery Lady! Spirit of Christmas! Where has she gone?" Staring to right and left, she found her way blocked. Then with the nimbleness of an obstacle racer, she vaulted over four rows of seats to dash away through the milling crowd toward the platform. "Where is she?" she demanded of an attendant. "Who, Miss?" "The--the Mystery Lady. No, No! Miss Diurno, the virtuoso." "Most likely in the Green Room, Miss. Who--who--is some of her folks dead?" "No, no! But please show me where the Green Room is, quick!" Leading the way, he took her to the back of the stage, through a low door, down a long passage-way to a large room where a number of people stood talking. A glance about the place told her that Miss Diurno was not there. "Is this the Green Room?" "Yes, Miss." "Then where is she?" "I don't know, Miss. You might ask him." He nodded to a large man in an evening suit. "Where--where is Miss Diurno?" she asked timidly. "Miss Diurno did not stay. She left at once." "Gone!" Lucile murmured. "And my opportunity gone with it." Sinking weakly into a chair, she buried her face in her hands. This lasted but a moment; then she was up and away like the wind. Miss Diurno, the Mystery Woman, Spirit of Christmas, had gone out on the Boulevard. She had promised, through the news columns, to be about the Boulevard until midnight. There was still a chance. Hurrying back to the now almost deserted hall, she found Laurie and Cordie waiting for her. "Well now, what does this mean?" Laurie laughingly demanded. "Did you recognize in the hands of some violinist the Stradivarius that was stolen from your grandfather fifty years ago?" "Not quite that," Lucile smiled back. "I did discover that someone has vanished, someone I must find. Yes, yes, I surely must!" She clenched her hands tight in her tense excitement. "I want you two to promise to walk the Boulevard with me until midnight, that is, if I don't find her sooner. Will you? Promise me!" "'Oh promise me,'" Laurie hummed. "Some contract! What say, Cordie? Are you in on it?" "It sounds awfully interesting and mysterious. Let's do." "All right, we're with you till the clock strikes for Christmas morning." Lucile led the way out of the hall. They were soon out in the cool, crisp air of night. There had been a storm but now the storm had passed. The night was bright with stars. To promenade the Boulevard at this hour on such a night was not an unpleasant task. Out from a midnight blue sky the golden moon shone across a broad expanse of snow which covered the park, while to the left of them, as if extending their arms to welcome jolly old St. Nicholas, the great buildings loomed toward the starry heavens. The street was gay with light and laughter, for was not this the night of all nights, the night before Christmas? CHAPTER XXI THE MAN IN GRAY "I know of an odd old custom which might prove interesting," said Laurie as the three of them walked arm in arm along the boulevard. "I've forgotten to what little out of the way corner of the world it belongs, but anyway, in the villages of that land, sometime near to midnight, on Christmas Eve, friends gather about small tables in their taverns and over the festive board talk of the year that is gone. The strange part is this: Just to make it a clearing up time of unsolved problems, each member of the group may select one other member of that group and may ask him three questions. Each member is pledged to answer all three questions frankly and truthfully." "Oh!" exclaimed Cordie. "I'd not like to get caught in a crowd like that." "Too bad," sighed Laurie. "I was about to propose that a half hour before midnight we get together to celebrate in just that way. I think I can pick up a person or two whose secrets would be of interest to some people I know." "That would be wonderful," exclaimed Lucile. "But must we select one person, only one?" "One, that's all." "And ask him just three questions; no more?" "Not another one." "Eenie-meenie-minie-mo," exclaimed Lucile, pointing her finger first at Cordie, then at Laurie, "Catch a monkey by the toe, If he hollers, let him go, Eenie-meenie-minie-mo. "Laurie, you're my choice," she laughed. "I'll ask three questions of you, though goodness knows I'd like to ask them of Cordie." "Wait," said Laurie holding up a warning finger. "There may be someone there who is more interesting to you than we are." "There's only one such person in the world," exclaimed Lucile, "and--and I hope I may meet her before that hour comes." She was a little surprised at the glances Laurie and Cordie exchanged and greatly puzzled by the fact that they did not ask her who that person was. Laurie and Cordie gave themselves over to the gaiety of the night. The blazing light, the splendid cars that went gliding down the Boulevard, the magnificent furs worn by those who chose to promenade the broad sidewalk, were sights to catch any eye. They did not hold Lucile's attention. She had eyes for but one sight, the glimpse of a single face. What that glimpse would mean to her! Room rent paid, term bills paid, a warm coat, other needed clothing, a last minute present which she had been too poor to purchase, and a snug little sum in the bank. All these it would mean, and more; two hundred in gold. But the face did not appear. For an hour they walked the Boulevard, yet no sight of the Mystery Lady, she of the Christmas Spirit, came to them. One matter troubled Lucile more and more. Often in her search she looked behind her. More than once, four times in fact, she had caught sight of a man who walked always at exactly the same distance behind them. A tall man, it was, with a long gray coat, a high collar turned up and cap pulled low. "It isn't just because he happens to be walking in our direction," she told herself with a little shiver. "Twice we have turned and walked back and once we crossed the street. But all the time he has been directly behind us. I wonder what it could mean?" At that moment there came the clatter of hoofs and four mounted policemen, clad in bright uniform, came riding down the Boulevard. "It's a big night," exclaimed Laurie. "There's a special squad of them out." "Oh there--there he is!" exclaimed Cordie. "There's Dick! That's Patrick O'Hara riding him! Aren't they splendid? And right beside him is Tim, good old Tim. See! They recognized me. They touched their hats!" "Who's Tim?" asked Lucile. "Don't you wish you knew?" taunted Cordie. "If only you were going to ask your questions of me you'd be sure to find out." "Don't worry," smiled Laurie. "I've just decided that you shall be the person to answer my three questions." "You horrid thing! I shan't go! I'm off your old party!" In mock anger, she sprang away from her companions and went racing on ahead of them. Then strange and startling things began to happen. A long, low-built blue roadster, which had been creeping along the curb as if looking for someone, came to a grinding stop. A man leaped out. A second later a piercing scream reached the ears of Laurie and Lucile. "It's Cordie!" exclaimed Lucile. "Some--something terrible! C'mon!" As she said this a gray streak shot past her. Even in this wild moment of excitement, she recognized the man who had been dogging their footsteps and she wondered why she had not recognized him sooner. The next second they were in the midst of things. With wildly beating heart Lucile stared at the panorama that was enacted before her. Powerless to aid, she saw Cordie, the innocent country girl, the center of a battle, snatched from hand to hand until it seemed the very life must be torn from her. First she caught a glimpse of her fighting frantically but vainly in the grasp of a man. Lucile recognized him instantly. "The hawk-eyed man!" she whispered. "The one who claimed to be her brother! Quick!" she exclaimed, gripping Laurie's arm until her fingers cut into the very flesh. "Quick! They're taking her to the auto. They'll carry her away!" Active as he was, Laurie was not the first to leap at the hawk-eyed one. A man in gray, the man who had been following them, sprang squarely at the captor's throat. With a howl of rage and fear the villain loosed one hand to strike out at his mysterious assailant. All in vain; the rescuer came straight on. Striking the captor squarely in the middle, he bowled him over like a ten-pin. So sudden was this attack that Cordie was also thrown to the pavement. Finding herself free and unharmed, she sprang to her feet. She felt a hand at her elbow and turned to look into the face of Laurie Seymour. "Ah!" she breathed, "I am safe!" But even as she said this she saw Laurie collapse like an empty sack, and the next instant grasped from behind by two clutching hands, she was again whirled toward the kidnapper's car. Half blinded by terror, she caught a vision of police blue that hovered above her. "Pat! Patrick O'Hara!" she called. There came the angry crack of an automatic. Then the figure in blue came hurtling off the horse to fall at her feet. At the same instant there was a second catapult-like blow of the man in gray. Again she was snatched free. "Jiggers! Beat it! Beat it!" she heard in a hoarse whisper. The next instant the door to the blue car slammed shut and its wheels began to move. For three seconds she wavered there, watching the car move away. Then catching a glimpse of Patrick O'Hara lying at her feet, wounded, perhaps dead, a great courage came to her. "They must not escape!" she screamed. "They shall not!" The next instant she leaped into the saddle of the police horse, Dick. Just as the noble animal dashed away she felt the solid impact of someone mounting behind her. One glance she cast behind her. "Oh!" she breathed. It was the man in gray. To Dick she whispered: "All right, Dick, old dear, Go! Go fast! For the love of Patrick O'Hara and Laurie Seymour; for the love of all that's good and true, go; go as you never went before!" There was no need to talk to Dick. He was away like the wind. It was a moment of high suspense and swift action; one of those moments when success or failure hinges on the right move at the right second. CHAPTER XXII THE FINISH Dick was no ordinary horse. He was an unusual horse who had very unusual masters. The young policeman had spoken the truth when he said that Pat O'Hara's horse was the smartest on the force. As Dick felt his young mistress in the saddle and the man in gray behind her, he realized that this was not to be a race, but a fight. He seemed to sense that his task was to keep in sight of that racing blue automobile, and not for one instant to lose sight of it. Follow it he did, and that at the peril of his own life and the lives of those who rode. Now dashing past a low, closed car, now crowding between two black sedans, now all but run down by a great yellow car, he forged straight ahead. He not only followed; he actually gained. Leaning far forward in the saddle, Cordie kept her eyes upon the fleeing car. Now they were but three quarters of a block away, now a half, now a quarter. It was an exciting moment. Beads of perspiration stood out upon the tip of Cordie's nose. The hand that held the reins trembled. They were gaining, gaining, gaining. Through narrow passages impossible to a car, old Dick crowded forward like a fleet, sure-footed dog. Now a yard he gained, now a rod, and now a long stretch of open. They were gaining, gaining, gaining! What were they to do once the car was overtaken? That Cordie could not tell. She only knew one thing clearly--the men in the car must not escape and she was determined to prevent their escape. Then, as they neared a cross street, a man stepped out on the running board and flashed an automatic. Aiming deliberately, he fired. The next instant, with the din of a hundred sets of brakes screaming in their ears, Cordie, the horse and the man in gray were piled all in a heap in the middle of the street. In the midst of all this there came a crash. What was that? Dared she hope it was the villains' car? At sound of it the man in gray was up and away like mad. "What's this?" she heard an unfamiliar voice saying. A man from the nearest car behind them had come to the aid of the girl and the horse. * * * * * * * * In the meantime, Lucile was passing through experiences quite as strange. Laurie Seymour had been knocked unconscious by a blow on the head. Patrick O'Hara had been shot from his horse. How serious were the injuries of these, her friends? To determine this, then to see what might be done for their relief; this appeared to be her duty, even though Cordie was in grave danger still. Men pressed forward to assist her. They carried the unconscious ones into the lobby of a hotel. There they were stretched out upon davenports and remedies applied by the house physician. Lucile was engaged in stopping the flow of blood from Patrick O'Hara's scalp wound. She chanced to look up and there, at the edge of the davenport, she caught sight of a familiar face. "Miss Diurno! The Mystery Lady! Spirit of Christmas! Two Hundred in gold!" her mind registered automatically, but her fingers held rigidly to their task. * * * * * * * * As Cordie struggled to her feet, after being plunged from the back of the fallen horse, she saw the man in gray leap for the side of an automobile that had crashed into the curb. A thrill ran through her as she realized that this was the blue racer. The next instant, after fairly tearing the door from the hinges, the man in gray dragged a man out of the blue car, threw him to the pavement and held him rigidly there. There came the clatter of horse's hoofs, and then down sprang good old Tim, the police sergeant, and his fellow officer. "He's a bad one," growled the one in gray. "If you've got handcuffs, put 'em on him." Tim hesitated. How was an officer to know who was in the right? This might be but a Christmas Eve fight. He had not witnessed the beginning of this affair. A hand tugged at his sleeve. "If you please, Tim," came a girlish voice, "It's me, the one who stole Patrick O'Hara's horse. If you'll believe me you better take his word for it. He's right." "Oh, he is, eh?" rumbled Tim. "Little girl, what you say goes. I'd trust you any time. On they go." The hawk-eyed man, for it was he that had been captured (his accomplice had vanished) made one more desperate effort to escape, but failed. The handcuffs were snapped on and he was led away by the younger officer. "Now," said Tim in a sterner voice, "tell me how Pat O'Hara's horse comes to be lyin' there in the street?" "He--he shot him," Cordie gulped, pointing away toward the hawk-eyed man. "He did, did he? Then he should be hung." "Pat--Patrick O'Hara's sho--shot too," Cordie was very near to tears. "If it hadn't been for him," she nodded to the figure in gray, "we--we wouldn't have got him, though Dick and I would have done our--our best, for he--he shot our good good friend Pat O'Hara." At this, Cordie's long pent up tears came flooding forth as she hid her face on good old Tim's broad breast. "That's all right," he soothed, patting her on the shoulders. "It's not as bad as you think. Look! There's old Dick getting to his feet now." It was true. The man in gray had walked over to where Dick lay, had coaxed the horse to get up, and was now leading him limping to the curb. "It's only a flesh wound in the leg," he explained. "Give him a week or ten days and he'll be on the beat again. Dick, old boy," he said huskily, "and you too, dear little Cordie, I want to thank you for what you've done for me. I--I've had my revenge, if a man has a right to revenge. And it might be they'll find the fox skins among his plunder." The eyes of the man in gray, just now brimming with honest tears, were turned toward Cordie. It was James, the seaman and bundle carrier! For a moment he gripped the girl's hand, then turning to Tim, said: "You'll look after her? See that she gets safely back to her friends?" "Oh sure! Sure!" "Then I'll be getting over to the police station. They'll be wanting someone to prefer charges." He was turning to go, but Cordie called him back. Handing him a slip of paper on which she had scribbled a number and an address, she said: "Call me on the phone at that number to-morrow, or else at the Butler House before midnight. I want to know whether you get those wonderful silver fox skins back. I--might have a customer for them if you do." "It would make a great little old Christmas for me if I did," he smiled. "But it's going to be all right anyway." Reading the address Cordie had given him, James gave a great start. "Right on the Gold Coast!" was his mental comment. "Out where there is nothing but palaces and mansions!" CHAPTER XXIII MEG'S SECRET And what of Florence and Meg? They had not fared so badly after all. Three minutes after her first meeting with the young policeman, Florence was thinking fine things about Meg. "This girl Meg certainly has a way about her," she thought. "She does things to people." She wondered what Meg had done to the young policeman. "Surely," she told herself, "she didn't use that iron belaying pin on him the way she did on that terrible man who had been following me. No, she didn't do that, though I suspect she still has it hidden up her sleeve." One thing was sure, she had done something to the young policeman. Florence hadn't heard what Meg had said, but she did know that one moment he was frightening the very life out of her by demanding that she unlock the bag and show him the contents, which was quite as much unknown to her as to him, and the next he had let out a low chuckling laugh and had told her she might run along. How was she to account for that? She didn't bother much to account for it. She was too much pleased at being able to go on her way, and carrying with her the bag with its secret securely sealed. She would know about Meg later. Meg had promised to tell. It was only after they had started on that she noticed that the storm had blown itself out and the stars were shining. They were soon aboard a car bound for home. An hour later, in the warmth of her room, and with the bag at their feet, Florence and Meg sat dreamily thinking their own thoughts. Florence was not sure that she did not sleep a little. After the wild experiences of the night, followed by the battle with the storm, this would not be surprising. She did not sleep long, however, and soon they fell to talking in the way girls will when the hour is approaching midnight and the strenuous experiences of an exciting night are all at an end. At an end, did I say? Well, not quite. Perhaps you might say not at all; for did not the mysterious brown leather traveling bag, which had been wondered about and fought over, rest on the floor at their feet? And was not the seal unbroken? Did it not still contain Florence's Christmas secret? And now it was just twenty-five minutes until midnight, the witching hour when secrets are revealed. "There is just time for you to finish telling me about yourself before the tower clock strikes midnight," said Florence, glancing at the small clock on her desk. "Oh!" laughed Meg with a little shrug of her wonderful shoulders. "There really isn't much to tell. I've already told you that since I was a slip of a child I've lived on ships with my uncle. He's a mate. We've been on a lot of ships because he often drinks too much and can't hold his position. He's a big gruff man, but kind enough in his way." "That man who----" "No, the man who told you about the train was not my uncle. That was Tim, a sailor. My uncle sent him. "Well, you know," she went on, "at first I was just sort of a ship's mascot and the sailors' plaything. They rode me on their backs and carried me, screaming with delight, to the top of the mast. "That didn't last long. They found I could peel potatoes, so they put me to work. And I've been at work ever since." She spread out her hands and Florence saw that they were as seamed and hard as a farmer's wife's. "I don't mind work," Meg continued. "I love it. But I like to learn things, too; like to learn them out of books, with folks to tell me what it means. I've gone to school all I could, but it wasn't much. I want to go some more. "Uncle has signed up for a sea voyage through the Canal to England. He wanted me to go along as cook. It's a lumber ship; sure to be a rough crew. I don't mind 'em much." Something suddenly clattered on the floor. It was Meg's belaying pin. "I--I guess you sort of get rough when you go on the sea," she apologized, smiling. "That's partly why I didn't want to go. My uncle would have made me go that day you changed places with me, if he'd found me. He likes to have me along because he can get a better berth himself if he can bring along a good cook. Good sea cooks are scarce. "I'm not going now. His train's gone and he's gone. He left that day." "So that was what the man and the woman meant by the train leaving at eleven-thirty?" asked Florence. "Yes. That woman was the matron of the Seamen's Home. She thought I ought to go. She didn't know everything. She didn't understand. I'm eighteen. My uncle hasn't any right to claim me now, and I owe him nothing. Everything that's been done for me I've paid for--paid with hard labor." Again she spread her seamed hands out on her lap. "But now," she said after a moment's silence, "now I'm not sure that I know how I'm going to school. It costs a lot, I suppose, and besides I've got to live. They let me stay on that ship. That's something, but it's a long way from any school, and besides----" "Wait," Florence broke in. "Let me tell you----" But just then Meg held up a warning finger. Loud and clear there rang out over the snow the midnight chimes. "Midnight," whispered Florence, reaching out a hand for the bewitching bag. CHAPTER XXIV THREE QUESTIONS "He's coming round all right." It was the house doctor of the hotel who spoke. Lucile was still bending over Patrick O'Hara. "He's regaining consciousness. It's only a scalp wound. A narrow squeak. An inch to the right, and it would have got him. He'd better go to the hospital for a little extra petting and patching, but he's in no danger--not the least. And as for your friend Laurie--he's got a bump on his head that'll do to hang his hat on for a day or two. But outside of perhaps a bit of a headache, he's O. K. Your friends are riding under a lucky star, I'd say." "A lucky star," thought Lucile. Again she was free. Had the Lady of the Spirit of Christmas vanished? No. For once fortune was with her. As if fascinated by the scene, the lady still stood there, looking down at Patrick O'Hara. Twenty seconds later this lady felt a tug at her arm as a girl in a low but excited whisper said: "You are the Spirit of Christmas." "What?" the lady stared at her for a second, then a smile lighted her face. "Oh yes, why to be sure! So I am. In the excitement of the moment I had quite forgotten. Surely I am. So it is you who win? I am glad, so very, very glad! I do believe you recognized me five minutes ago, and that you've been working over that brave young policeman ever since, when I might easily have slipped away. What wonderful unselfishness! Here is the gold!" Lucile felt a hard lump of something pressed into her hand and without looking down knew that it was ten double eagles. A warm glow crept over her. "I did see you," she said, after murmuring her thanks, "but you see Patrick O'Hara was wounded trying to rescue a friend of mine. So how could I desert him for gold?" "Yes, yes, how could you? Who was your friend?" "Cordie." "Oh! Cordie? Was she in danger?" the lady exclaimed excitedly. "Where is she? I must go to her at once!" "Here! Here I am, Auntie!" cried an excited and tremulous young voice. The next moment little Cordie was enfolded in the arms of the Mystery Lady, Spirit of Christmas. And this lady was also Miss Diurno, the great virtuoso, and Cordie had called her Auntie! * * * * * * * * At exactly a half hour before midnight on this most exciting Christmas Eve, four people sat at a round table in the Butler House. There was a distinguished looking lady, a young man with a bump on his head that made his hair stand up in a circle, a young lady of college age, and a girl in her teens. They were the Mystery Lady, Laurie Seymour, Lucile and Cordie. Ice cream and cakes had been served; coffee was on the way. Laurie had finished explaining to Miss Diurno the ancient custom of some long forgotten land, that of answering, truthfully, three questions round. "But Laurie, old dear," she protested, "why should I ask three questions of you? I already know far too much about you for my own good peace of mind; and as for Cordie, I fancy I know more about her than she knows about herself. I move we amend the custom a little. How would it do to allow our friend Lucile to ask all the questions--three around for each of us?" "Oh! That would be darling!" exclaimed Lucile, fairly leaping from her chair. "You are all so very, very mysterious. There are so many, many things I'd like to know." "Agreed!" exclaimed Laurie. "I don't mind," smiled Cordie. "Good. That's settled," said Miss Diurno, whose very greatness as a musician so affected Lucile that she found it very difficult to be her usual frank and friendly self. "Miss Lucile, you may have ten minutes for thinking up questions. Then, over our coffee, we will answer them. But remember, only three questions, three around." "Only three," Lucile whispered to herself. "And there is so much I want to know! So much I just _must_ know!" As she sat there, with her head all in a whirl, trying in vain to form the questions she wished to ask, one conviction was borne in upon her. She had been the center of a plot, a very friendly plot, she was sure of that, and one that had been entered into the truest of Christmas spirit. Cordie had known Miss Diurno all the time, in fact had only a short time ago called her Auntie. Miss Diurno had called Laurie by a familiar name--she had said "Old dear." She must have known him a long time. Then surely, to be a friend to such an one, he must be something rather great himself. And Cordie? She could scarcely be the simple little country girl she had thought her. Lucile's mind was in such a daze that when the great pianist tapped her wrist watch and said: "Time's up. Who's the first?" she had not formed one question. "Age before beauty," laughed Cordie. "Well, that's me?" smiled Miss Diurno. "I am ready to be questioned." "Why--er--" stammered Lucile. "Why did you, who are such a very great musician, undertake the humble task of assisting in a newspaper stunt?" "Dear little girl," said Miss Diurno, a very mellow note of kindness creeping into her voice, "there are no great people in the world, and there are no truly humble tasks. All people who are truly great are also very humble. Tasks called humble by men may be truly great. "But you have asked me a question. The reason I accepted that newspaper task was this: Marie Caruthers, my very best school chum and lifetime friend, went in for newspaper work. She was to have done the stunt, but just when the time came she was taken to the hospital. So I volunteered to take her place. And it was fun, heaps of it! Just imagine having the whole city looking for you and yet to be walking in and out among the people every day and not a single one of them recognizing you at all. "But there were times enough when I got into plenty of trouble. That night in the department store was a scream!" "Not so much of a scream for me," grumbled Laurie. "I gave you my pass-out. Then after knocking nearly all the skin off my hand going down the bundle chute, I had to sleep in the basement, with corrugated paper for mattress and covers." "Poor old Laurie!" smiled Miss Diurno. "But you deserved all you got. Think of the role you have been playing! Think! Just think!" laughed the pianist. "You see," she said, turning to Lucile to explain her presence in the store that night, "I had promised to be in the store six hours that day. Then I allowed myself to become absorbed in some new music, and the first thing I knew it was getting late in the afternoon and my six hours not yet begun. Of course there was nothing for it but to remain in the store after closing hours. I hid in that long narrow place, wedged myself between book shelves and stands, then stuck there until the clock struck ten. "I hadn't realized that it would be hard to get out. When I did think of it I was terror-stricken. To think of remaining in that great vault of a store all night! Ugh! It gives me the shivers to think of it, even now. I haven't the least notion what I would have done if I hadn't come upon good old Laurie. He gave me his pass-out. You saw him do it. I knew this at the time, and I think you were a great little sport not to raise a big rumpus, especially after I took your coat." "Why did you take my coat?" asked Lucile. "I was afraid I couldn't get out in that fur cape. And besides, I wanted just such a coat as yours for the next day's stunt. So I traded with you. That was fair enough, wasn't it?" "Traded? What do you mean?" "Just what I said, just traded, and thanked you for the opportunity. And now, my dear, that makes three questions." "Three," Lucile cried excitedly. "Why no, I've only asked one." "Leave it to the crowd," beamed the great little lady. "Three! Three!" agreed Laurie and Cordie with one voice. "Why--why then I shall be obliged to take up someone else." "Heads I'm next, tails I'm not," said Laurie, tossing a coin in air. "Heads! I'm it. Do your worst." "Who is Jefrey Farnsworth?" Lucile asked. "See!" exclaimed Laurie. "See what I get into right away! Well, since it is Christmas Eve, I dare not tell a lie. I am forced to inform you that the only gentleman at this table was given that name at his birth." "You--you are Jefrey Farnsworth?" "Quite right." "Be careful," warned Cordie, "You've used up two questions already." Lucile was silent for a moment, then with a smile she said: "Why did you take an assumed name, and who was Sam, and did he have anything to do with your selling books, and why were you afraid of him?" "That business of hanging your question on a string is great stuff," laughed Laurie. "I recommend that you try it out on Cordie." Then in a more sober tone, he said: "You see it was this way: My publishers saw that my book was going to go across rather big and, since I was to benefit financially in its success, they thought it would be nice for me to have a part in making it a still greater--um--um, triumph. So they cooked up that idea about my speaking to ladies' clubs. I knew I couldn't do it, but I knew also that Sam would make me do it if I stuck around. Everyone does what Sam wants them to do; that is, they do if they stay where he is. "So I said to myself, 'If I must help sell my books, I'll do it in a straightforward way right over the counter. I'll get a job.' I did. And just so Sam couldn't find me and drag me away, I came to this city and took an assumed name. "Sam's a sort of salesman for my publishers; that is, he sells books when he isn't promoting authors. When I saw him in the store that time I just naturally had to disappear. "I think, though," he added, "that even Sam is satisfied. We sold two thousand copies of 'Blue Flames,' you and Donnie and Rennie and all the rest. "As for my knowing the lady of the hour," he smiled, touching the arm of Miss Diurno, "I've known her for some time. And on some future lovely day in June, when my income has come to be half as much as hers, we're going to move into a certain lovely little vine covered cottage I know about and set up a nest all for ourselves." "Good!" exclaimed Lucile. "Can't I come to see you?" "My dear," said the great musician, "you may come and live with us, both you and Cordie, live with us forever." "Cordie, your turn to be questioned," said Laurie. "Oh!" exclaimed Cordie, throwing her arms about Lucile and hiding her face in the folds of her dress. "I don't want you to ask me questions. I don't! I don't! I just want to confess how mean I have been and what an unkind trick I have played on you." "Why Cordie!" Lucile consoled her. "You've not been mean to me at all. You--you've been the dearest kind of a little pal!" "Oh, yes I have! I let you think I was a poor little girl from the country, when I wasn't at all. I allowed you to spend money on me and pay all the room rent when I just knew you thought you were going to have to live on milk toast all next term of school. And I never even offered to do my share at all. "But if you only knew," she raced on, "how good it seemed to have one friend who wasn't one bit selfish, who didn't want a lot of things for herself and who was willing to do things for other people when she really needed just plain ordinary things for herself. If you only knew! If you only did!" Cordie's voice rose shrill and high. She seemed about to burst into tears. "There, there, dear little pal!" whispered Lucile. "I think I understand. But tell me, why did you take a job as wrapper when you really wasn't poor and didn't need the money?" "Money!" laughed Cordie, now quite herself again. "I've never had to ask for any in my whole life! My father owns a third of that big store we worked in, and a lot besides." "But Dick?" said Lucile. "I rode Dick on my father's estate. It nearly broke my heart when they sold him. My father gave up his stables." "But you haven't told me why you wanted to work in the store." "Well, you see that day, the first day you ever saw me, just for fun I had dressed up in plain old fashioned clothes and had gone downtown for a lark. Then I did that foolish fainting stunt. I really, truly fainted. And that man, that hawk-eyed man--" she shuddered, "must have recognized me. He must have known he could get a lot of money from father if only he could carry me away. Anyway he tried it and you--saved me!" She paused to give Lucile another hug. "You are coming to my house for Christmas dinner, and I've kept track of everything in a little book and I'm going to pay you every cent, truly I am, and we'll have the best time. "But I was going to tell you," she paused in her mad ramble, "I was----" "Listen!" Miss Diurno held up a hand for silence, "Cordie, someone is paging your name. Here! Over here!" she called to the bell boy. "Telephone," said the boy. The three sat in silence until Cordie returned. "What do you think!" she exclaimed as she came bounding toward them. "It was James, my friend the bundle carrier at the phone. They've worked fast. They raided the room of--of the hawk-eyed man and they found James' silver fox skins. And Auntie, I'm going to have father buy them as a present for you. Won't that be g-grand!" "I should think it might," smiled her aunt, giving her arm an affectionate squeeze. "But, my dear, you hadn't finished telling Lucile." "Oh! That's a short story now. When I saw how good and kind you were," Cordie said, turning to Lucile, "when I saw the work there was to do and everything, I was fascinated. I just wanted to play I was just what you thought me to be. So I called up my father and made him let me do it. That was all there was to it. "But Auntie!" she exclaimed, turning to Miss Diurno. "Why did you steal my badge of serfdom?" "Your what?" "My badge of serfdom, the iron ring. In olden days serfs wore iron collars; now it's an iron ring." "Oh, your iron ring!" laughed her aunt. "I needed it for my stunt. But here it is; you may have it and welcome, diamond and all." "I shall keep you ever and always," murmured the girl, pressing the ring to her lips. "I shall cherish you in memory of a grand and glorious adventure." "Of course you understood," said Miss Diurno, turning to Lucile, "that you are to keep the fur lined cape." "No, I----" "Oh yes, you must! It was the one extravagance that I made the paper pay for. I traded with you, and have lost yours, so there is really no other way out. Besides," her voice softened, "I want you to accept it as a gift from me, a little token of appreciation for your many kindnesses to my little niece." Lucile's head was in a whirl. She found herself unable to think clearly of all her good fortune. A great musician, an author, and a very rich girl for her friends; a magnificent cape of midnight blue and fox skin, and two hundred dollars in gold! Merry Christmas! What a Christmas it would be indeed! "Listen," whispered Miss Diurno. From some distant room there came the slow, sweet chimes of a clock. "Striking midnight," she whispered. Then from far and near there came the clanging of church bells. "Christmas morning!" exclaimed Miss Diurno, springing to her feet. "Merry, Merry Christmas to all!" "Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!" they chorused in return. CHAPTER XXV WHAT THE BROWN BAG HELD At the precise moment that the four companions in the great city hotel rose to offer each other their Christmas greetings, Florence and Meg stood over the fascinating bag which had cost Florence so much worry and trouble. As Florence felt in her purse for the key she found herself wondering for the hundredth time what it might contain. "Christmas, my Christmas secret," she whispered. Then, as she felt the key within her grasp, she turned resolutely to the task. Although she had looked forward to this hour with pleasure, now it seemed to hold something of a feeling of fear. She was opening a bag which had belonged to another. What might it not contain? With trembling fingers she broke the seal which had so long and faithfully hidden the secret. Then, with a steadier hand, she inserted the key. For a full moment after that she stood there in silence. She was saying to herself over and over again: "There is nothing, nothing, nothing in there that I shall care for. Nothing, nothing, nothing." Thus fortified against disappointment, she at last turned the key, pulled the flap and threw the bag wide open. The first look brought a glimpse of a bit of negligee. Nothing so exciting in this. "Well anyway," sighed Florence, "it--wasn't a man's bag. It could not have belonged to that--that man." "No," said Meg, "it couldn't." One by one Florence removed the few articles of clothing that had been packed in the bag. These were of fine texture and well made. But beneath these was something to bring an exclamation to her lips. Putting out her hand, she lifted to view a roll of silk cloth, of royal blue, and of such thinness and fineness as she had seldom seen in all her life. "Yards and yards of it," she breathed, throwing it before her in bright, billowy waves. "And look!" cried Meg. "Batik!" It was true; beneath the silk was a bolt of batik. This Meg took to the light and examined it with great care. "It's genuine," she whispered at last. "Not the sham stuff that is made in American factories, but the kind that dark faced women dye with great skill and much labor, dipping again and again in colors such as we know nothing of." Florence examined the cloth, then spread it over the back of a chair. Then she sat down. There was a puzzled look on her face. "It's very beautiful," she mused. "One could not hope to buy a more perfect present, sight unseen, but I'm wondering why a man should be willing to trace me down at infinite pains and then follow me in the face of danger and in the teeth of a storm for the sake of getting possession of two rolls of cloth. That seems strange." "Does seem odd," said Meg. "But wait! Here's something else." She drew two long pasteboard tubes from the bottom of the bag. "What do you suppose?" whispered Florence. Inserting one finger in the first tube she twisted it about, then began drawing it out. A roll of papers appeared. "Papers," she whispered. "Probably important papers; deeds, stocks and bonds, perhaps." Imagine her surprise when, having drawn the papers out and partly unrolled them, she found them to be pictures. "Pictures!" she exclaimed in disgust. "And only printed pictures at that." "But such wonderful pictures!" exclaimed Meg, holding one out to view. It was indeed a wonderful picture, one of those vague, misty things that came out of the great war. This one was of a smoke clouded cannon in the foreground, belching black smoke and fire, and in the midst of the smoke, forming herself out of it, a most beautiful black-haired woman, her eyes burning, her hands clawing, leaping straight at the enemy. "It _is_ a wonderful picture," said Florence when they had gazed at it in silence for a time. "But after all, it is only a print, and can't be worth much. I still don't see----" "Tell you what," Meg broke in, "let's unroll them all and weight them down on the floor with books so we can have a good look." "Good idea," said Florence, beginning to unroll one. It was truly a remarkable collection of pictures which at length carpeted the floor. War pictures, all of them, and all displaying that strong spiritual interpretation which was so common in pictures of those times. A French airplane falling in flames and beneath it an angel waiting to bear away the soul of the brave aviator; the American flag drifting in the clouds and seen from afar by a French soldier in the trenches; such were the themes. "Don't you think they're grand?" said Meg. "Yes," Florence responded, "but after all, they are only prints of the work of some great master. 'Veny LeCarte'" she read at the bottom of one. "I believe, yes, they're all by the same man." For some time they sat there in silence. They were at last about to rise when there came a light rap at their door. "Let me in," came from outside. "I saw the light in the room as I was passing and thought I'd come up to say 'Good morning and Merry Christmas.'" It was Lucile. "Merry Christmas yourself," exclaimed Florence, throwing wide the door. "Come in." "This is Meg, Lucile; and Meg, that's Lucile," she smiled. "But Florence, where in the world did you get those marvelous etchings?" exclaimed Lucile after she shook hands with Meg. "And why do you carpet your floor with them? I nearly stepped on one." "Etch--etchings!" stammered Florence. "They're mine--at least I bought them." "Bought them! You? You bought them!" Lucile stared incredulous. Then, bending over, she read the name at the bottom of one. After that her eyes roved from picture to picture. "Veny LeCarte," she murmured as if in a dream. "And she says she bought them!" She dropped weakly into a chair. "Florence," she said at last, "do you know who Veny LeCarte was?" "N-o." "Well, I'll tell you. He was one of the most famous artists of France. He made etchings of the war. No one could surpass him. And unlike his fellow artists, who allowed a hundred copies to be made from each plate, he allowed but twenty. Then the plates were destroyed. He made these pictures. You have nearly all of them. And then he went away to the war, and was killed. "Since that time his etchings have been much prized and have brought fabulous prices. Oh, Florence, tell me how you got them! Surely, surely you didn't buy them!" "I did," said Florence unsteadily, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry, "but I bought them in a strange way. I'll tell you about it." Then she told Lucile the whole story. "And those pictures," she said at the end, "are the reason that man dogged my footsteps. It had not been his bag. He had not owned the pictures, but some way he had learned that the pictures were in this bag. He had meant to buy the bag, but arrived too late." The hour was late. What did that matter? To-morrow was Christmas. Florence set about brewing some cocoa, and over the cups the girls engaged in such a talk fest as they had not enjoyed for months. Everything that had happened to Lucile during those eventful weeks, from the first night to the last, had to be told. The wonderful cape, with its white fox collar, must be displayed. The gold coins must be jingled and jangled. Meg's story must be told all over again. After that, problems yet unsolved must be discussed. Was the hawk-eyed man who had attempted to gain possession of Florence's bag the same one who had attempted to kidnap Cordie? "That question," said Lucile to Florence, "can only be settled by you going down to the police station and looking at him." "In that case, it will never be answered," said Florence, with a shudder. Would a romance spring up between the rich girl Cordie and the gallant young policeman, Patrick O'Hara? Who could tell? So the conversation rambled on until early morning. At last Lucile hurried away and Meg and Florence prepared for three winks. As Florence, with Meg by her side, was drifting off to sleep, she heard Meg say: "To-morrow I must go back to the ship." "Indeed you'll not," she roused up to protest. "You'll stay right here to-morrow and every day. And you're going to school, too. I need you to guard all my--my treasure." How the pictures came to be in the bag which Florence had purchased at the sale, will probably always remain a secret. Perhaps the one who left the bag did not realize the value of the etchings. Who knows what may have been the reason? But they were truly valuable, and Florence learned this for certain on the following Monday. Later she sold them to a dealer for a good round sum. This money went far, not only to smooth the road to her own education, but to enable her to give Meg many a lift along the way. The Roy J. Snell Books Mr. Snell is a versatile writer who knows how to write stories that will please boys and girls. He has traveled widely, visited many out-of-the-way corners of the earth, and being a keen observer has found material for many thrilling stories. His stories are full of adventure and mystery, yet in the weaving of the story there are little threads upon which are hung lessons in loyalty, honesty, patriotism and right living. Mr. Snell has created a wide audience among the younger readers of America. Boy or girl, you are sure to find a Snell book to your liking. His works cover a wide and interesting scope. Here are the titles of the Snell Books: _Mystery Stories for Boys_ 1. Triple Spies 2. Lost in the Air 3. Panther Eye 4. The Crimson Flash 5. White Fire 6. The Black Schooner 7. The Hidden Trail 8. The Firebug 9. The Red Lure 10. Forbidden Cargoes 11. Johnny Longbow 12. The Rope of Gold 13. The Arrow of Fire 14. The Gray Shadow 15. Riddle of the Storm 16. The Galloping Ghost 17. Whispers at Dawn; or, The Eye 18. Mystery Wings 19. Red Dynamite 20. The Seal of Secrecy 21. The Shadow Passes 22. Sign of the Green Arrow _The Radio-Phone Boys' Series_ 1. Curlie Carson Listens In 2. On the Yukon Trail 3. The Desert Patrol 4. The Seagoing Tank 5. The Flying Sub 6. Dark Treasure 7. Whispering Isles 8. Invisible Wall _Adventure Stories for Girls_ 1. The Blue Envelope 2. The Cruise of the O'Moo 3. The Secret Mark 4. The Purple Flame 5. The Crimson Thread 6. The Silent Alarm 7. The Thirteenth Ring 8. Witches Cove 9. The Gypsy Shawl 10. Green Eyes 11. The Golden Circle 12. The Magic Curtain 13. Hour of Enchantment 14. The Phantom Violin 15. Gypsy Flight 16. The Crystal Ball 17. A Ticket to Adventure 18. The Third Warning * * * * * * * * Transcriber's note: --Copyright notice provided as in the original printed text--this e-text is in the public domain in the country of publication. --Obvious typographical errors were corrected without comment; non-standard spellings and dialect were left unchanged. --Promotional material was moved to the end of the book, and the list of books in the three series was completed using other sources. 
55098	----	generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 55098-h.htm or 55098-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/55098/55098-h/55098-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/55098/55098-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/strongsteadyorpa00alge STRONG AND STEADY * * * * * * HORATIO ALGER'S Successful Juvenile Books RAGGED DICK SERIES. _Complete in Six Volumes._ TATTERED TOM SERIES. A Continuation of the Ragged Dick Series. _FIRST SERIES, in Four Volumes, now ready._ _SECOND SERIES, in Four Volumes, preparing._ LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES. _FIRST SERIES, in Four Volumes, now ready._ _SECOND SERIES, in Four Volumes, preparing._ CAMPAIGN SERIES. _Complete in Three Volumes._ Each Volume is sold, separate. RAGGED DICK SERIES. _Complete in Six Volumes--in a Box._ I. RAGGED DICK; or, Street Life in New York. II. FAME AND FORTUNE; or, The Progress of Richard Hunter. III. MARK, THE MATCH BOY. IV. ROUGH AND READY; or, Life Among New York Newsboys. V. BEN, THE LUGGAGE BOY; or, Among the Wharves. VI. RUFUS AND ROSE; or, The Fortunes of Rough and Ready. _Price, $1.25 per volume._ _TATTERED TOM SERIES._ First Series _in Four Volumes_--_in Box_. I. TATTERED TOM; or, The Story of a Street Arab. II. PAUL, THE PEDDLER; or, The Adventures of a Young Street Merchant. III. PHIL, THE FIDDLER; or, The Young Street Musician. IV. SLOW AND SURE; or, From the Sidewalk to the Shop. _Price, $1.25 per volume._ SECOND SERIES. I. JULIUS; or, The Street Boy out West. II. THE YOUNG OUTLAW; A Story of the Street,--Oct., '74. _LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES._ First Series _in Four Volumes_--_in Box_. I. LUCK AND PLUCK; or, John Oakley's Inheritance. II. SINK OR SWIM; or, Harry Raymond's Resolve. III. STRONG AND STEADY; or, Paddle your own Canoe. IV. STRIVE AND SUCCEED; or, The Progress of Walter Conrad. _Price, $1.50 per volume._ SECOND SERIES. I. TRY AND TRUST; or, The Story of a Bound Boy. II. BOUND TO RISE; or, How Harry Walton rose in the World. III. UP THE LADDER; or Harry Walton's Success, in Oct, '74. _CAMPAIGN SERIES._ I. FRANK'S CAMPAIGN. II. PAUL PRESCOTT'S CHARGE. III. CHARLIE CODMAN'S CRUISE. _Price, $1.25 per volume._ * * * * * * [Illustration] LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES. by HORATIO ALGER, JR. LUCK and PLUCK. STRONG AND STEADY; Or, Paddle Your Own Canoe. by HORATIO ALGER, JR. Author of "Ragged Dick Series," "Tattered Tom Series," "Luck and Pluck Series," "Campaign Series," etc. Loring, Publisher, Cor. Bromfield and Washington Streets, Boston. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by A. K. Loring, In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. Stereotyped and Printed by Rockwell & Churchill, Boston. To MY YOUNG FRIENDS, WASHINGTON AND JEFFERSON, _IN THE HOPE THAT THEY MAY EMULATE THE VIRTUES OF THE DISTINGUISHED MEN WHOSE NAMES THEY BEAR_, This Volume IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. PREFACE. "STRONG AND STEADY" is the third volume of the "Luck and Pluck Series." Though the story is quite distinct from its predecessors, it is intended to illustrate the same general principle. Walter Conrad, the hero, is unexpectedly reduced from affluence to poverty, and compelled to fight his own way in life. Undaunted by misfortune, he makes up his mind to "paddle his own canoe," and, declining the offers of friends, sets to work with a resolute will and persistent energy, which command success in the end. Hoping that Walter's adventures may prove of interest to his young readers, and win the same favorable verdict which has been pronounced upon his previous books, the author takes his leave for the present, with many thanks for the generous welcome so often accorded to him. OCTOBER 15, 1871. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THE ESSEX CLASSICAL INSTITUTE. 9 II. IN THE CARS. 18 III. AT HOME. 28 IV. JACOB DRUMMOND, OF STAPLETON. 33 V. JACOB DRUMMOND�CONTINUED. 38 VI. FUTURE PLANS. 48 VII. MR. DRUMMOND'S HUMBLE ROOF. 58 VIII. WALTER MAKES A REVELATION. 68 IX. HOW MR. DRUMMOND TOOK THE NEWS. 78 X. MR. DRUMMOND'S STORE. 88 XI. JOSHUA STIRS UP THE WRONG CUSTOMER. 98 XII. AFTER THE BATTLE. 108 XIII. THE ARROW AND THE PIONEER. 117 XIV. A BRILLIANT SCHEME. 127 XV. WAYS AND MEANS. 137 XVI. JOSHUA TRIES KEEPING STORE. 146 XVII. JOSHUA'S DISAPPOINTMENT. 155 XVIII. WALTER FINDS HIMSELF IN HOT WATER. 165 XIX. THE TABLES ARE TURNED. 175 XX. IN WHICH JOSHUA COMES TO GRIEF. 185 XXI. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 195 XXII. MESSRS. FLINT AND PUSHER. 206 XXIII. WALTER LOSES HIS MONEY. 216 XXIV. SLIPPERY DICK. 226 XXV. A HARD CUSTOMER. 236 XXVI. BUSINESS EXPERIENCES. 246 XXVII. A CABIN IN THE WOODS. 256 XXVIII. STRANGE ACQUAINTANCES. 266 XXIX. DANGER THREATENS. 276 XXX. THE ROBBER WALKS INTO A TRAP. 286 XXXI. WALTER'S ESCAPE. 296 XXXII. A STRANGE HIDING-PLACE. 306 XXXIII. WALTER SHOWS STRATEGY. 317 XXXIV. DELIVERANCE. 326 XXXV. THE LAST OF JACK MANGUM. 335 XXXVI. JOSHUA BIDS GOOD-BY TO STAPLETON. 345 XXXVII. CONCLUSION. 355 STRONG AND STEADY; OR, PADDLE YOUR OWN CANOE. CHAPTER I. THE ESSEX CLASSICAL INSTITUTE. "You've got a nice room here, Walter." "Yes, you know I am to stay here two years, and I might as well be comfortable." "It's ever so much better than my room--twice as big, to begin with. Then, my carpet looks as if it had come down through several generations. I'll bet the old lady had it when she was first married. As for a mirror, I've got a seven-by-nine looking-glass that I have to look into twice before I can see my whole face. As for the bedstead, it creaks so when I jump into it that I expect every night it'll fall to pieces like the 'one hoss shay,' and spill me on the floor. Now your room is splendidly furnished." "Yes, it is now, but father furnished it at his own expense. He said he was willing to lay out a little money to make me comfortable." "That's more than my father said. He told me it wouldn't do me any harm to rough it." "I don't know but he is right," said Walter. "Of course I don't object to the new carpet and furniture,"--and he looked with pleasure at the handsome carpet with its bright tints, the black walnut bookcase with its glass doors, and the tasteful chamber furniture,--"but I shouldn't consider it any hardship if I had to rough it, as you call it." "Wouldn't you? Then I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll change rooms. You can go round and board at Mrs. Glenn's, and I'll come here. What do you say?" "I am not sure how my father would look on that arrangement," said Walter, smiling. "I thought you'd find some way out," said Lemuel. "For my part, I don't believe you'd fancy roughing it any better than I." "I don't know," said Walter; "I've sometimes thought I shouldn't be very sorry to be a poor boy, and have to work my own way." "That's very well to say, considering you are the son of a rich man." "So are you." "Yes, but I don't get the benefit of it, and you do. What would you do now if you were a poor boy?" "I can't say, of course, now, but I would go to work at something. I am sure I could earn my own living." "I suppose I could, but I shouldn't want to." "You're lazy, Lem, that's what's the matter with you." "I know I am," said Lemuel, good-naturedly. "Some people are born lazy, don't you think so?" "Perhaps you are right," answered Walter, with a smile. "Now suppose we open our Cæsar." "I suppose we might as well. Here's another speech. I wish those old fellows hadn't been so fond of speech-making. I like the accounts of battles well enough, but the speeches are a bother." "I like to puzzle them out, Lem." "So don't I. How much have we got for a lesson?" "Two sections." While the boys are at work reading these two sections, two-thirds of the work being done by Walter, whose head is clearer and whose knowledge greater than his companion's, a little explanation shall be given, in order that we may better understand the position and prospects of the two boys introduced. Of Lemuel Warner, it need only be said that he was a pleasant-looking boy of fourteen, the son of a prosperous merchant in New York. Walter Conrad was from a small inland town, where his father was the wealthiest and most prominent and influential citizen, having a handsome mansion-house, surrounded by extensive grounds. How rich he was, was a matter of conjecture; but he was generally rated as high as two hundred thousand dollars. Mrs. Conrad had been dead for five years, so that Walter, who was an only child, had no immediate relation except his father. It was for this reason, perhaps, that he had been sent to the Essex Classical Institute, of which we find him a member at the opening of our story. Being a boy of talent, and well grounded in Latin, he was easily able to take a high rank in his class. Lemuel Warner had become his intimate friend, being in the same class, but considerably inferior to him in scholarship. They usually got their Latin lessons together, and it was owing to this circumstance that Lemuel made a better figure in his recitations than before Walter became a member of the school. "There, that job's done," said Lemuel, closing his book with an air of satisfaction. "Now we can rest." "You forget the Latin exercise." "Oh, bother the Latin exercise! I don't see what's the use of writing Latin any way. English composition is hard enough. What's to be done?" "You know the doctor expects each boy to write a letter in Latin, addressed to his father, not less than twelve lines in length." "It isn't to be sent home, is it? Mr. Warner senior, I reckon, would stare a little when he got his. He wouldn't know Latin from Cherokee." "Possibly your Latin won't differ much from Cherokee, Lem." "What's the use of being sarcastic on a fellow, and hurting his feelings?" said Lem, laughing in a way to show that his feelings were not very seriously hurt. "I say, couldn't one crib a little from Cæsar?" "Not very well, considering the doctor is slightly familiar with that author." "I wonder whether Cæsar used to write home to his father when he was at boarding-school. If he did, I should like to get hold of some of his letters." "They would probably have to be altered considerably to adapt them to the present time." "Well, give me a sheet of paper and I'll begin." The boys undertook their new task, and finished it by nine o'clock. I should be glad to furnish a copy of Lemuel's letter, which was written with brilliant disregard of grammatical rules; but unfortunately the original, afterwards considerably revised in accordance with suggestions from Walter, has not been preserved. "I've a great mind to send my letter home, Walter," said Lemuel. "Father expects me to write home every week, and this would save me some trouble. Besides, he'd think I was getting on famously, to write home in Latin." "Yes, if he didn't find out the mistakes." "That's the rub. He'd show it to the minister the first time he called, and then my blunders would be detected. I guess I'd better wait till it comes back from the doctor corrected." "I expect to hear from home to-morrow," said Walter. "Why to-morrow in particular? Do you generally get letters Thursday?" "No, my letters generally come on Saturday, and I answer them Sunday. But to-morrow is my birthday." "Is it? Let me be the first to congratulate you. How venerable will you be?" "As venerable as most boys of fifteen, Lem." "You're three months older than I am, then. Do you expect a present?" "I haven't thought much about it, but I don't believe father will forget me." "Can't you guess what you are likely to get?" "I can guess, but I may not be right. Father promised to give me a gold watch-chain some time. You know I have a gold watch already." "Yes, and a regular little beauty." "So it wouldn't surprise me much to get a chain for a present." "You're a lucky boy. My watch is silver, and only cost twenty dollars." "I dare say I should be just as happy with a silver watch, Lem." "I suppose you wouldn't like to buy, would you? If so, I'll give you the chance. A fair exchange is no robbery." "No, I suppose not; but it wouldn't do to exchange a gift." "Perhaps, if my watch were gold and yours silver, you wouldn't have any objections." "I don't think that would alter the case with me. A gift is a gift, whether it is more or less valuable." "How long have you had your watch, Walter?" "Ever since my thirteenth birthday." "I have had mine a year. I broke the crystal and one of the hands the very first day." "That was pretty hard usage, Lem." "The watch had a pretty good constitution, so it has survived to the present day. But I'm getting sleepy, Walter. It's the hard study, I suppose, that's done it. I must be getting back to Ma'am Glenn's. Good-night." "Good-night, Lem." Lemuel Warner gathered up his books, and left the room. Walter poked the fire, putting some ashes on, so that it would keep till the next morning, and commenced undressing. He had scarcely commenced, however, when a heavy step was heard on the stairs, and directly afterwards a knock resounded upon his door. Wondering who his late visitor could be, Walter stepped to the door, and opened it. CHAPTER II. IN THE CARS. If Walter was surprised at receiving a visit at so late an hour, he was still more surprised to recognize in the visitor Dr. Porter, the principal of the Institute. "Good-evening, Conrad," said the doctor. "I am rather a late visitor. I was not sure but you might be in bed." "I was just getting ready to go to bed, sir. Won't you walk in?" "I will come in for five minutes only." "Take the rocking-chair, sir." All the while Walter was wondering what could be the doctor's object in calling. He was not conscious of having violated any of the regulations of the Institute, and even had he done so, it would be unusual for the principal to call upon him at such an hour. So he watched the doctor with a puzzled glance, and waited to hear him state his errand. "Have you heard from home lately, Conrad?" asked the doctor. "Yes, sir, I received a letter a few days since." "Did your father speak of being unwell?" "No, sir," said Walter, taking instant alarm. "Have--have you heard anything?" "Yes, my boy; and that is my reason for calling upon you at this unusual hour. I received this telegram twenty minutes since." Walter took the telegram, with trembling fingers, and read the following message:-- "DR. PORTER:--Please send Walter Conrad home by the first train. His father is very sick. "NANCY FORBES." "Do you think there is any danger, Dr. Porter?" asked Walter, with a pale face. "I cannot tell, my boy; this telegram furnishes all the information I possess. Who is Nancy Forbes?" "She is the house-keeper. I can't realize that father is so sick. He did not say anything about it when he wrote." "Let us hope it is only a brief sickness. I think you had better go home by the first train to-morrow morning." "Yes, sir." "I believe it starts at half-past seven." "I shall be ready, sir." "By the way, are you provided with sufficient money to pay your railway fare? If not, I will advance you the necessary sum." "Thank you, sir, I have five dollars by me, and that will be more than sufficient." "Then I believe I need not stay any longer," and the doctor rose. "Don't think too much of your father's sickness, but try to get a good night's sleep. I hope we shall soon have you coming back with good news." The principal shook hands with Walter and withdrew. When his tall form had vanished, Walter sat down and tried to realize the fact of his father's sickness; but this he found difficult. Mr. Conrad had never been sick within his remembrance, and the thought that he might become so had never occurred to Walter. Besides, the telegram spoke of him as _very_ sick. Could there be danger? That was a point which he could not decide, and all that remained was to go to bed. It was a long time before he got to sleep, but at length he did sleep, waking in time only for a hasty preparation for the homeward journey. He was so occupied with thoughts of his father that it was not till the journey was half finished, that it occurred to him that this was his fifteenth birthday, to which he had been looking forward for some time. The seat in front of our hero was for some time vacant; but at the Woodville station two gentlemen got in who commenced an animated conversation. Walter did not at first pay any attention to it. He was looking out of the window listlessly, unable to fix his mind upon anything except his father's sickness. But at length his attention was caught by some remarks, made by one of the gentlemen in front, and from this point he listened languidly. "I suspected him to be a swindler when he first came to me," said the gentleman sitting next the window. "He hadn't an honest look, and I was determined not to have anything to do with his scheme." "He was very plausible." "Yes, he made everything look right on paper. That is easy enough. But mining companies are risky things always. I once got taken in to the tune of five thousand dollars, but it taught me a lesson. So I was not particularly impressed with the brilliant prospectus of the Great Metropolitan Mining Company, in spite of its high-sounding name, and its promised dividend of thirty per cent. Depend upon it, James Wall and his confederates will pocket all the dividends that are made." "Very likely you are right. But it may be that Wall really believed there is a good chance of making money." "Of course he did, but he was determined to make the money for himself, and not for the stockholders." "I might have been tempted to invest, but all my money was locked up at the time, and I could not have done so without borrowing the money, and that I was resolved not to do." "It was fortunate for you that you didn't, for the bubble has already burst." "Is it possible? I was not aware of that." "I thought you knew it. The news is in this morning's paper. There will be many losers. By the way, I hear that Mr. Conrad, of Willoughby, was largely interested." "Then, of course, he is a heavy loser. Can he stand it?" "I am in doubt on that point. He is a rich man, but for all that he may have gone in beyond his means." "I am sorry for him, but that was reckless." "Yes, he was completely taken in by Wall. He's a smooth fellow." Walter had listened with languid attention; still, however, gathering the meaning of what was said until the mention of his father's name roused him, and then he listened eagerly, and with a sudden quickening of the pulse. He instantly connected the idea of what he had heard with his father's sudden illness, and naturally associated the two together. "My father has heard of the failure of the company, and that has made him sick," he thought. Though this implied a double misfortune, it relieved his anxiety a little. It supplied a cause for his father's illness. He had been afraid that his father had met with some accident, perhaps of a fatal nature. But if he had become ill in consequence of heavy losses, it was not likely that the illness was a very severe one. He thought of speaking to the gentlemen, and making some further inquiries about the Mining Company and Mr. James Wall, but it occurred to him that his father might not like to have him pry into his affairs, and he therefore refrained. When the gentlemen left the cars, he saw one of them had left a morning paper lying in the seat. He picked it up, and examined the columns until his eyes fell upon the following paragraph:-- "The failure of the Great Metropolitan Mining Company proves to be a disastrous one. The assets will not be sufficient to pay more than five per cent. of the amount of the sums invested by the stockholders, possibly not that. There must have been gross mismanagement somewhere, or such a result could hardly have been reached. We understand that the affairs of the company are in the hands of assignees who are empowered to wind them up. The stockholders in this vicinity will await the result with anxiety." "That looks rather discouraging, to be sure," thought Walter. "I suppose father will lose a good deal. But I'll tell him he needn't worry about me. I shan't mind being poor, even if it comes to that. As long as he is left to me, I won't complain." Walter became comparatively cheerful. He felt convinced that loss of property was all that was to be apprehended, and with the elastic spirits of youth he easily reconciled himself to that. He had never had occasion to think much about money. All his wants had been provided for with a lavish hand. He had, of course, seen poor people, but he did not realize what poverty meant. He had even thought at times that it must be rather a pleasant thing to earn one's own living. Still he did not apprehend that he would have to do this. His father might have lost heavily, but probably not to such an extent as to render this necessary. So the time passed until, about half-past eleven o'clock, the cars stopped at Willoughby station. The station was in rather a lonely spot,--that is, no houses were very near. Walter did not stop to speak to anybody, but, on leaving the cars, carpet-bag in hand, jumped over a fence, and took his way across the fields to his father's house. By the road it would have been a mile, but it was scarcely more than half a mile by the foot-path. So it happened that he reached home without meeting a single person. He went up the door-way to the front door and rang the bell. The door was opened by Nancy Forbes, the house-keeper, whose name was appended to the telegram. "So it's you, Master Walter," she said. "I am glad you are home, but it's a sad home you're come to." "Is father _very_ sick, then?" asked Walter, turning pale. "Didn't anybody tell you, then?" "Tell me what?" "My dear child, your father died at eight o'clock this morning." CHAPTER III. AT HOME. It was a terrible shock to Walter,--this sudden announcement of his father's death. When he had left home, Mr. Conrad seemed in his usual health, and he could not realize that he was dead. The news stunned him, and he stood, pale and motionless, looking into the house-keeper's face. "Come in, Master Walter, come in, and have a cup of hot tea. It'll make you feel better." A cup of hot tea was Nancy's invariable remedy for all troubles, physical or mental. "Tell me about it, Nancy; I--I can't think it's true. It's so sudden." "That's the way I feel too, Master Walter. And only yesterday morning, too, he looked just as usual. Little did I think what was to be." "When was he first taken sick?" Walter had seated himself on a chair in the hall, and waited anxiously for an answer. "I didn't notice nothing till last night just after supper. Richard went to the post-office and got your father's letters. When they came he took 'em into the library, and began to read them. There was three, I remember. It was about an hour before I went into the room to tell him the carpenter had called about repairing the carriage-house. When I came in, there lay your poor father on the carpet, senseless. He held a letter tight in his hand. I screamed for help. Mr. Brier, the carpenter, and Richard came in and helped me to lift up your poor father, and we sent right off for the doctor." "What did the doctor say?" "He said it was a paralytic stroke,--a very bad one,--and ordered him to be put to bed directly. But it was of no use. He never recovered, but breathed his last this morning at eight o'clock. The doctor told me I must telegraph to your teacher; and so I did." "Nancy, have you got that letter which my father was reading?" "Yes, Master Walter, I put it in my pocket without reading. I think there must have been bad news in it." She drew from her pocket a letter, which she placed in Walter's hands. He read it hastily, and it confirmed his suspicions. It was from a lawyer Mr. Conrad had asked to make inquiries respecting the Great Metropolitan Mining Company, and was as follows:-- "WILLIAM CONRAD, ESQ. "Dear Sir:--I have, at your request, taken pains to inform myself of the present management and condition of the Great Metropolitan Mining Company. The task has been less difficult than I anticipated, since the failure of the company has just been made public. The management has been in the hands of dishonest and unscrupulous men, and it is doubtful whether the stockholders will be able to recover anything. "Hoping you are not largely interested, I remain, "Yours, very respectfully, "ANDREW HOLMES." Walter re-folded the letter, and put it into his pocket. He felt that this letter had cost his father his life, and in the midst of his grief he could not help thinking bitterly of the unscrupulous man who had led his father to ruin. Had it been merely the loss of property, he could have forgiven him, but he had been deprived of the kindest and most indulgent of fathers. "I should like to see my father," he said. We will not accompany him into the dark chamber where his father lay, unobservant, for the first time, of his presence. Such a scene is too sacred to be described. An hour later he came out of the chamber, pale but composed. He seemed older and more thoughtful than when he entered. A great and sudden sorrow often has this effect upon the young. "Nancy," he said, "have any arrangements been made about the funeral?" "No, Walter, we waited till you came. Mr. Edson will be here in a few minutes, and you can speak with him about it." Mr. Edson, though not a professional undertaker, usually acted as such whenever there was occasion for his services. When he arrived, Walter requested him to take entire charge of the funeral. "Are there any directions you would like to give, Walter?" asked Mr. Edson, who, like most of the villagers, had known Walter from his birth. "No, Mr. Edson, I leave all to you." "What relations are there to be invited?" "My father had no near relatives. There is a cousin, Jacob Drummond, who lives in Stapleton. It will be necessary to let him know." "Would a letter reach him in time?" "It will be best to telegraph. Stapleton is forty miles distant, and it is doubtful if a letter would reach there in time." "If you will write the telegram, Walter, I'll see that it's sent right off." "I won't trouble you, Mr. Edson; you will have enough to attend to, and I can send Richard to the telegraph office, or go myself. I shall feel better for the exercise." "Very well, Walter, I will do whatever else is necessary." CHAPTER IV. JACOB DRUMMOND, OF STAPLETON. Jacob Drummond kept a dry-goods store in the village of Stapleton. As the village was of considerable size, and he had no competitors, he drove a flourishing trade, and had already acquired quite a comfortable property. In fact, even had he been less favorably situated, he was pretty sure to thrive. He knew how to save money better, even, than to earn it, being considered, and with justice, a very mean man. He carried his meanness not only into his business, but into his household, and there was not a poor mechanic in Stapleton, and scarcely a poor laborer, who did not live better than Mr. Drummond, who was the rich man of the place. No one, to look at Jacob Drummond, would have been likely to mistake his character. All the lines of his face, the expression of his thin lips, his cold gray eyes, all bespoke his meanness. Poor Mrs. Drummond, his wife, could have testified to it, had she dared; but in this house, at least, the husband was master, and she dared not express the opinions she secretly entertained of the man to whom she was bound for life. At five o'clock on the afternoon of the day after Mr. Conrad's death, Mr. Drummond entered the house, which was on the opposite side of the street from the store. This was the supper hour, and supper was ready upon the table. A single glance was sufficient to show that Mr. Drummond was not a man to indulge in luxurious living. There was a plate of white bread, cut in thin slices, a small plate of butter, half a pie, and a plate of cake. A small pitcher of milk, a bowl of coarse brown sugar, and a pot of the cheapest kind of tea completed the preparations for the evening meal. Certainly there was nothing extravagant about these preparations; but Mr. Drummond thought otherwise. His attention was at once drawn to the cake, and instantly a frown gathered upon his face. "Are we going to have company to-night, Mrs. Drummond?" he asked. "Not that I know of," answered his wife, in some surprise. "Then why is it that you have put both pie and cake on the table?" "There was only half a pie, Mr. Drummond," said she, nervously. "Well, there are but three of us. You can get three good-sized pieces from half a pie. That will be one for each of us. What would you have more?" "The cake is a cheap kind." "No cake is cheap, Mrs. Drummond. I take it you used eggs, butter, and sugar in making it." "Yes, but--" "No buts, if you please, Mrs. Drummond. You are probably not aware that all these articles are very dear at present. Until they get lower we need not have cake, except when company is present." That being the case, Mr. Drummond was not likely to be put to much expense on this score. They seldom had company, and those who came once were not anxious to come again. For even on such occasions Mr. Drummond could not forget his ruling principle. The overflowing hospitality which even in the humblest village households crowns the board with plenty when visitors are present, was never to be found there; and, besides, the visitors could not help having an uneasy suspicion that their host grudged them the niggardly entertainment he did provide. So for three years the Stapleton Sewing Circle had met but once at the Drummonds', and there was no immediate prospect of their meeting there for another three years. It may be supposed that Mr. Drummond was not fond of good eating. This, however, would be quite a mistake. When he dined or took tea out, he always did full justice to the different dainties which were provided, and quite seemed to enjoy them as long as they were furnished at the expense of another. "Take away the cake, if you please, Mrs. Drummond," continued her husband. "You can save it for Sunday evening." "I am afraid it will be dried up by that time." "If it is dry, you can steam it." "That spoils cake." "You seem very contrary to-night, Mrs. Drummond. I have continually to check you in your extravagant tastes. Cake and pie, indeed! If you had your way, you would double my household expenses." Mrs. Drummond rose from the table, and meekly removed the offending cake. Just then the third and only other member of the family entered. This was Joshua Drummond, the only son, now eighteen years of age, though he looked scarcely more than sixteen. He inherited his father's meanness, but not his frugality. He was more self-indulgent, and, though he grudged spending money for others, was perfectly ready to spend as much as he could get hold of for himself. CHAPTER V. JACOB DRUMMOND--CONTINUED. Over Joshua Mr. Drummond had less control than over his wife. The latter gave way meekly to his unreasonable requisitions; but Joshua did not hesitate to make opposition, being as selfish and self-willed as his father, for whom he entertained neither respect nor affection. Joshua looked around him disdainfully. "Is this Fast Day?" he asked. "You know very well that Fast Day comes in April," said his father. "I only judged from the looks of the table," said Joshua, not very respectfully. "You don't mean that we shall any of us suffer from the gout." "Bread and butter and pie are good enough for anybody," said Mr. Drummond, stiffly. "I don't see any pie. Excuse me, there is a little,--so little that I did not at first see it." This was too much for Mr. Drummond's temper. "Unmannerly boy!" he exclaimed; "if you are dissatisfied with the fare you get at home, you can engage board elsewhere." "I would like to," muttered Joshua, in a low voice, which his father chose not to hear. In silence he helped himself to bread and butter, and in due time accepted a piece of pie, which Mrs. Drummond made larger at the expense of her own share. Harmony thus being restored, Mr. Drummond remarked, "I've had a telegram to-day from Willoughby." "From Willoughby?" repeated his wife. "Isn't that where your cousin William Conrad lives?" "He doesn't live there any longer. He's dead." "Dead! When did he die?" "I don't know. Yesterday, I suppose. The funeral is to be day after to-morrow." "Shall you go?" "Yes. It will cost me considerable; as much as five dollars or more; but he was my cousin, and it is my duty to go," said Mr. Drummond, with the air of a man who was making a great sacrifice. "He was rich, wasn't he?" asked Joshua, becoming interested. "Probably worth a hundred thousand dollars," said his father, complacently. "I should think he might have left me something," said Joshua. "He never saw you, Joshua," said his mother. "Joshua stands a better chance of getting a legacy from one who doesn't know him, than from one who does," said Mr. Drummond, with grim pleasantry. "He leaves children, doesn't he, Mr. Drummond?" "One child--a boy. Let me see, he must be fifteen by this time." "And his mother isn't living?" "No." "Poor boy!" "He'll be a rich boy, Mrs. Drummond, and I'll tell you what, I shouldn't wonder if we had a good chance to know him." "How so?" "It's likely I will be appointed his guardian. I'm the nearest relative, so that will be the most proper course." "Will he come here, then?" asked Joshua. "Very probably." "Then I hope you'll live better, or he won't stand it." "When I require any advice from you, Joshua, I will apply for it," said his father. Joshua inwardly hoped that his father would be appointed guardian, as it might make a difference in the family living; and, besides, if his cousin were rich, he meant to wheedle himself into his confidence, in the hope of future advantage. "When shall you set out?" asked Mrs. Drummond. "To-morrow morning, I think," said her husband. "It will be hard to leave, but it's due to my cousin's memory." Mr. Drummond had become very punctilious all at once, considering that for the last dozen years Mr. Conrad, who had by no means admired him, had had little or no communication with him. But then he had died rich, and who knows what sort of a will he had left? At any rate, Jacob began to feel a strong interest in him now. He might have put off going to Willoughby till the morning train on the day of the funeral, for two o'clock was the hour fixed for the last ceremony; but he was in a hurry to learn all he could about the property, and secure, if possible, the guardianship for himself. This was the secret of his willingness to sacrifice time and money out of regard to his cousin's memory. The next day, therefore, he started, taking with him in his valise a lunch of bread and meat tied up in a piece of brown paper. He didn't intend to spend any more money than was absolutely necessary on tavern bills. Shortly after his arrival, he called at the house of mourning. "I am Jacob Drummond, of Stapleton, the cousin of the deceased," he explained to Nancy, who opened the door to admit him. "Is my young relative, Mr. Conrad's son, at home?" "Yes, sir," said Nancy, taking an inventory of his features, and deciding that he was a very disagreeable looking man. "Will you mention my name to him, and say that I should like to see him?" Mr. Drummond was ushered into the parlor, where he had a little chance to look around him before Walter appeared. "It's all nonsense wasting so much money on furniture," he mentally ejaculated. "The money spent is a dead loss when it might be drawing handsome interest." Walter did not long keep him waiting. Mr. Drummond rose at his entrance. "I suppose you don't know me," he said; "but I was your father's nearest living relation." "Mr. Drummond, I believe." "Yes, Jacob Drummond, of Stapleton. You have probably heard your father speak of me?" "Yes, sir," said Walter. "I came as soon as I could after getting the telegram. I left my business to take care of itself. I wanted to offer you my sympathy on your sad loss." Mr. Drummond's words were kind, though the reference to his sacrifice in leaving his business might have been as well left out. Still Walter could not feel as grateful as he wanted to do. Somehow he didn't fancy Mr. Drummond. "You are very kind," he said. "I mean to be. You know I'm your nearest relation now. I truly feel for you in your desolate condition, and though it may not be the right time to say it, I must tell you that I hope, when the funeral is over, you will accompany me home, and share our humble hospitality. Mrs. Drummond joins with me in the invitation." Mrs. Drummond had not been consulted in the matter, but her husband thought it would sound well to say so. "I have not had time to think of future arrangements," said Walter; "but I thank you for your invitation." Walter did not know the motives which induced Mr. Drummond to extend this invitation, but supposed it to be meant in kindness, and so acknowledged it. "My son Joshua, too," said Mr. Drummond, "is longing to make your acquaintance. He is older than you, but not much larger. How old are you?" "I am fifteen." "You are well grown of your age; Joshua is eighteen, but he will make a very pleasant companion for you. Let me hope that you will accept my invitation." "Thank you, Mr. Drummond; I will consult my friends about it." "I wonder how much board I could venture to ask," thought Mr. Drummond. "If I am his guardian, I can fix that to suit myself. A hundred thousand dollars would make me a rich man. That is, I could make money from it, without injuring the boy." Mr. Drummond asked a few more questions about Mr. Conrad's sickness and death. Walter answered them, but did not think it necessary to speak of his losses by the Mining Company. Mr. Drummond was a stranger, and not a man to inspire confidence. So Walter told as little as he could. At length the visitor, having exhausted inquiries, rose. "I shall be here to-morrow," he said. "I am stopping at the tavern. I shall return to Stapleton after the ceremony. I hope you will make up your mind to go back with me." "I could not be ready so soon," answered Walter, doubtfully. "I can wait till the next day." "That will not be necessary, Mr. Drummond. I shall have no difficulty in making the journey alone, if I conclude to accept your kind invitation." Mr. Drummond shook our hero's hand sympathetically, and at length withdrew. As he went down the avenue, he took a backward glance at the handsome mansion in which his cousin had lived. "That boy owns all that property," he said, half enviously, "and never worked a day for it. I've had to work for all my money. But it was foolish to spend so much money on a house. A third the sum would have built a comfortable house, and the rest might have been put at interest. If it turns out that I am the boy's guardian, I think I shall sell it. That'll be the best course." With these reflections Mr. Drummond pursued his way back to the village tavern, where he had taken the precaution to ascertain that he should be charged but a dollar and a quarter a day. He considered that a dollar would have been sufficient, but still it was proper to make some sacrifice to his cousin's memory. Mr. Conrad's mining speculation was not generally known in the village as yet, so that Mr. Drummond did not hear a word as to his loss of property. CHAPTER VI. FUTURE PLANS. The funeral was over. Mr. Drummond, as indeed his relationship permitted, was one of the principal mourners. Considering that he had not seen Mr. Conrad for five years preceding his death, nor during that time communicated with him in any way, he appeared to be very much overcome by grief. He kept his eyes covered with a large white handkerchief, and his movements indicated suppressed agitation. He felt that this was a tribute due to a cousin who had left over one hundred thousand dollars. When they had returned from the grave, Mr. Drummond managed to have a word with Walter. "Have you decided to accept my offer, and make your home beneath my humble roof?" he asked. "There has been no time to consult with my friends here, Mr. Drummond. I will let you know next week. I thank you at any rate for your kindness." "Do come, Walter," said his cousin, twisting his mean features into an affectionate smile. "With you beneath my humble roof, I shall want nothing to complete my happiness." Walter thanked him again, wondering at the same time why Mr. Drummond's kindness did not affect him more sensibly. So Jacob Drummond went back to Stapleton, still ignorant of the state of Mr. Conrad's affairs, and still regarding Walter as a boy of great wealth. When the will was opened it was found to bear date two years back, before Mr. Conrad had plunged into the speculation which had proved so disastrous to him. He bequeathed all the property which he did possess to Walter, with the exception of five hundred dollars, which were left as a legacy to his faithful house-keeper, Nancy Forbes. At the time the will was made, its provisions made Walter heir to a large fortune. Now it was quite uncertain how things would turn out. Clement Shaw, the village lawyer, an honest and upright man, was made executor, being an old and tried friend of the deceased. With him Walter had a long and confidential conversation, imparting to him what he knew of his father's mining speculation and its disastrous result, with its probable effect in accelerating his death. "I knew something of this before, Walter," said Mr. Shaw. "Your father spoke to me of being largely interested in the Great Metropolitan Mining Company; but of the company itself and the extent to which he was involved I knew nothing." "I think my father must have been very seriously involved," said Walter. "It may, perhaps, swallow up the whole property." "Let us hope not. Indeed, I can hardly believe that your father would have ventured in so deep as that." "He had every confidence in the company; he thought he was going to double his money. If only a part of his property was threatened, I don't think it would have had such an effect upon him." "I will thoroughly examine into the affair," said Mr. Shaw. "Meanwhile, Walter, hope for the best! It can hardly be that the whole property is lost. Do not be too anxious." "Do not fear for me on that account," said Walter. "I always looked forward to being rich, it is true, but I can bear poverty. If the worst comes, and I am penniless, I am strong, and can work. I can get along as well as thousands of other boys, who have to support themselves." Walter did not speak boastfully, but in a calm, confident way, that argued a consciousness of power. "Yes," said the lawyer, regarding him attentively, "I think you are right there. You are just the boy who can make his own way; but I hope you will not be obliged to do so." "There is one thing I want to say, Mr. Shaw," said Walter, "and that is about the money my father leaves in his will to Nancy." "The circumstances were different. She will not expect it now; that is, of course, unless things turn out more favorably than we fear." "That is not what I mean. Nancy must have the money, if there is so much left after settling the estate." "But suppose only five hundred dollars are left? Of course I hope it will be much more, but we must think of all contingencies." "If only five hundred dollars are left, let Nancy have them." "But, Walter, consider yourself." "I am young and strong. Nancy has spent her best years in my father's service, and she is no longer young. It is right that she should have some provision. Besides, my father meant her to have it, and I want to carry out his wishes." "This is all very generous, Walter; but I am afraid it is inconsiderate. It would not be your father's wish to provide even for Nancy, however faithful she may have been, at the expense of his son." "It is right," said Walter. "Besides, Mr. Shaw, I find that Nancy had laid up six hundred dollars, which she had deposited in my father's hands. That also must be paid, if there is enough to pay it; if not, I will take it upon myself to pay whenever I am able." "You're an excellent boy, Walter," said Mr. Shaw. "I always had a good opinion of you, and I find it is more than deserved. I honor you for the resolution you have expressed, though I cannot quite agree with you about the five hundred dollars. As to the debt, that must be paid, if there is money enough to pay it. But we can leave the further discussion of this question for the present. Now let us consider what is to become of you in the mean time. You were at the Essex Classical Institute, I believe?" "Yes, sir." "You would like to go back again, I suppose." "No, Mr. Shaw. It is an expensive school, and while it is uncertain how my father's affairs will come out, I should not feel justified in going there." "Perhaps you are right. Of course you cannot stay here, and keep house by yourself. I would invite you to my own house, but my wife is an invalid, and I have to consider her in the matter." "Thank you, Mr. Shaw; but I think perhaps I had better accept the offer of Mr. Drummond, of Stapleton. He invites me to make my home at his house, and, for the present, perhaps, that will be the best arrangement." "I am not acquainted with Mr. Drummond. He is a relation, I believe." "Yes, he is my father's cousin, and so, of course, my second cousin." "I think I saw him at the funeral." "Yes, he was present." Mr. Shaw had seen Jacob Drummond, and had not been very favorably impressed by his appearance. Still, his offer was not one to be hastily rejected, for no better reason than a little prejudice, which might prove unfounded. Accordingly he said, "Well, Walter, as you say, I am not sure whether this may not be the best arrangement for you, that is, for the present. If you don't like to stay at Stapleton, you can write me, and I will see what I can do for you." "Thank you, Mr. Shaw." Nancy was much troubled at the thought of parting from Walter, whom she had known from his infancy; but a situation was immediately offered her in the village, and Walter promised to take her as his house-keeper whenever he had a home of his own, and this comforted her, although it was likely to be a long time first, since our hero was at present but fifteen. "Your six hundred dollars shall be paid, Nancy," said Walter, "as soon as father's affairs are settled." "Don't bother yourself about that, Master Walter," said Nancy. "I've got fifty dollars in my trunk, and I don't need the other at all. I can wait for it five years." "It won't be necessary to wait as long as that, Nancy." "And so you are going to that Mr. Drummond's? I'm sorry for it. I don't like the man's looks at all." "He may be a good man. He was kind to invite me." "He isn't a good man," said Nancy, positively. "He's got a mean sort of look to his face." "You mustn't try to prejudice me before I go to him, Nancy." "You'll think as I do before you've been there a week," said Nancy, shaking her head. "I took a good look at him when he was here, and I didn't like his looks." "He isn't very handsome," said Walter, smiling; "but everybody can't be handsome." Secretly he did not wonder much at Nancy's prejudice. Mr. Drummond certainly was a mean-looking man. How he could be so nearly related to his father, who was a generous, open-handed, and open-hearted man, was surprising. Still Walter was just enough to reserve his judgment until his opportunities of judging were greater than at present. He wrote a brief letter to Stapleton, to the following effect:-- "MR. DRUMMOND:-- "Dear Sir:--I will accept the invitation you were kind enough to extend to me, for the present, at least, and will come to Stapleton about the middle of next week. You are the only relation of my father that I know of, and I think it would be his wish that I should go to you. If it should be inconvenient for you to receive me at that time, please write me at once. "Yours, respectfully, "WALTER CONRAD." In return, Walter received a letter couched in the most cordial terms, in which Mr. Drummond signed himself, "Your affectionate cousin." He was delighted, he said, to think that he was about to receive, under his humble roof, the son of his revered and lamented cousin. CHAPTER VII. MR. DRUMMOND'S HUMBLE ROOF. "Mrs. Drummond," said her husband, "young Mr. Conrad will be here by four o'clock this afternoon. You will have a nice supper ready at five." "Shall I have cake and pie both?" inquired Mrs. Drummond, doubtfully. "Certainly. Indeed, it may be as well to have two kinds of pie, say apple and pumpkin; and, as we have not had hot biscuit for some time, you may bake some." Mrs. Drummond looked at her husband as if she had doubts as to his sanity. Such a luxurious meal was quite unheard of in the Drummond household. "Cake, two kinds of pie, and hot biscuit!" she repeated. "Yes," he replied. "I am not in general in favor of such extra living, but it is well to pay some respect to the memory of my deceased kinsman in the person of his son. Being the son of a rich man, he has been accustomed to rich living, and I wish him, on his advent into our family, to feel at home." Mrs. Drummond prepared to obey her husband's directions with alacrity. "Joshua will get a good supper for once," she thought, thinking more of her son than of the stranger who was to enter the family. "How surprised he will be to see such a variety on the table!" Not that Joshua was strictly confined to the spare diet of his father's table. Through his mother's connivance there was generally an extra piece of pie or cake in the pantry laid aside for him. Had Mr. Drummond suspected this, he would have been very angry; but, being at the store the greater portion of the time, he was not aware of the extra indulgence. Mr. Drummond himself met Walter at the depot. "I am delighted to welcome you to Stapleton, my young friend," he said, shaking his hand cordially. "In the affliction which has come upon you, let me hope that you will find a haven of rest beneath my humble roof." "I wonder why he always speaks of his 'humble roof,'" thought Walter. "Does he live in a shanty, I wonder?" He made suitable acknowledgments, and proceeded to walk beside Mr. Drummond to the house which he termed humble. It did not deserve that name, being a substantial two-story house, rather ugly architecturally, but comfortable enough in appearance. "That is my humble dwelling," said Mr. Drummond, pointing it out. "It is not equal to the splendid mansion in which you have been accustomed to live, for my worldly circumstances differ widely from those of your late lamented parent; but I trust that in our humble way we shall be enabled to make you comfortable." "Thank you, Mr. Drummond; I have no doubt of that. Your house looks very comfortable." "Yes, it is plain and humble, but comfortable. We are plain people. We are not surrounded by the appliances of wealth, but we manage, in our humble way, to get through life. That is my son Joshua, who is looking out of the front window. I hope you may become good friends, considering how nearly you are related." Walter raised his eyes, and saw Joshua, whose small, mean features, closely resembling his father's, expressed considerable curiosity. Walter secretly doubted whether he should like him; but this doubt he kept to himself. Mr. Drummond opened the outer door, and led the way in. "This is my wife, Mrs. Drummond," he said, as she approached, and kindly welcomed the young stranger. "I think I shall like her," thought Walter, suffering his glance to rest for a moment on her mild, placid features; "she is evidently quite superior to her husband." "Joshua, come here and welcome Mr. Conrad," said his father. Joshua came forward awkwardly, and held out his hand with the stiffness of a pump-handle. "How dy do?" he said. "Just come?" "Yes," said Walter, accepting the hand, and shaking it slightly. "Are you tired with your journey, Mr. Conrad?" asked Mrs. Drummond. "Perhaps you would like to be shown to your room." "Thank you," said Walter. "I will go up for a few minutes." "Where are you going to put our young friend, Mrs. Drummond?" "In the spare chamber." "That is right. You will find some difference, Mr. Conrad, between our humble accommodations and the sumptuous elegance of your own home; but we will try and make it up by a hearty welcome." "I wish he wouldn't use the word _humble_ so much," thought Walter. Walter went upstairs, preceded by Mr. Drummond, who insisted on carrying his carpet-bag, for his trunk would not arrive till the next day, having been forwarded by express. "I say, mother," remarked Joshua, "the old man's awfully polite to this young fellow." "You shouldn't speak of your father in that way, Joshua." "Oh, what's the odds? He is an old man, isn't he? I just wish he'd be as polite to me. I say, I hope he'll like his boarding-place. What are you going to have for supper?" "Hot biscuit, cake, and two kinds of pie." "Whew! won't the old man look like a thundercloud?" "That's what he told me to get. You do your father injustice, Joshua." Mrs. Drummond knew in her secret heart that her husband was intensely mean; but she was one of those who like to think as well as possible of every one, and was glad of an opportunity to prove that he could, on rare occasions, be more generous. "Father's brain must be softening," said Joshua, after recovering in a measure from his astonishment. "I hope it will be permanent. Isn't supper most ready?" "At five o'clock, Joshua." "This young chap's got a lot of money, I suppose, and the governor's after some of it. That explains the matter." "I wish you wouldn't speak so disrespectfully of your father, Joshua." "I won't if he'll keep on as he's begun. I'm glad this young Conrad has come to board here. I'm going to get thick with him." "He seems like a very nice boy," said Mrs. Drummond. "I don't care what sort of a boy he is, as long as he's got the tin. I'm going to make him treat." "You must be considerate of his feelings, Joshua. Remember that he has just lost his father." "Suppose he has, there's no need of looking glum about it." Had Jacob Drummond died, Joshua would have borne the loss with the greatest fortitude. Of that there was no doubt. Indeed, he would rather have hailed the event with joy, if, as he expressed it, the "old man did the right thing," and left him the bulk of his property. Though such feelings did not do Joshua much credit, it must be said in extenuation that his father was far from being a man to inspire affection in any one, however nearly related. At five o'clock they sat down to supper. "I hope, Mr. Conrad," said Jacob, "you will be able to relish our humble repast." "Humble again!" thought Walter. He was about to say that everything looked very nice, when Joshua broke in. "If you call this humble, I don't know what you'd say to the suppers we commonly have." Mr. Drummond, who desired, for this day, at least, to keep up appearances, frowned with vexation. "Joshua," he said, "I desire that you will act in a more gentlemanly way, or else leave the table." As leaving the table on the present occasion would have been, indeed, a deprivation, Joshua thought it wise not to provoke his father too far, at any rate until after he had made sure of his supper. He therefore left most of the conversation to his father. "Have you ever been in Stapleton before, Mr. Conrad?" asked Mr. Drummond. "No, sir; never." "It is not a large place, but it is growing; the people are plain, but they have kind hearts. I hope you may like the town after a while." "Thank you, sir; I have no doubt I shall." "If you feel inclined for a walk, Joshua will go out with you after supper, and show you the mill-dam, the church, and the school-house. He will also point out the store--it is only across the way--where, in my humble way, I try to earn a living. I shall be very glad if you will come in and take a look inside. I may be busy, for work has accumulated during my absence, but Joshua will show you around." "Thank you, sir." "Will you have another cup of tea, Mr. Conrad?" asked Mrs. Drummond. "Thank you." "May I ask, Mr. Conrad,--excuse my intruding the question,--who is left executor of your father's estate?" "Mr. Shaw, the lawyer in our village." "Is he? Do you have confidence in him?" "He is an excellent man, very honest and upright. He was an intimate friend of my father." "Ah, indeed! I am glad of it. Then he will consult your interests." "Yes, sir, I feel quite safe in his hands." "I am so glad to hear you say so. So many lawyers, you know, are tricky." "Mr. Shaw is not tricky." "We have no lawyer here," pursued Mr. Drummond. "You will perhaps be surprised to hear it, but my humble services are frequently called into requisition, in administering and settling estates." "Indeed, sir." "Yes; but I am glad you have got a man you can trust. Mrs. Drummond, I think Mr. Conrad will have another piece of pie." Supper was over at length, and Walter, by invitation, went out to walk with Joshua. CHAPTER VIII. WALTER MAKES A REVELATION. Walter did not anticipate a very pleasant walk with Joshua. The little he had seen of that young man did not prepossess him in his favor. However, having no other way of spending his time, he had no objection to the walk. "That's the old man's store just across the street," said Joshua, as they emerged from the house. "Your father's?" "Of course. Don't you see the name on the sign?" Walter did see it, but never having been accustomed to speak of his own father as "the old man," he was not quite sure he apprehended Joshua's meaning. "You were an only child, weren't you?" said Joshua. "Yes," said Walter, soberly. [Illustration] He could not help thinking what a comfort it would have been to him to have either brother or sister. He would have felt less alone in the world. "So am I," said Joshua; adding, complacently, "Between you and I, the old man has laid up quite a snug sum. Of course it'll all come to me some day." "I am glad to hear it," said Walter, rather wondering that Joshua should have made such a communication to a comparative stranger. "To hear the old man talk," pursued Joshua, "you'd think he was awful poor. He's stingy enough about everything in the house. There isn't a family in town that don't live better than we do." "I thought we had a very good supper," said Walter, who experienced not a little disgust at Joshua's charges against his father. "That was because you were with us. The old man laid himself out for the occasion." "I am sorry if any difference was made on my account." "Well, I aint. It's the first decent supper I've eaten at home since the Sewing Circle met at our house three years ago." "Is that the church?" asked Walter, desirous of diverting the conversation into another channel. "Yes, that's the old meeting-house. I hate to go there. The minister's an old fogy." "What is that I see through the trees? Is it a river?" "No, it's a pond." "Do you ever go out on it?" "Not very often. I tried to get the old man to buy me a boat, but he wouldn't do it. He's too stingy." "I wouldn't talk so about your father." "Why not?" "Because he is entitled to your respect." "I don't know about that. If he'd treat me as he ought to, I'd treat him accordingly. He never gives me a cent if he can help it. Now how much do you think he allows me a week for spending money?" "I can't tell." "Only fifty cents, and I'm eighteen years old. Isn't that mean?" "It isn't a very large sum." "Of course not. He ought to give me five dollars a week, and then I'd buy my own clothes. Now I have to take up with what I can get. He wanted to have his old overcoat, that he'd worn three winters, made over for me; but I wouldn't stand it. I told him I'd go without first." Though these communications did not raise Joshua in the estimation of Walter, the latter could not help thinking that there was probably some foundation for what was said, and the prejudice against Mr. Drummond, for which he had blamed himself as without cause, began to find some extenuation. "When I talk to the old man about his stinting me so," continued Joshua, "he tells me to go to work and earn some money." "Why don't you do it?" "He wants me to go into his store, but he wouldn't pay me anything. He offered me a dollar and a half a week; but I wasn't going to work ten or twelve hours a day for no such sum. If I could get a light, easy place in the city, say at ten dollars a week, I'd go. There aint any chance in Stapleton for a young man of enterprise." "I've thought sometimes," said Walter, "that I should like to get a place in the city; but I suppose I couldn't get enough at first to pay my board." "You get a place!" exclaimed Joshua, in astonishment. "I thought you was going to college." "Father intended I should; but his death will probably change my plans." "I don't see why." "It is expensive passing through college; I cannot afford it." "Oh, that's all humbug. You're talking like the old man." "How do you know that it is humbug?" demanded Walter, not very well pleased with his companion's tone. "Why, you're rich. The old man told me that your father left a hundred thousand dollars. You're the only son; you told me so yourself." "Your father is mistaken." "What, wasn't your father rich?" asked Joshua, opening his small eyes in amazement. "My father was unfortunate enough to get involved in a speculation, by which he lost heavily. I can't tell how his affairs stand till they are settled. I may be left penniless." "Do you mean that?" asked Joshua, stopping short and facing his companion. "I generally mean what I say," said Walter, rather stiffly. Joshua's answer was a low whistle of amazement. "Whew!" he said. "That's the biggest joke I've heard of lately;" and he followed up this remark by a burst of merriment. Walter surveyed him with surprise. He certainly did not know what to make of Joshua's conduct. "I don't see any joke about it," he said. "I don't complain of being poor, for I think I can earn my own living; but it doesn't strike me as a thing to laugh at." "I was laughing to think how the old man is taken in. It's rich!" Joshua burst into another fit of boisterous laughter. "How is he taken in?" "He thinks you're worth a hundred thousand dollars," said Joshua, going off in another peal of merriment. "Well, he is mistaken, that's all. I don't see how he is taken in." "He's been doing the polite, and treating you as if you was a prince of the blood. That's the reason he told the old woman to get up such a nice supper, he expected to get you to take him for a guardian, and then he'd have the handling of your money. Won't he be mad when he finds out how he's been taken in? Giving you the best room too! Are you sure that none of the property will be left?" "Probably not much." That Walter listened with mortification and disgust to what Joshua had told him about his father's selfish designs, is only what might be expected. It is always disagreeable to find out the meanness of those whom you have supposed kind to you for your own sake. This, to Walter, who had been accustomed to an atmosphere of kindness, was a painful discovery. It was his first experience of the coldness and hollowness of the world, and to the sensitive nature of youth this first revelation is very painful and very bitter. "I am sorry to think that your father made such a mistake," he said, coldly. "I will take care to undeceive him." "What! You're not going to tell him, are you?" "Certainly. I meant to do so; but I did not suppose he invited me just because he thought I was rich." "What for, then?" "Being my father's cousin and nearest relation, it didn't seem very strange that he should have invited me on that account." "The old man's a shrewd one," said Joshua, rather admiringly. "He knows which way his bread is buttered. He don't lay himself out for no poor relations, not if he knows it." "I am sorry if he has laid himself out for me under a mistake." "I aint. It's a good joke on the old man. Besides, we all got a better supper by it. Don't you tell him about it till to-morrow." "Why not?" "Because, if you do, we'll have a mean breakfast as usual. I just want him to think you're rich a little while longer, so we can have something decent for once." "I don't feel willing to deceive your father any longer. I have not willingly deceived him at all." "You're a fool then!" "Look here," said Walter, flushing a little, "I don't allow anybody to call me by that name." "No offence," said Joshua, whose physical courage was not very great. "I didn't mean anything, of course, except that it was foolish to blurt it all out to-night, when there isn't any need of it. There isn't such an awful hurry, is there?" "I would rather your father knew at once." "To-morrow will be soon enough." "At any rate I shall tell him to-morrow, then. But I've got tired walking. Suppose we go back." "Just as you say." They went back together. Mr. Drummond was in the store, but Mrs. Drummond was at home. "You didn't go far," she said. "But I suppose you were tired, Mr. Conrad." "A little," answered Walter. "I wonder," thought our hero, "whether she will change as soon as she finds out that I am poor?" Somehow he felt that she would not. She seemed very different from her husband and son, and Walter was inclined to like her better. Joshua went out again soon, not having much taste for staying at home; and, as Walter retired early, he did not see either him or his father again till the next morning at breakfast. CHAPTER IX. HOW MR. DRUMMOND TOOK THE NEWS. Joshua's anticipations of a good breakfast were realized. As he entered the room where the table was set, he saw a dish of beefsteak, another of fried potatoes, and some hot biscuit. This with coffee was very much better than the breakfast usually provided in the Drummond household. Joshua burst into a fresh fit of laughter, thinking how his father had been taken in. "What's the matter, Joshua?" asked his mother, who was the only one in the room besides himself. "Oh, it's the richest joke, mother!" "What is?" asked Mrs. Drummond, perplexed. "I can't tell you now, but you'll find out pretty soon. Ho, ho!" And Joshua commenced to laugh again. "Has Mr. Conrad come downstairs?" "I haven't seen Mr. Conrad this morning," answered Joshua, imitating his mother's tone in repeating the name. Just then Walter entered, and said "Good-morning." "Good-morning, Mr. Conrad," said Mrs. Drummond. "I hope you slept well." "Very well, thank you," said Walter. Mr. Drummond here entered from the street, having been for an hour in the store opposite. "Good-morning, Mr. Conrad," he said. "I trust you rested well, and can do justice to our humble repast. I have been in the store an hour. We who are not endowed with the gifts of Fortune must be early astir." Joshua tried to suppress a laugh, but not with entire success. "What are you snickering at, Joshua?" demanded Mr. Drummond, in a displeased tone. "I don't know what Mr. Conrad will think of your manners." "You'll excuse them, won't you, Mr. Conrad?" asked Joshua, beginning to chuckle again. Knowing very well the source of his amusement, and feeling his own position to be an awkward one, Walter was all the more resolved to impart to Mr. Drummond without delay the posture of his father's affairs. He did not answer Joshua's appeal. "I don't see what has got into you this morning, Joshua," said Mrs. Drummond, mildly. "You seem in very good spirits." "So I am," said Joshua, with a grin. His father suspected that the unusual excellence of the breakfast had something to do with Joshua's mirth, and was afraid he would let out something about it. This made him a little nervous, as he wanted to keep up appearances before his young guest. Walter's appetite was not very good. His father's death weighed heavily upon him, and Joshua's revelation of the night before was not calculated to cheer him. It was mortifying to think that Mr. Drummond's gracious manner was entirely owing to his supposed wealth; but of this he entertained little doubt. He was anxious to have the truth known, no matter how unfavorably it might affect his position with the Drummonds. There were some, he knew, whose kindness did not depend on his reputed wealth. "You have a poor appetite, Mr. Conrad," said Mr. Drummond. "Let me give you another piece of steak." "No, I thank you," said Walter. "I'll take another piece, father," said Joshua. "I have already helped you twice," said his father, frowning. "I'm hungry this morning," said Joshua, who, knowing that he could not expect another as good breakfast, determined to do full justice to this. "If you are, you need not overeat yourself," said Mr. Drummond, depositing on his son's outstretched plate a square inch of meat. Joshua coolly helped himself to fried potatoes, and appropriated a hot biscuit, much to his father's annoyance. He resolved to give Joshua a private hint that he must be more sparing in his eating. He did not like to speak before Walter, desiring to keep up with him the character of a liberal man. Joshua understood his father's feelings, and it contributed to the enjoyment which he felt at the thought of how richly his father was sold. At length breakfast was over. "I must go back to the store," said Mr. Drummond. "Joshua will look after you, Mr. Conrad. I hope you will be able to pass the time pleasantly." "If you can spare me five minutes, Mr. Drummond, I should like to speak to you in private," said Walter, determined to put an end to the misunderstanding at once. "Certainly. I can spare five or ten minutes, or more, Mr. Conrad. Won't you walk into the parlor?" The parlor was a very dreary-looking room, dark, cold, and cheerless. A carpet, of an ugly pattern, covered the floor; there was a centre-table in the middle of the room with a few books that were never opened resting upon it. Half-a-dozen cane-bottomed chairs stood about the room, and there were besides a few of the stock articles usually to be found in country parlors, including a very hard, inhospitable-looking sofa. As the Drummonds did not have much company, this room was very seldom used. "Take a seat, Mr. Conrad," said Mr. Drummond, seating himself. Mr. Drummond was far from anticipating the nature of Walter's communication. Indeed, he cherished a hope that our hero was about to ask his assistance in settling up the estate,--a request with which, it is needless to say, he would gladly have complied. "I don't suppose you know how I am situated," Walter commenced. "I mean in relation to my father's estate." "I suppose it was all left to you, and very properly. I congratulate you on starting in the world under such good auspices. I don't, of course, know how much your father left, but--" "It is not certain that my father left anything," said Walter, thinking it best to reveal every thing at once. "_What!_" exclaimed Mr. Drummond, his lower jaw falling, and looking very blank. "My father made some investments recently that turned out badly." "But he was worth a very large property,--it can't all be lost." "I am afraid there will be very little left, if anything. He lost heavily by some mining stock, which he bought at a high figure, and which ran down to almost nothing." "There's the house left, at any rate." "My father borrowed its value, I understand; I am afraid that must go too." Now, at length, it flashed upon Mr. Drummond how he had been taken in. He thought of the attentions he had lavished upon Walter, of the extra expense he had incurred, and all as it appeared for a boy likely to prove penniless. He might even expect to live upon him. These thoughts, which rapidly succeeded each other, mortified and made him angry. "Why didn't you tell me this before, young man?" he demanded with asperity. His change of tone and manner showed Walter that Joshua was entirely right in his estimate of his father's motives, and he in turn became indignant. "When did you expect me to tell you, Mr. Drummond?" he said quickly. "I only arrived yesterday afternoon, and I tell you this morning. I would have told you last night, if you had been in the house." "Why didn't you tell me when I was at Willoughby?" "I had other things to think of," said Walter, shortly. "The thought of my father's death and of my loss shut out everything else." "Well, what are you going to do?" asked Mr. Drummond, in a hard tone. "I shall have to earn my own living," said Walter. "I am well and strong, and am not afraid." "That is a good plan," said Mr. Drummond, who knew Walter so little as to fear that he wanted to become dependent upon him. "When I was of your age I had my own living to earn. What do you propose to do?" "Have you a vacancy for me in your store? Joshua told me you wished him to go in." "You couldn't earn much, for you don't know anything of the business." "I should not expect to. I am perfectly willing to work for my board until I find out how my father's affairs are going to turn out." This proposal struck Mr. Drummond favorably. He judged that Walter would prove a valuable assistant when he was broken in, for it was easy to see that he had energy. Besides, it was desirable to keep him near until it was decided whether Mr. Conrad's affairs were really in as bad a state as his son represented. Even if a few thousand dollars were left, Mr. Drummond would like the handling of that sum. Then, again, no one knew better than Mr. Drummond that Walter's board would cost him very little; for, of course, he would at once return to his usual frugal fare. "Very well," he said; "you can go into the store on those terms. As you say, you've got your own living to earn, and the sooner you begin the better." Walter had not said this, but he agreed with Mr. Drummond. It may be thought strange that our hero should have been willing to enter the employment of such a mean man; but he thought it wisest to remain in the neighborhood until he could learn something definite about his father's affairs. He prepared to go to work at once, partly because he didn't wish to be dependent, partly because he foresaw that he should be happier if employed. When Mr. Drummond and Walter came out of the parlor, Joshua was waiting in the next room, and looked up eagerly to see how his father bore the communication. He was disappointed when he saw that Mr. Drummond looked much as usual. "Conrad has been telling me," said Mr. Drummond, "that his father lost a good deal of money by speculation, and it is doubtful whether he has left any property." "I am very sorry," said Mrs. Drummond; and Walter saw and appreciated her look of sympathy. "As he will probably have to work for a living, he has asked for a place in my store," pursued Mr. Drummond, "and I have agreed to take him on trial. Conrad, you may get your hat and come over at once." Joshua whistled in sheer amazement. The affair had by no means terminated as he anticipated. CHAPTER X. MR. DRUMMOND'S STORE. Mr. Drummond's store was of fair size, and contained a considerable and varied stock of dry goods. Not only the people of Stapleton, but a considerable number of persons living outside the town limits, but within a radius of half-a-dozen miles, came there to purchase goods. Besides Mr. Drummond there was a single salesman, a young man of twenty-two, who wore a cravat of immense size, and ostentatiously displayed in his bosom a mammoth breastpin, with a glass imitation diamond, which, had it been real, would have been equal in value to the entire contents of the store. This young man, whose name was Nichols, received from Mr. Drummond the munificent salary of four hundred dollars per annum. Having a taste for dress, he patronized the village tailor to the extent of his means, and considerably beyond, being at this moment thirty dollars in debt for the suit he wore. Besides this young man, there had formerly been a younger clerk, receiving a salary of four dollars weekly. He had been dismissed for asking to have his pay raised to five dollars a week, and since then Mr. Drummond had got along with but one salesman. As, however, the business really required more assistance, he was quite willing to employ Walter on board wages, which he estimated would not cost him, at the most, more than two dollars a week. "Mr. Nichols," said Mr. Drummond, "I have brought you some help. This is Walter Conrad, a distant relative." (Had Walter been rich, he would have been a near relative.) "He knows nothing of the business. You can take him in charge, and give him some idea about prices, and so forth." "Yes, sir," said the young man, in an important tone. "I'll soon break him in." Mr. Nichols, who gave up what little mind he had to the subject of clothes, began to inspect Walter's raiment. He had sufficient knowledge to perceive that our hero's suit was of fine fabric, and tastefully made. That being the case, he concluded to pay him some attention. "I'm glad you've come," he said. "I have to work like a dog. I'm pretty well used up to-day. I was up till two o'clock dancing." "Were you?" "Yes. There was a ball over to Crampton. I go to all the balls within ten miles. They can't do without me." "Can't they?" asked Walter, not knowing what else to say. "No. You see there isn't much style at these country balls,--I mean among the young men. They don't know how to dress. Now I give my mind to it, and they try to imitate me. I don't trust any tailor entirely. I just tell him what I want, and how I want it. Higgins, the tailor here, has improved a good deal since he began to make clothes for me." "Indeed!" "Where do you have your clothes made?" "In Willoughby. That's where I have always lived till I came here." "Is there a good tailor there?" "I think so; but then I am not much of a judge." Just then a customer came in, and Mr. Nichols was drawn away from his dissertation on dress. "Just notice how I manage," he said in a low voice. Accordingly Walter stood by and listened. "Have you any calicoes that you can recommend?" asked the woman, who appeared to be poor. "Yes, ma'am, we've got some of the best in the market,--some that will be sure to suit you." He took from the shelves and displayed a very ugly pattern. "I don't think I like that," she said. "Haven't you got some with a smaller figure?" "The large figures are all the rage just now, ma'am. Everybody wears them." "Is that so?" asked the woman, irresolutely. "Fact, I assure you." "How much is it a yard?" "Fifteen cents only." "Are you sure it will wash?" "Certainly." "I should like to look at something else." "I'll show you something else, but this is the thing for you." He brought out a piece still uglier; and finally, after some hesitation, his customer ordered ten yards from the first piece. He measured it with an air, and, folding it up, handed it to the customer, receiving in return a two-dollar bill, which the poor woman sighed as she rendered in, for she had worked hard for it. "Is there anything more, ma'am?" "A spool of cotton, No. 100." When the customer had left the store, Nichols turned complacently to Walter. "How did you like that calico?" he asked. "It seemed to me very ugly." "Wasn't it, though? It's been in the store five years. I didn't know as we should ever get rid of it." "I thought you said it was all the rage." "That's all gammon, of course." "Haven't you got any prettier patterns?" "Plenty." "Why didn't you show them?" "I wanted to get off the old rubbish first. It isn't everybody that would buy it; but she swallowed everything I said." "She seemed like a poor woman, who couldn't afford to buy a dress very often." "No, she doesn't come more than twice a year." "I think you ought to have given her the best bargain you could." "You don't understand the business, Walter," said Nichols, complacently. "Mr. Drummond," he said, going up to his employer, "I've just sold ten yards of those old-style calicoes." "Very good," said Mr. Drummond, approvingly. "Shove them off whenever you get a chance." "If that is the way they do business, I shan't like it," thought Walter. "You can fold up those goods on the counter, and put them back on the shelves," said Nichols. "Customers put us to a great deal of trouble that way sometimes. Mrs. Captain Walker was in yesterday afternoon, and I didn't know but I should have to get down all the stock we had before we could suit her." "Why didn't you pick out something, and tell her it was all the rage?" said Walter, smiling. "That wouldn't go down with her. She's rich and she's proud. We have to be careful how we manage with such customers as she is. That reminds me that her bundle hasn't gone home yet. I'll get you to carry it up right away." "I don't know where she lives." "It's a large, square white house, about a quarter of a mile down the road, at the left hand. You can't miss it." The bundle was produced, and Walter set off in the direction indicated. He had only gone a few rods when he overtook Joshua, who was sauntering along with a fishing-pole in his hand. "Where are you going with that big bundle?" asked Joshua. "To Mrs. Captain Walker's." "I'll show you where it is. I'm going that way." Joshua's manner was considerably less deferential than the day before, when he supposed Walter to be rich. Now he looked upon him as his father's hired boy. "Isn't that bundle heavy?" he asked. "Yes, rather heavy." "I wouldn't be seen carrying such a bundle." "Why not?" "I feel above it." "I don't." "It's different with you--now I mean. My father's worth money, and I suppose you will be poor." "I don't mean to be poor all my life, but I shall have to work for all the money I am worth." "It'll take a good while to get rich that way. If your father hadn't lost his money, you could have fine times." "I don't know about that. I never cared so much about inheriting money." They were passing the village school-house. Through the open windows floated the strain of a song which the children were singing. This was the verse which the boys heard:-- "It's all very well to depend on a friend,-- That is, if you've proved him true; But you'll find it better by far in the end To paddle your own canoe. To 'borrow' is dearer by far than to 'buy,'-- A maxim, though old, still true; You never will sigh, if you only will try To paddle your own canoe!" "That is going to be my motto," said Walter. "What?" "'Paddle your own canoe.' I'm going to depend upon myself, and I mean to succeed." "That's all very well, if you've got to do it; but I expect the old man will leave me twenty-five thousand dollars, and that's a good deal better than paddling my own canoe." "Suppose your father should fail?" "There isn't any danger. He'll take good care of his money, I'll warrant that. I wish he wasn't so mighty stingy, for I'd like a little now. But there's Captain Walker's. I'll wait here, while you go and leave the bundle." Walter performed his errand, and rejoined Joshua, who had seated himself on the fence. "I'm going a-fishing," said Joshua. "If you didn't have to work you could go with me." "I must hurry back to the store." So the two parted company. "I wish he'd been rich," thought Joshua. "I'd have borrowed some money of him. It won't pay to be polite to him, now it turns out he isn't worth a cent." Walter went back to the store with a lighter heart than before. There was something in the song he had heard which gave him new strength and hopefulness, and he kept repeating over to himself at intervals, "Paddle your own canoe!" CHAPTER XI. JOSHUA STIRS UP THE WRONG CUSTOMER. When Walter went into the house to dinner, the appearance of the table indicated the truth of what Joshua had told him. Since Mr. Drummond had ascertained the pecuniary position of his visitor, he no longer felt it incumbent upon him to keep up appearances. Corned beef and potatoes, and bread without butter, constituted the mid-day meal. This certainly differed considerably from the supper and breakfast of which Walter had partaken. "Sit right down, Conrad," said Mr. Drummond. "Eat your dinner as fast as you can, and go back to the store." It did not take Walter long to eat his dinner. Corned beef he had never liked, though now, having no choice, he managed to eat a little. "If you're through, you needn't wait for me," said Mr. Drummond. "We don't stand on ceremony here. Tell Nichols he may go to his dinner. I'll be right over; so, if there are any customers you can't wait on, ask them to wait." In the evening Walter found that his carpet-bag had been removed from the spare chamber to a small, uncarpeted back room, furnished with the barest necessaries. He smiled to himself. "I shan't be in danger of forgetting my change of circumstances," he said to himself. He was tired, however, and, though the bed was harder than he had ever before slept on, he managed to sleep soundly. He was waked up early by Mr. Drummond. "Hurry up, Conrad!" said that gentleman, unceremoniously. "I want you to be up within fifteen minutes to open the store." Walter jumped out of bed and hurriedly dressed. His position was so new that he did not at first realize it. When he did reflect that he was working for his board in a country store, he hardly knew whether to feel glad or sorry. He had begun to earn his living, and this was satisfactory; but he was working for a man whom he could neither like nor respect, and his pay was very poor of its kind. That was not so agreeable. Walter was not a glutton, nor inordinately fond of good living, but he had the appetite of a healthy boy, and when he entered the room where breakfast was spread (this was after he had been in the store an hour), he did wish that there had been something on the table besides the remains of the corned beef and a plate of bread and butter. "Do you take sugar and milk in your tea, Walter?" asked Mrs. Drummond. "If you please." "I don't take either," remarked Mr. Drummond. "It's only a habit, and an expensive one. If you'd try going without for a week, you would cure yourself of the habit." "How intolerably mean he is!" thought Walter, for he understood very well that the only consideration in Mr. Drummond's mind was the expense. "I don't think I shall ever learn to go without milk and sugar," said Walter, quietly, not feeling disposed to humor his employer in this little meanness. "There isn't anything fit to eat on the table," grumbled Joshua, looking about him discontentedly. "You are always complaining," said his father, sharply. "If you earned your breakfast, you wouldn't be so particular." "Why can't you have beefsteak once in a while, instead of corned beef? I'm sick to death of corned beef." "We shall have some beefsteak on Sunday morning, and not till then. I don't mean to pamper your appetite." "That's so!" said Joshua. "Not much danger of that." "If you are not satisfied, you can go without." "I will, then," said Joshua, rising from the table. He knew very well that as soon as his father had gone to the store he could get something better from his mother. It had been a considerable disappointment to Joshua to find that Walter was poor instead of rich, for he had proposed to make as free use of Walter's purse as the latter would permit. Even now it occurred to him that Walter might have a supply of ready money, a part of which he might borrow. He accordingly took an opportunity during the day to sound our hero on this subject. "Walter, have you a couple of dollars about you to lend me for a day or two?" he asked, in a tone of assumed carelessness. "Yes, I have that amount of money, but I am afraid I must decline lending." "Why shouldn't you lend me? It's only for a day or two." But Walter knew very well Joshua's small allowance, and that he would not be able to return a loan of that amount, even if he were desirous of so doing, and he judged Joshua so well that he doubted whether he would have any such desire. "You know my circumstances, Joshua," he said, "and that I am in no position to lend anybody money." "Two dollars isn't much. You said you had it." "Yes, I have it; but I must take care of what little I have. I am working for my board, as you know, and have got to provide for all my other expenses myself; therefore I shall need all my money." "You talk as if I wanted you to _give_ me the money. I only asked you to lend it." "That's about the same thing," thought Walter; but he only said, "Why don't you ask your father for the money?" "Because he wouldn't give it to me. He's as mean as dirt." "Then where would you get the money to repay me in case I lent it to you?" "You're just as mean as he is," exclaimed Joshua, angrily, not caring to answer this question. "A mighty fuss you make about lending a fellow a couple of dollars!" "It makes no particular difference to me whether you think me mean or not," said Walter. "I have got to be richer than I am now before I lend money." Joshua stalked away in a fret, angry that Walter would not permit himself to be swindled. From that time he cherished a dislike to our hero, and this he showed by various little slights and annoyances, of which Walter took little notice. He thoroughly despised Joshua for his meanness and selfishness, and it mattered very little to him what such a boy thought of him. This forbearance Joshua utterly misinterpreted. He decided that Walter was deficient in courage and spirit, and it encouraged him to persevere in his system of petty annoyances until they might almost be called bullying. Though Walter kept quiet under these provocations, there was often a warning flash of the eye which showed that it would not be safe to go too far. But this Joshua did not notice, and persisted. "Joshua," said his mother one day, "I really think you don't treat Walter right. You are not polite to him." "Why should I be? What is he but a beggar?" "He is not that, for he works for his living." "At any rate he's a mean fellow, and I shall treat him as I please." But one day matters came to a climax. One afternoon there were a few young fellows standing on the piazza in front of Mr. Drummond's store. Joshua was one of them, and there being no customers to wait upon, Walter also had joined the company. They were discussing plans for a picnic to be held in the woods on the next Saturday afternoon. It was to be quite a general affair. "You will come, Walter, won't you?" asked one of the number. "No," said Joshua; "he can't come." "I didn't authorize you to speak for me," said Walter, quietly. "You didn't authorize me to speak for you?" repeated Joshua, in a mocking tone. "Big words for a beggar!" "What do you mean by calling me a beggar?" demanded Walter, quietly, but with rising color. "I don't choose to give you any explanation," said Joshua, scornfully. "You're only my father's hired boy, working for your board." "That may be true, but I am not a beggar, and I advise you not to call me one again." Walter's tone was still quiet, and Joshua wholly misunderstood him; otherwise, being a coward at heart, he would have desisted. "I'll say it as often as I please," he repeated. "You're a beggar, and if we hadn't taken pity on you, you'd have had to go to the poor-house." Walter was not quarrelsome; but this last insult, in presence of half-a-dozen boys between his own age and Joshua's, roused him. "Joshua Drummond," he said, "you've insulted me long enough, and I've stood it, for I didn't want to quarrel; but I will stand it no longer." He walked up to Joshua, and struck him in the face, not a hard blow, but still a blow. Joshua turned white with passion, and advanced upon our hero furiously, with the intention of giving him, as he expressed it, the worst whipping he ever had. Walter parried his blow, and put in another, this time sharp and stinging. Joshua was an inch or two taller, but Walter was more than a match for him. Joshua threw out his arms, delivering his blows at random, and most of them failed of effect. Indeed, he was so blinded with rage, that Walter, who kept cool, had from this cause alone a great advantage over him. Joshua at length seized him, and he was compelled to throw him down. As Joshua lay prostrate, with Walter's knee upon his breast, Mr. Drummond, who had gone over to his own house, appeared upon the scene. "What's all this?" he demanded in mingled surprise and anger. "Conrad, what means this outrageous conduct?" Walter rose, and, turning to his employer, said, manfully, "Joshua insulted me, sir, and I have punished him. That's all!" CHAPTER XII. AFTER THE BATTLE. Without waiting to hear Mr. Drummond's reply to his explanation, Walter re-entered the store. He had no disposition to discuss the subject in presence of the boys who were standing on the piazza. Mr. Drummond followed him into the store, and Joshua accompanied him. He was terribly angry with Walter, and determined to get revenged upon him through his father. "Are you going to let that beggar pitch into me like that?" he demanded. "He wouldn't have got me down, only he took me at disadvantage." "Conrad," said Mr. Drummond, "I demand an explanation of your conduct. I come from my house, and find you fighting like a street rowdy, instead of attending to your duties in the store." "I have already given you an explanation, Mr. Drummond," said Walter, firmly. "Joshua chose to insult me before all the boys, and I don't allow myself to be insulted if I can help it. As to being out of the store, there was no customer to wait upon, and I went to the door for a breath of fresh air. I have never been accustomed to such confinement before." "You say Joshua insulted you. How did he insult you?" "I was asked if I would go to the picnic on Saturday afternoon. He didn't wait for me to answer, but said at once that I couldn't come." "Was that all?" "On my objecting to his answering for me, he charged me with being a beggar, and said that but for you I would have been obliged to go to the poor-house. If this had been the first time he had annoyed me, I might have passed it over, but it is far from being the first; so I knocked him down." Mr. Drummond was by no means a partisan of Walter, but in the month that our hero had been in his employ he had found him a very efficient clerk. Whatever Walter undertook to do he did well, and he had mastered the details of the retail dry-goods trade in a remarkably short time, so that his services were already nearly as valuable as those of young Nichols, who received eight dollars a week. Therefore Mr. Drummond was disposed to smooth over matters, for the sake of retaining the services which he obtained so cheap. He resolved, therefore, to temporize. "You are both of you wrong," he said. "Joshua, you should not have called Conrad a beggar, for he earns his living. You, Conrad, should not have been so violent. You should have told me, and I would have spoken to Joshua." "Excuse me, Mr. Drummond, but I don't like tale-bearing. I did the only thing I could." "Ahem!" said Mr. Drummond, "you were too violent. I would suggest that you should each beg the other's pardon, shake hands, and have done with it." "Catch me begging pardon of my father's hired boy!" exclaimed Joshua scornfully. "I haven't got quite so low as that." "As for me," said Walter, "if I thought I had been in the wrong, I would beg Joshua's pardon without any hesitation. I am not too proud for that, but I think I acted right under the circumstances, and therefore I cannot do it. As for being a hired boy, I admit that such is my position, and I don't see anything to be ashamed of in it." "You are right there," said Mr. Drummond; for this assertion chimed in with his own views and wishes. "Well, it seems to me you are about even, and you may as well drop the quarrel here." "I am ready to do so," said Walter, promptly. "If Joshua treats me well, I will treat him well." "You're mighty accommodating," sneered Joshua. "You seem to think you're on an equality with me." "I am willing to treat you as an equal," answered Walter, purposely misinterpreting Joshua's remark. "Oh, you are, are you?" retorted Joshua, with a vicious snap of the eyes. "Do you think you, a hired boy, are equal to me, who am a gentleman?" "I am glad to hear that you consider yourself a gentleman, and hope you will take care to act like one." "I'll give you the worst licking you ever had!" exclaimed Joshua, clenching his fists furiously. "If it isn't any worse than you gave me just now, I can stand it," said Walter. He was a little angry, also, and this prompted him to speak thus. Joshua was maddened by this remark, and might have renewed the battle if his father had not imperatively ordered him to leave the store. "Conrad," said Mr. Drummond, "you have behaved badly. I did not think you were so quarrelsome." "I don't think I am, sir; but I cannot stand Joshua's treatment." "Will you promise not to quarrel with him again?" "That depends on whether he provokes me." "Of course I can't have you fighting with my son." "I don't care about doing it. If I find he won't let me alone, I have made up my mind what to do." "What?" "I will leave the store, and go back to Willoughby; then I will decide what to do. I know that I have got to earn my own living, but I would rather earn it somewhere where I can be at peace." "Humph!" said Mr. Drummond, who did not fancy this determination; "don't be too hasty. I will speak to Joshua, and see that he doesn't annoy you again." With this assurance Walter felt satisfied. He felt that he had won the victory and maintained his self-respect. There was one thing more he desired, and that was to go to the picnic. He would not have urged the request, but that he was well aware that Joshua would report that he was kept at home by his desire. "It won't be very convenient for you to be away Saturday afternoon," said Mr. Drummond, who was principled against allowing clerks any privileges. "You know we have more trade than usual on Saturday afternoon." "I don't think we shall have next Saturday," said Walter; "everybody will be gone to the picnic." "If you insist upon going," said Mr. Drummond, reluctantly, "I must try to let you go." Walter felt no scruples about insisting. He knew that he earned his limited pay twice over, and that his absence would do his employer no harm. He answered, therefore, "Thank you, sir; I will be home at six o'clock, so as to be in the store all Saturday evening." Meanwhile Joshua went home in a very unhappy frame of mind. He had not succeeded in humiliating Walter as he intended, but had an unpleasant feeling that Walter had got the better of him. He was very angry with his father for not taking his part, and was not slow in making his feelings known to his mother. "What's the matter, Joshua?" asked Mrs. Drummond, observing the scowl upon his face. "Matter enough! That beggar has been insulting me." "What beggar? I haven't seen any beggar about," answered Mrs. Drummond. "You know who I mean,--that upstart, Conrad." "What's he been doing? I'm sure he's a very gentlemanly young man." "Oh, yes, that's just the way. You take his part against your own son," said Joshua, bitterly. "What's he been doing? You haven't told me." "He pitched into me, and tried to knock me over." "What for? I am surprised to hear it, he seems so polite and well-bred." "Nothing at all. He sprung at me like a tiger, and all for nothing. He took me by surprise, so at first he got the advantage; but I soon gave him as good as he sent." "I am really sorry to hear this," said Mrs. Drummond, distressed. "Are you sure you didn't say something to provoke him?" "I only said, when he was invited to go to the picnic Saturday afternoon, that he wouldn't be able to leave the store." "I am afraid you said it in such a way as to offend him." "Seems to me you think a good sight more of him than of me in the matter," grumbled Joshua. "That's just the way with father. He wanted us both to beg each other's pardon. Catch me begging pardon of a beggarly hired boy!" "He isn't any worse because your father hires him, Joshua." "Oh, yes, of course you stand up for him," said Joshua, sneering. "Now, Joshua, you know I always take your part when you are right." So Joshua continued to scold, and Mrs. Drummond to soothe him, until she found a more effectual way, by placing at his disposal half an apple-pie which was in the cupboard. In the evening she told Walter that she was sorry there had been any difficulty between him and Joshua. "So am I," said Walter, frankly, for he was grateful for her gentle kindness. "I am sorry, if only for your sake, Mrs. Drummond." "I know he's provoking; but he don't mean what he says, Mr. Conrad." "I'll try to keep on good terms with him, Mrs. Drummond," said Walter, earnestly, "if only in return for his mother's kindness." "I am sure Joshua was hasty, and misjudged Walter," said the mother to herself, trying to find an excuse for her son. CHAPTER XIII. THE ARROW AND THE PIONEER. After this Joshua was more careful about annoying Walter. Though he was older, and a little taller than our hero, he had found to his cost that he was not a match for him in strength. He had also made the unwelcome discovery that Walter did not intend to be imposed upon. So, though he ventured to sneer at times, he thought it best to stop short of open insult. There was also another motive which influenced him. His father forbade him in tones more decided than usual to interfere with Walter, whose services he was anxious to retain in the store. Mr. Drummond also had another reason for this command. He thought that Walter might be mistaken as to the state of his father's affairs, and that a few thousand dollars might be rescued by his executor from the ruin. In that case, there would be a chance of his obtaining control of Walter's property during his minority. The picnic came off on Saturday afternoon. The weather, which often throws a wet blanket upon the festivities of such occasions, was highly propitious, and several hundred persons, young and middle-aged, turned out _en masse_. The place selected for the picnic was a field of several acres, bordering upon a pond. This had been fitted up by the proprietor with swings, and a roofed building without sides, under which were placed rough board tables for the reception of provisions. A number of oak trees with their broad branches furnished shelter. Besides these arrangements for enjoyment, there were two boats confined by iron chains, which were thrown around trees near the brink of the water. After enjoying the swing for a time, there was a proposition to go out in the boats. The boats could comfortably accommodate eight persons each. This number had been obtained, when Joshua came up. "I'm going," he said unceremoniously. "You will have to wait till next time," said Ralph Morse. "We've got the full number." "No, I'm going this time," said Joshua, rudely. "I don't believe there's room. We have eight already." "There's room for nine. If there isn't you can wait till next time yourself. Besides, you want me to steer." "Do you know how to steer?" "Of course I do," said Joshua, boastfully. "I guess we can make room," said Mary Meyer, who was always in favor of peaceful measures. Joshua clambered in, and took his place as steersman. The other boat had already set off, and, as it happened, under the guidance of Walter Conrad, who had long been accustomed to managing a boat, having had one of his own at home. "They've got a great steerer on the other boat," said Joshua, sneering. "It's your cousin, isn't it? Doesn't he know how to steer?" "About as well as an old cat. He thinks he does, though." Attention was thus directed to the other boat, which was making easy progress through the water. "I don't see but he manages well enough," said Rudolph, after watching it for a moment. "Oh, it's easy enough steering here. Wait till we get out a little way." "Where are you steering, Joshua?" asked Ralph, suddenly, for the boat nearly half turned round. The fact was that Joshua himself knew very little about steering. In speaking of Walter's want of skill, he had precisely described himself. "I understand what I'm about," answered Joshua, suddenly reversing the direction, and overdoing the matter, so as to turn the boat half way round the other way. "I hope you do," said Ralph, "but it don't look much like it." "I was looking at the other boat," Joshua condescended to explain, "and the rudder slipped." Walter's boat kept the lead. His perfect steering made the task easier for the rowers, who got the full advantage of their efforts. Joshua, however, by his uncertain steering, hindered the progress of his boat. "Can't we beat the other boat?" asked Joseph Wheeler, who was rowing. "I can row as well as either of those fellows." "So can I," said Tom Barry; "let's try." The boats were about five lengths apart, the rowers in the foremost boat not having worked very hard, when Tom and Joe began to exert themselves. Their intention was soon manifest, and the spirit of rivalry was excited. "Do your best, boys!" said Walter. "They're trying to catch us. Don't let them do it." The rowers of the two boats were about evenly matched. If anything, however, Tom and Joe were superior, and, other things being equal, would sooner or later have won the race. But Joshua, by his original style of steering, which became under the influence of excitement even more unreliable, caused them to lose perceptibly. "Can't you steer straight by accident, Joshua?" asked Tom, in a tone of vexation. "I know more about steering than you do, Tom Barry," growled Joshua, getting red in the face, for he could not help seeing that he was not appearing to advantage. "Show it, then, if you do," was the reply. "If we had your cousin to steer us, we could soon get ahead." This was very mortifying to Joshua. He did not care to be outdone by any one, but to be outdone by Walter was particularly disagreeable. "It isn't the steering, it's the rowing," he said. "You don't row even." "Won't you try it, then," said Joe, "and show us what you can do?" "No, I'd rather steer." Joshua considered that the steersman's place was the place of honor, and he was not disposed to yield it. Meanwhile Walter, from his place in the first boat, watched the efforts of his rivals. He was determined to keep the lead which he had secured, and had little fear of losing it. "Give way, boys!" he cried; "we'll distance them, never fear!" Every moment increased the distance between the two boats, to the great satisfaction of those on board the "Arrow," for that was the name of the head boat. Just at the north-western corner of the pond there was an inlet of considerable length, but narrow. Here the water was shallower than in the remainder of the pond. "Shall we go in there?" asked Walter. "Yes, yes," said his fellow-passengers. Accordingly he steered in, and shortly afterwards the "Pioneer," Joshua's boat, also entered. At this time the distance between the two boats was quite two hundred feet. The "Arrow" pursued her way steadily to the head of the inlet, a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile; and then making a graceful turn, started on her homeward trip. The width of the inlet here was very much contracted. After making the turn the "Arrow" met the "Pioneer" after a little distance. There was abundant room for the boats to pass each other, if they had been properly managed. There was no fault in Walter's steering, but, by an awkward blunder of Joshua's, the "Pioneer" veered in her course so that the "Arrow" struck her, to use a nautical term, amidships. As she was being impelled rapidly at the time, the shock was considerable, and the fright still greater. The girls jumped to their feet screaming, and Joshua himself turned pale with fright, but recovered himself sufficiently to call out angrily, "What made you run into us, you fool?" "It's your own fault, Joshua," said Tom Barry, angrily. "You're the most stupid steerer I ever saw. What made you turn the boat?" "It's his fault," said Joshua, doggedly. "Let somebody else steer," said Joe Wheeler. "A baby could steer better than he." So a younger boy was put in Joshua's place, much to his mortification, and he was degraded, as he considered it, to the rank of a passenger. "I'm going ashore," he said sourly. "Let me out up here." "All right!" said Tom Barry. "I guess we can get along without you. Here, you fellows on the "Arrow," just wait a minute, till we've landed Joshua, and we'll race you back." True to his determination, Joshua jumped off at the head of the inlet, and the "Pioneer" was turned by her new pilot. The "Arrow" and the "Pioneer" took their places side by side, and the race commenced. The boats were similar, and thus neither had the advantage on this score. But the rowers on the "Pioneer" were on the whole stronger and more skilful than those on the "Arrow." On the other hand, Walter steered perfectly, while Joshua's successor, though he made no bad blunder, was a novice. The result was that the race was a clear one. Finally the "Arrow" came in a length ahead, and Walter felt with quiet satisfaction that the victory had been gained by his efforts. He thought once more of the song he had heard, and hoped that he would be as successful through life in paddling his own canoe. Joshua went home sulky, and was not seen again on the picnic grounds. CHAPTER XIV. A BRILLIANT SCHEME. One morning, a few days later, Joshua was walking moodily up the village road with his hands in his pockets. He was reflecting, in a spirit of great discontent, on the hardships of his situation. "Here am I," he said to himself, "eighteen years old, and father treats me like a boy of ten. I'm most a man, and all he gives me for pocket-money is twenty-five cents a week. There's Dick Storrs, whose father isn't a quarter as rich as mine, gets a dollar a week. He's only sixteen, too." One important difference between himself and Dick Storrs did not occur to Joshua. Dick worked in a shoe-shop, and it was out of his own wages that his father allowed him a dollar a week. Joshua earned nothing at all. "It's mean!" reflected Joshua. "There aint a boy of my age in Stapleton that's so meanly treated, and yet my father's the richest man in town. I wish I knew what to do to get a little money." At this moment he saw Sam Crawford approaching him. Sam was perhaps a year younger than Joshua. He had formerly lived in the village, but was now in a situation in New York, and was only in Stapleton for a few days. "How are you, Joshua?" said Sam. "Well enough," said Joshua. "Where are you going?" "I'm going round to the ice-cream saloon. Won't you come with me?" "Yes, if you'll treat. I haven't got any money." "You ought to have. The old man's got plenty." "That's so. But he's getting meaner every day. What do you think he allows me for spending money?" "I don't know. A dollar a week?" "A dollar! I should think myself lucky if I got anywhere near that. What do you say to twenty-five cents?" "You don't mean to say that's all he gives you?" "Yes, I do." "Why, I can't get along on ten times that. Why don't you ask for more?" "I have, fifty times; but that's all the good it does." "If my father treated me like that, I'd cut his acquaintance." "I don't know as that would do me any good," said Joshua, rather sensibly. "I wish I knew of any way of getting some money." "You might hire out to saw wood for the neighbors," said Sam. "I haven't got so low as that," said Joshua, haughtily. "Of course I meant that in joke; but you might get a place, and earn some money." This suggestion, however, did not suit Joshua, for it carried with it the idea of work, and he was as lazy as he was selfish; which is saying as much as can well be said on that point. "The old man ought to give me enough to spend, without work," he said. "He don't spend more than a third of his income." "He's saving it up for you." "I'm not likely to get it for a good many years," said Joshua, who actually seemed to be angry with his father for living so long. However, though it is doubtful whether Joshua would have been a dutiful or affectionate son under any circumstances, it must be admitted that Mr. Drummond had done very little to inspire filial affection. "Look here!" said Sam, suddenly, "I have an idea. Did you ever buy a lottery ticket?" "No," answered Joshua. "There's a fellow I know in New York that drew a prize of a thousand dollars, and how much do you think he paid for a ticket?" "I don't know." "Five dollars. How's that for high?" "How long ago is that?" asked Joshua, becoming interested. "Only two months ago." "Do you know him?" "Yes, I know him as well as I know you. He is clerk in a store just opposite ours. When he got the money he gave half a dozen of us a big dinner at Delmonico's. We had a jolly time." "A thousand dollars for five!" repeated Joshua. "He was awfully lucky. What lottery was it?" "It was one of the Delaware lotteries." "Do you know the name of it?" "No, but I'll tell you what I'll do. The fellow I was speaking of gets lottery papers regularly. I'll ask him for one, and send it to you as soon as I get back to the city." "I wish you would," said Joshua. "Wouldn't it be splendid if I could draw a prize of a thousand dollars?" "I'll bet it would. It would make you independent of the old man. You wouldn't care much for his twenty-five cents a week then?" "No, I'd tell him he might keep it till he got rich enough to afford me more." "He'd open his eyes a little at that, I reckon." "I guess he would. When are you going back to the city?" "The last of this month. My time will be up then." "You won't forget to send me the paper?" "No, I'll remember it. Come in and have an ice-cream. You can return the compliment when you've drawn a prize." "All right! Is a thousand dollars the highest prize?" "No, there are some of two, three, and five thousand. Then there are five-hundred-dollar prizes, and so along to five dollars. Five hundred wouldn't be so bad, eh?" "No, I should feel satisfied with that. I would come up to New York, and spend a week." "If you do, just step in upon me, and I'll show you round. I know the ropes." "I wish I could," said Joshua, enviously. "This is an awfully stupid place. I tried to get leave to go to the city last fall, but the old man wouldn't let me. He wasn't willing to spend the money." I hope none of my readers will so admire the character of Joshua Drummond as to imitate him in the disrespectful manner in which he speaks of his father. Yet I am aware that many boys and young men, who are not without respect and affection for their parents, have fallen into the very discreditable way of referring to them as "the old man" or "the old woman." They may be sure that such a habit will prejudice against them all persons of right feeling. Joshua and Sam went into the ice-cream saloon, which was kept, during the summer only, in a small candy store, by a maiden lady who eked out a scanty income by such limited patronage as the village could afford. Joshua plied his companion with further questions, to all of which he readily replied, though it is doubtful whether all the answers were quite correct. But Sam, having been in the city a few months, wished to be thought to have a very extensive acquaintance with it, and was unwilling to admit ignorance on any point. Early the next week Sam returned to his duties in the city, and Joshua awaited impatiently the promised lottery papers. Sam did not forget his promise. On the third day after his departure a paper came to the village post-office, directed. "Joshua Drummond, Esq., Stapleton." This was promptly taken from the office by Joshua, who had called on an average twice a day for this very paper. It proved to be printed on yellow paper, and fairly bristled with figures, indicating the large sums which were weekly distributed all over the country by the benevolent managers of the lottery. Here was a scheme in which the principal prize was but a thousand dollars. However, the tickets were but a dollar each, and a thousand dollars for one was certainly a handsome return for a small outlay. There were others, however, in which the principal prize was five thousand dollars, and the tickets were, in due proportion, five dollars each. Joshua went off to a somewhat secluded place, for he did not wish to be interrupted, and eagerly read the paper through from beginning to end. Certainly the representations made were of a very seductive character. One might suppose, from reading the paragraphs sandwiching the several schemes, that the chances were strongly in favor of every holder of a ticket drawing a prize, though a little calculation would have shown that the chances of drawing even the smallest prize were scarcely more than one in a hundred. Here, for instance, is one of the paragraphs:-- "A mechanic in a country town in New York State met with an accident which confined him to his home for three months. He had a large family of children, and had never been able to lay up any money. The consequence was, that the family was reduced to great distress, and he saw no resource except to try to borrow a little money, which would create a debt that he might be years in paying off. But fortunately, only a week before the accident, his wife had seen one of our advertisements. She had five dollars by her, which she had intended to appropriate to the purchase of a new dress. Instead of doing this, a happy impulse led her to send for one of our tickets. She concealed this from her husband, however, thinking that he would blame her. What was her joy, when they were reduced to their last dollar, to receive from us intelligence that she had drawn a prize of two thousand dollars! The joy of the poor family can better be imagined than described. They were enabled at once to purchase the house in which they lived, and thus to lay the foundation of permanent prosperity. Thus, as in numberless other cases, have we been the means of bringing joy to lucky households." Now, this story was probably manufactured out of whole cloth. At any rate, even if true, for every such fortunate household there were a hundred to which the lottery had carried disappointment and privation. But of course the lottery managers could not be expected to allude to these, nor did Joshua, as he greedily read such paragraphs, consider them. On the contrary, his imagination and cupidity were both excited, and he was foolish enough to suppose that his chances of success in case he invested would be very good indeed. CHAPTER XV. WAYS AND MEANS. Having decided to purchase a lottery ticket, the important question suggested itself, "Where was he to obtain the necessary five dollars?" To most boys or young men of eighteen this would not have been a difficult question to solve. But to Joshua it was a perplexing problem. If he saved his entire weekly allowance, it would take him twenty weeks to obtain the needed sum. This delay was not to be thought of. Was there any pretext on which he could ask his father for five dollars? He could think of none that would be likely to succeed. Had he been trusted with the purchase of his own clothes, he might have asked for a new coat and misapplied the money; but Mr. Drummond took care to order Joshua's clothes himself from the village tailor, and never did so without grumbling at the expense he was obliged to incur. Indeed, Joshua was not able to boast much of his clothes, for his father was not disposed to encourage extravagance in dress. "Perhaps mother may have the money," thought Joshua. "If she has, I'll get it out of her." He resolved at once to find out whether any help was to be obtained from this quarter, and with this object turned his steps at once homeward. Mrs. Drummond was engaged in the homely employment of darning stockings when Joshua entered the house. "You're home early, Joshua," she remarked, looking up. "Yes, mother. Have you got anything good to eat?" "I baked a small pie for you in a saucer. I thought that was the best way. The other evening your father noticed that a piece was gone from the half pie that was taken from the supper-table." "How awful mean he is!" "You shouldn't say that of your father, Joshua." "It's true, mother, and you know it. He's the meanest man in town." "I don't like to hear you talk in that way, Joshua. Don't forget that he is your father." "I wish he'd treat me like a father, then. I leave it to you, mother, if twenty-five cents a week isn't a miserable allowance for a fellow of my age." "It is rather small," said Mrs. Drummond, cautiously. "Small! I should think it was. It's just about right for a boy of ten. That's just the way he treats me." "Perhaps, if you would speak to your father about it, Joshua--" "I have spoken to him, and that's all the good it does. He blows me up for my extravagance. Extravagance on twenty-five cents a week!" "I'll speak to him myself, Joshua," said his mother;--a heroic resolve, for she knew that the request would bring anger upon herself. "He won't mind your talk any more than mine. But I'll tell you what you can do to oblige me, mother." "Well, Joshua?" "I know of a way to make considerable money, and all I need to go into it is five dollars. If you'll lend me that, I'll pay it back to you as soon as I can. I think it won't be more than a fortnight." "What is the plan you are thinking of, Joshua?" But upon this subject Joshua thought it best to preserve a discreet silence. He knew that the lottery scheme would not impress his mother favorably, and that she would not lend the money for any such purpose. He was aware in what light lotteries are generally regarded. Still his imagination had been inflamed by the stories he had read of other persons' luck, and he had succeeded in convincing himself that his own chance would be very good. Thus he referred to it, in speaking to his mother, as if he were sure of obtaining a large amount for his investment. "I can't tell you just at present, mother," he said; "the fact is, somebody else is concerned in it, and I am not allowed to tell." "I hope, Joshua, you have not allowed yourself to be imposed upon. You know you are not used to business." "I know what I'm about, mother. I'm not a baby. All I want is the money. Can you lend me five dollars?" "I wish I could; but you know your father doesn't allow me much money. I get my dress patterns and most of what I want out of the store, so I don't need it." "You have to buy things for the house,--groceries, and so on." "We have a bill at the grocery store. Your father pays it quarterly; so no money passes through my hands for that purpose." "Then you haven't got the money, mother," said Joshua, disappointed. "I haven't had as much as five dollars in my possession at one time for years," answered his mother. It was true that Mr. Drummond kept his wife uncommonly close. She was allowed to obtain a limited amount of goods from the store for her own wardrobe, but apart from that her husband appeared to think she had no need of money. More than once she wished she could have a little money at her control to answer occasional calls for charity. But on one occasion, having been indiscreet enough to give twenty-five cents and a good meal to a woman, sick and poor, who crawled to her door and asked for help, Mr. Drummond indulged in such a display of ill-humor at her foolish extravagance, as he called it, that she was forced afterwards to deny her generous impulses, or give in the most secret manner, pledging the recipient to silence. "I'm sorry I can't oblige you, Joshua," said his mother. "Will you have the pie?" "Yes," said Joshua, sullenly, for he was at a loss where next to apply, and felt that his scheme of sudden riches was blighted at its inception. Notwithstanding his disappointment, however, he was able to dispose of the pie. After consuming it, he went out of doors, to reflect upon other ways of raising the necessary money. There was his cousin Walter; he was quite sure that he had the money, but quite as sure that he would not lend it. Besides, he would have hesitated to apply, on account of the dislike he had come to entertain for our hero. This dislike had been increased by the result of the boat race between the "Pioneer" and the "Arrow." He had occasion to know that the defeat of the former boat was generally ascribed to his own imperfect steering, and he also knew that Walter had obtained considerable credit for his own performance in the same line. Now Joshua knew in his own heart that he could not steer, but he wanted the reputation of steering well, and it was very irksome to him to have to play second fiddle to Walter. He had indicated his dislike ever since by refusing to notice or speak to Walter, except in so far as it was absolutely necessary. Of course Walter noticed this want of cordiality, and was in a measure sorry for it; still he had become pretty thoroughly acquainted with Joshua's character by this time, and this knowledge led him to feel that the loss of his friendship was not a very serious one. He had made some other acquaintances, in the village, with boys of his own age, in whose society he found considerable more pleasure than he was ever likely to do in Joshua's. "He can go his way, and I'll go mine," he said to himself. "I'll paddle my own canoe, and he may paddle his. Perhaps he will succeed better in that than in steering," he thought with a smile. Help from Walter, therefore, was not to be expected. Was there any one else to help him? Joshua thought doubtfully of his father's clerk, young Nichols, who has already been introduced to the reader. He did not think there was much prospect of obtaining a loan from Nichols; still there might be. At any rate there seemed no other resource, and he made up his mind to sound him. He stepped into the store one day when Walter was absent on an errand, and his father was out also. "Good-morning, Joshua," said the salesman. "What's up this morning?" "Nothing that I know of." "You have an easy time. Nothing to do but to lounge about all day. You aint cooped up in a store fourteen hours a day." "That's so; but I suppose I'll have to begin some time." "Oh, you're all right. Your father's getting richer every year." "Yes, I suppose he is; but that doesn't give me ready money now. The fact is, I'm hard up for five dollars. Can't you lend it to me for a week? I'll give it back in a week, or ten days at any rate." "You couldn't come to a worse place for money," said Nichols, laughing. "The fact is, I'm hard up myself, and always am. Old Jones, the tailor, is dunning me for this very suit I have on. Fact is, my salary is so small, I have the hardest kind of work to get along." "Then you can't lend me the money? It's for only a week I want it." "I've got less than a dollar in my pocket, and I'm owing about fifty dollars to the tailor and shoemaker. Perhaps Walter can lend you the money." "I shan't ask him," said Joshua, shortly. "I'll go without first." "Don't you like him?" "No, I don't. He's a mean fellow." Nichols was privately of the opinion that the term described Joshua himself much more aptly, but did not express his opinion. CHAPTER XVI. JOSHUA TRIES KEEPING STORE. The more Joshua thought it over, the more convinced he was that a large sum of money was likely to come to him through the lottery, if he could only manage to raise money enough to buy a ticket. But the problem of how to get the necessary five dollars he was as far as ever from solving. While in this state of mind he happened one day to be in the store at noon, and alone. Nichols, the head clerk, wished to go to dinner, and was only waiting for Walter to get back from an errand. "I wish Walter would hurry up," he grumbled. "My dinner will get cold." "I'll take your place till he gets back, Mr. Nichols," said Joshua, with extraordinary kindness for him. [Illustration] "Much obliged, Joshua," said the salesman. "I'll do as much for you another time. I don't think you'll have long to wait." "You'd better hurry off," said Joshua. "I'd just as lief wait as not." "I never knew him so accommodating before," thought Nichols, with a feeling of surprise. He seized his hat and hurried away. No sooner had he gone than Joshua, after following him to the door, and looking carefully up and down the street, walked behind the counter with a hasty step, and opened the money-drawer. There was a small pile of bills in one compartment, and in the other a collection of currency. He took the bills into his hand, and looked over them. His hands trembled a little, for he contemplated a dishonest act. Unable to obtain the money in any other way, he meant to borrow (that was what he called it) five dollars from the money-drawer, and expend it in a lottery ticket. Singling out a five-dollar bill from the pile, he thrust it into his vest-pocket. He had scarcely done so when he was startled by hearing the door open. He made a guilty jump, but perceived, to his relief, that it was a woman not living in the village, but probably in some adjoining town. "What can I show you, ma'am?" he asked, in a flurried manner, for he could not help thinking of what he had in his vest-pocket. "I should like to look at some of your shawls," said the woman. Joshua knew very little about his father's stock. He did know, however, where the shawls were kept, and going to that portion of the shelves, pulled down half a dozen and showed them to his customer. "Are they all wool?" she asked, critically examining one of them. "Yes," answered Joshua, confidently, though he had not the slightest knowledge on the subject. "What is the price of this one?" asked the customer, indicating the one she had in her hand. "Five dollars," answered Joshua, with some hesitation. He knew nothing of the price, but guessed that this would be about right. "And you say it is all wool?" "Certainly, ma'am." "I guess I'll take it. Will you wrap it up for me?" This Joshua did awkwardly enough, and the customer departed, much pleased with her bargain, as she had a right to be, for the real price of the shawl was nine dollars, but, thanks to Joshua's ignorance, she had been able to save four. Joshua looked at the five-dollar bill he had just received, and a new idea occurred to him. He replaced in the drawer the bill he had originally taken from it, and substituted that just received. "I won't say anything about having sold a shawl," he said, "and father'll never know that one has been sold. At any rate, not till I get money enough to replace the bill I have taken." Just then a little girl came in and inquired for a spool of cotton. Joshua found the spools, and let her select one. "How much is it?" asked the young customer. "Ten cents." "Mother told me it wouldn't be but six." "Very well, if that is all you expect to pay, you shall have it for that." "Thank you, sir;" and the little girl departed with her purchase. Joshua now hurriedly folded up the shawls and replaced them on the shelves. He had just finished the task when Walter entered. "Are you tending store?" he said, in surprise. "Yes," said Joshua. "Nichols got tired waiting for you, so I told him I'd stay till you got back." "I had some distance to go, and that detained me. Did you have any customers?" "Yes, I just sold a spool of cotton to a little girl." "I met her a little way up the road, holding the spool in her hand." "Well," said Joshua, "I guess I'll go, now you've got back." He went across the street to his father's house, and, going up into his own room, locked the door, not wishing to be interrupted. Then, opening his desk, he took out a sheet of paper, and wrote a note to the address given in his lottery circular, requesting the parties to send him by return of mail a lottery ticket. He added, shrewdly as he thought, "If this ticket draws a prize, I will keep on buying; but if it don't I shall get discouraged and stop." "I guess that'll fetch 'em," thought Joshua. He folded up the paper, and, inclosing the bill, directed it. The next thing to do was to mail it. Now this seemed a very simple thing, but it really occasioned considerable trouble. The postmaster in a small village can generally identify many of the correspondents who send letters through his office by their handwriting. He knew Joshua's, and such a letter as this would attract his attention and set him to gossiping. Considering the circumstances under which he obtained the money, this was hardly desirable, and Joshua therefore decided, though unwillingly, on account of the trouble, to walk to the next post-office, a distance of three miles, and post his letter there. He came downstairs with his letter in his pocket. "Where are you going, Joshua?" asked his mother. "Going out to walk," said Joshua, shortly. "I wanted to send a little bundle to Mr. Faulkner's, but that is too far off." "I'll carry it," said Joshua. Mrs. Drummond was astonished at this unusual spirit of accommodation, for Joshua was, in general, far from obliging. The truth was, however, that, though Mr. Faulkner lived over a mile and a quarter distant, it was on his way to the post-office. "Thank you, Joshua," said Mrs. Drummond. "I was afraid you wouldn't be willing to go so far." "I feel just like taking a long walk to-day, mother." "Here is the bundle. I will bake a little pie for you while you are gone." So things seemed to be working very smoothly for Joshua, and he set out on his three-mile walk in very good spirits. His walk he knew would make him hungry, and the pie which his mother promised him would be very acceptable on his return. Arrived in front of Mr. Faulkner's, he saw Frank Faulkner, a boy of twelve, playing outside. "Frank," called out Joshua, "here's a bundle I want you to carry into the house. Tell your folks my mother sent it." "All right," said Frank, and he carried it in. Joshua proceeded on his way, and finally reached the post-office. "Give me a three-cent postage-stamp," he said to the postmaster. This was speedily affixed to the letter, and, after resting a short time, he set out on his walk homeward. Reaching the house of Mr. Faulkner, he was hailed by Frank, who was still playing outside. "Where have you been, Joshua?" Joshua was not desirous of having it known where he had been, and he answered, in the surly manner characteristic of him, "What business is that of yours?" "Where did you learn manners?" asked Frank, who was a sturdy scion of Young America, and quite disposed to stand up for his rights. "If you're impudent, I'll give you a licking," growled Joshua. "Next time you come along this way, you may take in your own bundles," retorted Frank. "If I had a stick, I'd give you something you wouldn't like." "You'd have to catch me first," said Frank. Joshua's temper, which was none of the sweetest, was by this time roused, and he started in pursuit of Frank, but the younger boy dodged so adroitly as to baffle his pursuit. In attempting to catch him, indeed, Joshua stubbed his toe violently against a projecting root, and measured his length by the roadside. "Who's down, I wonder?" asked Frank, scrambling over the fence, where he felt safe. "I'll wring your neck some time, you young imp!" exclaimed Joshua, gathering himself up slowly and painfully, and shaking his fist vindictively at Frank. "I'll wait till you're ready," returned Frank. "I'm in no hurry." At length Joshua reached home, feeling tired and provoked, but congratulating himself that he had taken the first step towards the grand prize which loomed in dazzling prospect before his eyes. CHAPTER XVII. JOSHUA'S DISAPPOINTMENT. In due time, to Joshua's great delight, the lottery ticket reached him. It was several days in coming, and he had almost given it up, but the sight of it raised his spirits to the highest pitch. It seemed to him the first step to a fortune. He began at once to indulge in dazzling visions of what he would do when the prize came to hand; how the "old man" would be astonished and treat him with increased respect; how he would go to the city and have a good time seeing the lions, and from henceforth throw off the galling yoke of dependence which his father's parsimony had made it so hard to bear. Whenever he was by himself, he used to pull out the ticket and gaze at it with the greatest satisfaction, as the key that was to unlock the portals of Fortune, Independence, and Happiness. He had been afraid that his appropriation of five dollars would be detected, and every time his father entered the house he looked into his face with some apprehension; but days rolled by, and nothing was heard. He congratulated himself that he had been able to sell the shawl for precisely the sum he needed, otherwise the money might have been missed that very night. As it was, neither the shawl nor the bill had been missed. About this time he received a letter from Sam Crawford, describing the gayeties of the city. It closed thus:-- "By the way, Josh, when are you coming up to the city, to take a look at the lions? It's a shame that a young man of your age should be cooped up in an insignificant little village like Stapleton. I wouldn't exchange the knowledge of the world I have obtained here for five hundred dollars! What a green rustic I was when I first came here! But it didn't take me long to find the way round, and now I know the ropes as well as the next man. I generally play billiards in the evening, and, if I do say it myself, I am rather hard to beat. When you come up, I'll give you a few lessons. I can't help pitying you for leading such a slow, humdrum life in the country. I should be moped to death if I were in your place. Can't you induce the old man to fork over the stamps, and come up here, if only for a week?" This letter had the effect of making Joshua very much disgusted with Stapleton. Brilliant visions of city life and city enjoyments flitted before his eyes, and he felt that nothing was needed to make a man of him except the knowledge of life which a city residence would be sure to give. "It's all true what Sam says," he soliloquized. "A man can't learn anything of life here. No wonder he looks upon me as a green rustic. How can I be anything else in this miserable little village? But as for the old man's paying my expenses on a visit, he's too mean for that. But then there is the lottery ticket. Just as soon as I get hold of my prize, I'll go on my own hook." I append a passage from Joshua's reply to Sam's letter:-- "There isn't any chance of the old man's forking over stamps enough to pay for my visit to New York. He's too thundering mean for that. All he cares for is to make money. _But I'm coming, for all that._ I've bought a lottery ticket, as you advised, and just as soon as I get hold of the prize, I shall come and make you a visit. I should like very much to learn billiards. I wish there was a billiard table in Stapleton, though it wouldn't do me much good if there were, the old man keeps me so close. I shall be glad when I am twenty-one. I don't see why he can't let me have a few thousand dollars then, and set me up in business in the city. Perhaps we could go in together as partners. However, there is no use in talking about him, for he won't do it. _But I may get hold of the money some other way._ Would five thousand dollars be enough to set a fellow up in business in New York? "You will hear from me again soon. I hope I shall be able to write you that I am coming to see you. "Your friend, "JOSHUA DRUMMOND." It will be seen that Joshua was willing to go into business for himself, though he did not care to take a situation. He had the idea, which I think is entertained by a large number of boys and young men, that an employer has nothing to do but to sit at his desk, count over his money, and order his clerks around. For such an employment as this Joshua felt that he was well adapted, and would very much have enjoyed the sense of importance it would give him. But Joshua made a great mistake. Many employers look back upon the years which they passed as clerks as years of comparative leisure and ease, certainly of freedom from anxiety. They find that they have a heavy price to pay for the privilege of being their own masters, and the masters of others. But Joshua was thoroughly lazy, and it was this feeling that dictated the wish which he expressed in his letter to Sam Crawford. The days passed very slowly, it must be acknowledged. Joshua was in a restless and excited state. Though he expected to draw a prize, he knew that there was a remote chance of failing to draw anything, and he wanted the matter decided. But at length the long-expected letter arrived. Joshua did not like to open it in the post-office, lest it should attract the attention of the postmaster. He therefore withdrew to a place where he was not likely to be disturbed, and with trembling fingers opened the letter. Something dropped out. "I wonder if it is a check?" thought Joshua, stooping over and picking it up. But no, it was an announcement of the drawing. Joshua's numbers,--for each lottery ticket contains three numbers,--were 9, 15, 50. But of the thirteen lucky numbers drawn out of sixty-five, neither of them was one. Slowly it dawned upon Joshua that he had drawn nothing, that his five dollars had been absolutely thrown away. But there was a letter. Perhaps this would explain it. Joshua read as follows:-- "DEAR SIR:--We regret to say that we are unable to send you a prize this time. We hope, however, you will not be discouraged. Some of our patrons who have been most fortunate have commenced by being unlucky. Indeed, singularly enough, this is a general rule. Let us cite an instance. Mr. B----, of your State, bought his first ticket of us last spring. It turned out a blank. We wrote him not to be discouraged, but we did not hear from him for some weeks. Finally he sent us a remittance for a ticket, adding that he sent it with a very faint hope of success. He was convinced that he was born to ill-luck. But what was the result? In less than a fortnight we had the pleasure and gratification of sending him five thousand dollars, minus our usual commission. Suppose he had been discouraged by a first failure, you can see how much he would have lost. "Hoping to hear from you again, and to send you in return better news, we subscribe ourselves, "Very respectfully, "GRABB & CO." The effect of Joshua's ill success was to make him very despondent. "It's all very well to say 'Try again,'" he said to himself, "but where can I get the money? That five dollars is thrown away, and I've got nothing to show for it." He thought of all he had intended to do, and now his castles had crumbled, and all in consequence of this letter. He had been so sanguine of success. Now he must write to Sam that his visit to New York was indefinitely postponed, that is, unless he could induce his father to provide him with money enough to go. The prospect was not very encouraging, but he felt desperate, and he determined to make the attempt. Accordingly, just after supper, he detained his father, just as he was returning to the store, and said:-- "Father, I wish you'd let me go to New York on a visit." "What for?" asked Mr. Drummond, elevating his brows. "Because I'm eighteen years old, and I've never been there yet." "Then, if you've gone eighteen years without seeing the city, I think you can go a while longer," said his father, under the impression that he had made a witty remark. But Joshua did not appreciate the humor of it. "I've lived in Stapleton ever since I was born," grumbled Joshua, "and have got tired of it. I want to see something of life." "Do you? Well, I'm sure I've no objection." "May I go then?" "Yes." "When?" asked Joshua, joyfully. "To-morrow, if you like; but of course you will pay your own expenses." "How can I?" exclaimed Joshua, in angry disappointment. "I have no money." "Then you can save up your allowance till you have enough." "Save up on twenty-five cents a week! I couldn't go till I was an old man!" "I know of no other way," said Mr. Drummond, with provoking indifference, "unless you earn the money in some way." "You treat me like a little boy!" said Joshua, angrily. "You are better off than I am. I have to work for all I get. You get your board, clothes, and pocket-money for nothing." "Other boys go to New York when they are much younger." "I have told you you can go when you like, but you mustn't expect me to supply the money." Mr. Drummond put on his hat and crossed the street to the store, leaving Joshua in a very unfilial frame of mind. CHAPTER XVIII. WALTER FINDS HIMSELF IN HOT WATER. Two days later two women entered Mr. Drummond's store. One was Joshua's customer, and she wore the same shawl which she had purchased of him. It happened that Walter was out, but Mr. Drummond and Nichols were both behind the counter. "Have you got any more shawls like this?" asked the first lady, whom we will call Mrs. Blake. "Mrs. Spicer, who is a neighbor of mine, liked it so well that she wants to get another just like it." This was addressed to Mr. Drummond, who happened to be nearest the door. "Did you buy this shawl of us?" asked Mr. Drummond. "Yes, sir. I bought it about a fortnight ago, and paid five dollars for it." "Five dollars! There must be some mistake. We never sell such a shawl as that for less than ten dollars." "I can't help it," said Mrs. Blake, positively. "I bought it here, and paid five dollars for it." "Why, those shawls cost me seven dollars and a half at wholesale. It is not likely I would sell them for five." "I didn't buy it of you." "Mr. Nichols," said Mr. Drummond, "did you sell this lady the shawl she is wearing, for five dollars?" "No, sir; have not sold a shawl like that for two months. I know the price well enough, and I wouldn't sell it for less than ten dollars." "I didn't buy it of him, I bought it of a boy," said Mrs. Blake. "It must have been that stupid Conrad," exclaimed Mr. Drummond, angrily. "Wait till he comes in, and I'll haul him over the coals." "Then you won't let my friend have another like it for five dollars?" "No," said Mr. Drummond, provoked. "I don't do business that way. I've lost nearly three dollars by that shawl of yours. You ought to make up the wholesale price to me." "I shan't do it," said Mrs. Blake. "If you've made a mistake, it's your lookout. I wasn't willing to pay more than five dollars." The two ladies were about to leave the store when Mr. Drummond said, "The boy will be back directly. I wish you would wait a few minutes, so that if he denies it you can prove it upon him." "I've got a call to make," said Mrs. Blake, "but I'll come in again in about an hour." They left the store, and Mr. Drummond began to berate the absent Walter. He was provoked to find that he had lost two dollars and a half, and, if Walter had been in receipt of any wages, would have stopped the amount out of his salary. But, unfortunately for this plan of reprisal, our hero received his board only, and that could not very well be levied upon. However, he might have some money in his possession, and Mr. Drummond decided to require him to make up the loss. "When did she say she bought the shawl, Mr. Nichols?" asked his employer. "About a fortnight ago." "Will you look on the books, and see if you find the sale recorded? I am surprised that it escaped my attention." Nichols looked over the book of sales, and announced that no such entry could be found. Mr. Drummond was surprised. Though not inclined to judge others any too charitably, he had never suspected Walter of dishonesty. "Are you sure you looked back far enough?" he asked. "Yes," said Nichols; "to make sure, I looked back four weeks. The woman said only a fortnight, you know." "I know. Then it seems Conrad has concealed the sale and kept the money." "Perhaps," suggested Nichols, who rather liked Walter, "he forgot to put it down." "If he did, he forgot to put the money in the drawer, for the cash and the sales have always balanced. He's an ungrateful young rascal," continued Mr. Drummond, harshly. "After I took him into my house and treated him as a son (this was not saying much, if Joshua may be believed), he has robbed me in the most cold-blooded manner." Why there should be anything cold-blooded in appropriating the price of the shawl, even had the charge been true, I cannot say, nor could Mr. Drummond probably, but he thought that the use of this term would make the offence seem more aggravated. Even Nichols was a little staggered by the evidence against our hero. He did not like to think him guilty, but it certainly seemed as if he must be. "What are you going to do about it, Mr. Drummond?" he asked. "I suppose I ought to have him arrested. He deserves it." "I hope you won't do that. He may be able to explain it." "If I do not proceed to extremities, it will be on account of his relationship, which I blush to acknowledge." The time had been, and that not long since, when Mr. Drummond felt proud of his relationship to the rich Squire Conrad of Willoughby; but that was before his loss of property. Circumstances alter cases. Quite unconscious of the storm that was gathering, Walter at this moment entered the store. "So you've got back!" said Mr. Drummond, harshly. "Yes, sir." "You haven't been in any particular hurry. However, that was not what I wished to speak to you about. We have made a discovery since you went out." "Have you, sir?" asked Walter, rather surprised by the peculiar tone which Mr. Drummond saw fit to adopt. "Yes, and not a very agreeable one." "I am sorry for that," said Walter, not knowing what else was expected of him. "No doubt you are sorry," sneered Mr. Drummond. "I should think he would be, eh, Mr. Nichols?" "I am sorry also," said Nichols, who, though rather weak-minded, was a good-hearted young man. "So am I sorry," said Mr. Drummond. "It strikes me I have most reason to be sorry, considering that the loss has fallen on me." All this was an enigma to Walter, and he had not the faintest idea of what his employer meant. He inferred, however, that some blame was about to be laid upon him. "If you have no objection, Mr. Drummond," he said quietly, "perhaps you will tell me what has happened." "I have found out your ingratitude, Conrad," said Mr. Drummond, preparing for a lecture, which he rather liked to indulge in, as his wife could have testified. "I have discovered how like a viper you have repaid me for my kindness. You didn't think I would find out, but your iniquity has providentially come to light. While I was loading you with benefits, you prepared to sting the hand of your benefactor." "I don't know what you are talking about, Mr. Drummond," said Walter, impatiently. "I wish you would stop talking in riddles, and let me know in what way I resemble a viper." "Did you ever witness such brazen effrontery, Mr. Nichols?" demanded Mr. Drummond, turning to his head salesman; "even when he is found out, he brazens it out." "Wouldn't it be as well to tell him what is the matter, Mr. Drummond?" asked Nichols, who was in hopes our hero would be able to prove his innocence. "Won't you tell me, Mr. Nichols?" asked Walter. "No," said Mr. Drummond, waving his hand; "it is my duty to tell him myself. I will do so briefly. Walter Conrad, when I admitted you into my house I little dreamed that I was harboring a thief." "A thief!" exclaimed Walter, his eyes flashing with anger, and elevating his fist involuntarily. "Who dares to call me a thief?" "No violence, Conrad," said Mr. Drummond. "Such a theatrical display of indignation and surprise won't help you any. We are not to be imposed upon by your artful demonstrations." "Mr. Drummond," burst forth Walter, fairly aroused, "you are insulting me by every word you speak. I am no more a thief than you are." "Do you call me a thief?" exclaimed Mr. Drummond, turning white about the lips. "No, I don't; but I have as much right to call you one as you have to charge such a thing upon me." "I can prove what I say," said his employer. "I have got you in a net." "It won't take me long to get out of any net you may set for me. I insist upon your telling me at once what you mean." "This language is rather extraordinary for a boy convicted of dishonesty to use towards his employer." "I am not convicted of dishonesty. Mr. Nichols, I appeal to you to tell me, what Mr. Drummond does not seem disposed to do, what is the meaning of this false charge which he has trumped up against me." "I am sure you can prove your innocence, Conrad," said Nichols, soothingly. "Mr. Nichols, will you do me the favor to be silent?" said his employer, sharply. "The matter concerns Conrad and myself, and I don't choose that any one should communicate with him except myself. To come to the point, did you, or did you not, a fortnight since, sell one of those shawls, such as you see on the counter, for five dollars?" "I did not," said Walter, promptly. "It might not have been exactly a fortnight. Have you sold such a shawl within four weeks?" "I have not sold such a shawl since I have been in your employ, Mr. Drummond." "You hear what he says, Mr. Nichols," said Mr. Drummond. "You see how he adds falsehood to dishonesty. But that is not uncommon. It is only what I expected. Do you mean to say, Walter Conrad, that you didn't sell such a shawl for five dollars (only half price), and, instead of entering the sale, put the money into your own pocket?" "I do deny it most emphatically, Mr. Drummond," said Walter, impetuously, "and I challenge you to prove it." CHAPTER XIX. THE TABLES ARE TURNED. "I shall soon be able to prove it," said Mr. Drummond. "The lady who bought the shawl came into the store half an hour since, and asked for another. When I told her that it would cost ten dollars, she said she only paid five for the one she had on. She then told us that she bought it of you a fortnight since." "How did she know my name?" "She did not mention your name. She said that it was a boy she bought it of, and of course that can only be you." "There is some mistake about this, Mr. Drummond. She has made a mistake. She must have bought it somewhere else." "She would not be likely to make such a mistake as this. Besides, the shawl is like others I have. How do you account for that?" queried Mr. Drummond, triumphantly. "I don't pretend to account for it, and don't feel called upon to do so. All I have got to say is, that I did not sell the shawl, nor pocket the money." "I shouldn't be surprised if you had the money about you at this very moment." "You are mistaken," said Walter, firmly. "Show me your pocket-book." "My pocket-book is my own property." "You are afraid to show it. Observe that, Mr. Nichols. Does not that look like guilt?" "I am willing to show it to Mr. Nichols," said Walter. He took it from his pocket, and handed it to Nichols, who took it rather unwillingly. "Open that pocket-book, Mr. Nichols, and show me what is in it." "Shall I do so, Walter?" asked Nichols. "Yes, Mr. Nichols. There is nothing in it that I am ashamed of." Nichols opened the pocket-book and took out three bills. "What are those bills, Mr. Nichols?" asked his employer. "There is a one, here is a two, and here is--" Nichols hesitated and looked disturbed--"here is a five." Mr. Drummond's mean face was radiant with exultation. "I told you so. I think we need no further proof. The stolen money has been found in Conrad's possession, and his falsehood and dishonesty are clearly proved. Hand me that five." "Stop a minute, Mr. Drummond," said Walter, coolly. "You are altogether too much in a hurry. You have proved nothing whatever. That five-dollar bill I brought from home with me, and I have kept it ever since, having no occasion to spend it." "Do you think I will believe any such story?" asked his employer, with a sneer. "That is very plausible, Conrad, but very improbable. I have no doubt whatever that the bill is the same one which was paid you for the shawl." "Then you are entirely mistaken." "That remains to be seen. Mr. Nichols, I will relieve you of that pocket-book. As the shawl should have been sold for ten dollars, the entire contents will not be sufficient to pay for the loss I have sustained." "Mr. Nichols," said Walter, "I forbid your giving that pocket-book to Mr. Drummond. He has no claim to it whatever. You may give it to me." "I forbid you giving it to Conrad," broke in his employer. "I don't know what to do," said Nichols, perplexed, looking from one to the other. "You know that it belongs to me, Mr. Nichols," said Walter. "I--I think I had better lay it down on the counter," said Nichols, by the way of compromise. Walter, who was on the outside, sprang to the counter, and seized it just in time to prevent Mr. Drummond's obtaining it. The latter was very angry at his want of success, and exclaimed violently, "Walter Conrad, give me that pocket-book instantly." Walter, who had put it in an inside pocket of his coat, coolly buttoned the coat and answered, "If you had any claim to it, Mr. Drummond, you would not have to speak twice; but as it is mine, I prefer to keep it." Mr. Drummond, though he had an irritable, aggravating temper, was not one to proceed to violence on ordinary occasions. But just now he was thoroughly provoked, and showed it. He sprang over the counter with an agility worthy of his youth, and advanced threateningly upon Walter. "Walter Conrad," he exclaimed furiously, "how dare you defy me in this outrageous manner? Do you know that I can have you arrested; but in consideration of your being a relation, I may be induced to spare you the penalty of the law if you will give me what money you have towards making up my loss." "So I would, if the loss had come through me. But I have already told you that this is not the case. I know nothing whatever about the shawl." "And this," said Mr. Drummond, folding his arms, "this is the viper that I have warmed in my bosom. This is the friendless orphan that I admitted beneath my roof, and made a companion of my son. This is the ungrateful serpent who has crept into my confidence, and abused it!" Mr. Drummond was an orator on a small scale, and the pleasure of giving utterance to this scathing denunciation caused him to delay his intention to obtain possession of the pocket-book by violence. Walter ought to have been withered by this outburst of righteous anger, but he wasn't. He stood it very well, and did not seem in the least affected. "Behold his hardened effrontery, Mr. Nichols," pursued Mr. Drummond, unfolding his arms, and pointing at our hero with quivering fore-finger. "I could not have believed that a boy of his years could be so brazen." "Mr. Drummond," said Walter, "I am sustained by a consciousness of my innocence, and therefore what you say has no effect upon me. It doesn't seem to be very just to convict me without evidence, and sentence me without trial." "Will you give up that pocket-book?" demanded Mr. Drummond, furiously, having indulged in his little flight of oratory, and being now ready to proceed to business. "No, sir, I will not," returned Walter, looking him firmly in the face. Mr. Drummond made a dash for him, but Walter was used to dodging, and, eluding his grasp, ran behind the counter. "Mr. Nichols, help me to catch him," said Mr. Drummond, quite red in the face. But Nichols did not show any great readiness to obey. He let Walter pass him, and did not make the least effort to retain him. Mr. Drummond was making ready to jump over the counter, when Nichols, to his great relief, observed the ladies, already referred to, coming up the steps from the street. "Mr. Drummond, the ladies have returned," he said hastily. "Aha!" said his employer, with exultation. "Now we will be able to prove your guilt, you young rascal! Here is the lady who bought the shawl of you." Mrs. Blake and her friend, Mrs. Spicer, here entered the store. Mr. Drummond went forward to meet them. His face was flushed, but he tried to look composed. "I am glad to see you back, ladies," he said. "You told me that you bought your shawl of a boy?" turning to Mrs. Blake. "Yes, sir." "Come forward, Conrad," said Mr. Drummond, a malignant smile overspreading his face. "Perhaps you will deny now, to this lady's face, that you sold her the shawl she has on." "I certainly do," said Walter. "I never, to my knowledge, saw the lady before, and I know that I did not sell her the shawl." "What do you think of that, Mr. Nichols?" said Mr. Drummond. "Did you ever witness such unblushing falsehood?" But here a shell was thrown into Mr. Drummond's camp, and by Mrs. Blake herself. "The boy is perfectly right," she said. "I did not buy the shawl of him." "WHAT!" stammered Mr. Drummond. Mrs. Blake repeated her statement. "Didn't you say you bought the shawl of the boy?" asked Mr. Drummond, with a sickly hue of disappointment overspreading his face. "Yes, but it was not that boy." "That is the only boy I have in my employment." "Come to think of it, I believe it was your son," said Mrs. Blake. "Isn't he a little older than this boy?" "My son,--Joshua!" exclaimed Mr. Drummond. "Yes, I think it must be he. He's got rather an old-looking face, with freckles and reddish hair; isn't so good-looking as this boy." "Joshua!" repeated Mr. Drummond, bewildered. "He doesn't tend in the store." "It was about dinner-time," said Mrs. Blake. "He was the only one here." "Do you know anything about this, Mr. Nichols?" asked Mr. Drummond, turning to his head clerk. Light had dawned upon Nichols. He remembered now Joshua's offer to take his place, and he felt sure in his own mind who was the guilty party. "Yes, Mr. Drummond," he answered; "about a fortnight ago, as Walter was rather late in getting back, Joshua offered to stay in the store for a while. He must have sold the shawl, but he must have guessed at the price." "A mistake has been made," said Mr. Drummond, hurriedly, to the ladies,--"a mistake that you have profited by. I shall not be able to sell you another shawl for less than ten dollars." The ladies went out, and Mr. Drummond and his two clerks were left alone. "Mr. Drummond," said Walter, quietly, "after what has happened, you will not be surprised if I decline to remain in your employ. I shall take the afternoon train to Willoughby." He walked out of the store, and crossed the street to Mr. Drummond's house. CHAPTER XX. IN WHICH JOSHUA COMES TO GRIEF. Walter went up to his room, and hastily packed his trunk. He felt wronged and outraged by the unfounded charge that had been made against him. Why, he argued, should Mr. Drummond so readily decide that he had cheated him out of five dollars? He felt that he could not, with any self-respect, remain any longer under the same roof with a man who had such a poor opinion of him. He was not sorry that his engagement was at an end. He had obtained some knowledge of the dry-goods business, and he knew that his services were worth more than his board. Then again, though he was not particular about living luxuriously, the fare at Mr. Drummond's was so uncommonly poor that he did sometimes long for one of the abundant and well-cooked meals which he used to have spread before him at home, or even at his boarding-house while a pupil of the Essex Classical Institute. He was packing his trunk when a step was heard on the stairs, and his door was opened by Mr. Drummond, considerably to Walter's surprise. The fact is, that Mr. Drummond, on realizing what a mistake he had made, and that Joshua was the real culprit, felt that he had gone altogether too far, and he realized that he would be severely censured by Walter's friends in Willoughby. Besides, it was just possible that Walter might, after all, recover a few thousand dollars from his father's estate, and therefore it was better to be on good terms with him. Mr. Drummond determined, therefore, to conciliate Walter, and induce him, if possible, to remain in his house and employ. "What are you doing, Conrad?" he asked, on entering Walter's chamber. "Packing my trunk, sir," said Walter. "Surely you are not going to leave us." "I think it best," said Walter, quietly. "You won't--ahem!--bear malice on account of the little mistake I made. We are all liable to mistakes." "It was something more than a mistake, Mr. Drummond. What had you seen in me to justify you in such a sudden charge of dishonesty?" "Almost anybody would have been deceived under the circumstances," said Mr. Drummond, awkwardly. "You did not give me an opportunity to defend myself, or rather you disbelieved all I said." "Well, Conrad, I was mistaken. I shall be glad to have you come back to the store as before." "Thank you, Mr. Drummond, but I have decided to go back to Willoughby for a short time. I want to consult Mr. Shaw about the future. It is time I formed some plans, as I shall probably have to earn my living." "Don't you think you had better wait a few months?" "No, sir, I think not." "If you have made up your mind, all I have to say is that my humble dwelling will be ever open to receive you in the future. Perhaps, after a short visit at your old home, you may feel inclined to return to my employment. I will give you a dollar a week besides board." Mr. Drummond looked as if he felt that this was a magnificent offer, for which Walter ought to feel grateful. But our hero knew very well that he could command better pay elsewhere, and was not particularly impressed. Still he wished to be polite. "Thank you for your offer, Mr. Drummond," he said; "but I am not prepared to say, as yet, what I will do." "I hope," said Mr. Drummond, rather embarrassed, "you won't speak of our little difference to your friends at Willoughby." "No, sir, not if you wish me not to do so." By this time the trunk was packed, and Walter, locking it, rose from his knees. "If it won't be too much trouble, Mr. Drummond," he said, "I will send for my trunk to-morrow." "Certainly. Why won't you wait till to-morrow yourself?" "As I am ready, I may as well take the afternoon train." "Very well; just as you think best." "I will go down and bid good-by to Mrs. Drummond." Mrs. Drummond had just come from the kitchen. She looked with surprise at Walter and her husband, whose presence in the house at that hour was unusual. "What is the matter?" she asked. "Conrad is going home a short time on business," explained Mr. Drummond. "When shall we see you back again, Walter?" asked Mrs. Drummond. "That is uncertain," said Walter. "It depends upon my plans for the future." "I have offered him increased pay," said Mr. Drummond, "if he will return to the store. I hope he may decide to do so. Our humble roof will ever be ready to shelter him." Considering that Mr. Drummond had not lately made any such hospitable references to the humble roof, his wife looked somewhat puzzled. Just at that moment Joshua, unconscious of the damaging discovery that had been made relative to himself, entered the room. "Hallo! what's up?" he asked. It was the first time his father had seen him since the discovery of his dishonesty, and his anger was kindled. "You ought to be ashamed to show your face here, you young reprobate!" he exclaimed. Joshua stared in amazement, and Mrs. Drummond exclaimed, "What makes you talk so, Mr. Drummond? What has he done?" "What has he done?" ejaculated Mr. Drummond, adding, rather ungrammatically, "He's a thief, that's what he's done." "How can you say such things of your own son?" "Shut up, Mrs. Drummond; you don't know what you're talking about, or you wouldn't defend him. It would serve him right if I should flog him within an inch of his life." "If you try it," said Joshua, sullenly, "I'll have you arrested for assault and battery." "Take care, boy! or you may find yourself in custody for theft." "What do all these dreadful words mean?" asked Mrs. Drummond, distressed. "Tell me, Walter, if you know." "I would rather Mr. Drummond informed you," said Walter. "I'll tell you, Mrs. Drummond," said her husband. "That boy sold a shawl a fortnight ago, when alone in the store, and pocketed the money." "Who said I did?" asked Joshua, boldly, though he looked a little pale. "The woman who bought it of you was in the store to-day." "Did she say I sold it to her?" "Yes." "Did she know my name?" "No, but she described you." "So I did," said Joshua, finding it advisable to remember. "I remember now I sold it for five dollars." "What made you keep the money?" "I didn't. I waited till Conrad came into the store, and gave the money to him. What he did with it, I don't know. Perhaps he forgot to put it in the drawer," he added, with a spiteful look at Walter. "That's a lie, Joshua Drummond!" said Walter, quietly, "and you know it is. I think your father knows it is also." "Do you mean to say I lie?" blustered Joshua. "I wouldn't if I wasn't obliged to; but in my own defence I am compelled to do so." "What could I want of the money?" demanded Joshua, with a look of virtuous indignation. "I might as well ask the same question of myself; but that would be a poor defence. If you really want me to answer that question, I will do it." "Go ahead, then," said Joshua. "I hope my word is better than that of a beggar living on charity." "Joshua!" said his mother, in a tone of remonstrance. "I think you wanted the money to buy lottery tickets with," said Walter, calmly. Joshua turned pale, and looked thunderstruck. "To buy lottery tickets with!" he gasped, staring at Walter in dismay. "What's that?" asked Mr. Drummond, pricking up his ears. "Your son can tell you," said Walter. "What does this mean, Joshua?" demanded his father, sternly. "It's a lie," said Joshua, unblushingly. "Have you bought no lottery tickets?" "No." "Can you prove this charge which you have made against my son?" asked Mr. Drummond, turning to Walter. "I can, but I am sorry to do so. I picked up this letter a day or two since, and intended to give it back to Joshua, but it escaped my mind. I would not have exposed him if he had not tried to charge me with theft." He placed in Mr. Drummond's hands the letter already given, announcing to Joshua that he had drawn a blank. Mr. Drummond read it with no little anger, for he detested lotteries. "Unhappy boy!" he said, addressing Joshua. "I understand now what became of the five dollars. This decides me to do what I had intended to do sooner. I have supported you in laziness long enough. It is time you went to work. Next week you must go to work. I will take you into my store; but as I am not sure of your honesty, if I find you appropriating money to your own use, I will put you into a shoe-shop and make a shoemaker of you." This was an alarming threat to Joshua, who had a foolish pride, which led him to look upon a trade as less respectable than the mercantile profession. He slunk out of the house, and Mr. Drummond went back to the store, while Walter set out on foot for the railway station, three-quarters of a mile distant. CHAPTER XXI. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. "Give me a ticket to Willoughby," said Walter, offering the five-dollar bill which he had come so near losing. The ticket was handed him, and three dollars and seventy-five cents were returned to him. "How long are you going to stay away?" asked the station-master, with whom Walter had some acquaintance. "I may not come back at all." "Have you left Drummond's store?" "Yes." "Isn't that rather sudden?" "A little so; but I didn't mean to stay long." The shriek of the locomotive now became audible, and Walter went out on the platform. Five minutes later found him occupying a seat, or rather half a seat, for there sat next to him a brisk, energetic-looking man, of about thirty years of age. He had been reading the morning paper, but apparently he had got through with it, for he folded it up, and put it in his pocket. "Fine day," he said, briskly. "Yes, sir, very fine," answered Walter. "Some people are affected by the weather; I am not," pursued his fellow-traveller. "I feel as smart one day as another." "It isn't quite so cheerful when it rains," observed Walter. "I'm always cheerful. I've got too much business to do to mope. When a man's got enough to busy himself about, he hasn't time to be in the dumps." "There's a good deal in that," said Walter. "Of course there is. Push along, keep moving, that's my motto. Are you in business?" "No, sir, not at present." "I'm in the subscription-book business,--got an office in New York. We send out agents everywhere to canvass for our publication. Lots of money in it." "Is there?" "Yes. I used to be an agent myself, and, though I say it, I don't think there are many agents that can get ahead of me. Sometimes I used to make twenty dollars a day. At last I thought I'd like to settle down, so I bought a partnership, and now, instead of being an agent, I send out agents." "Isn't twenty dollars a day pretty large for an agent to make?" asked Walter. "Yes, there are not many do it, but plenty make from five to ten right along. You look as if you would make a good agent." "What makes you think so?" asked Walter. "You look smart." "Thank you," said Walter, laughing. "I am afraid you won't think so much of my ability when I tell you I have been working for the last three months for my board." "It's a shame. You'd better come with us. We'll do much better by you than that." "I am going to consult some friends about my future plans. If you are willing to tell me a little of your business, I will think of what you propose." "I have with me our latest publication. It's going like wildfire. Just the thing to please the people. I'll show it to you." Walter looked with interest while his new acquaintance drew out from a carpet-bag, which he had beneath the seat, a good-sized parcel wrapped in brown paper. Untying it, he produced a bulky octavo, in flashy binding, and abounding in illustrations. He opened the book and turned over the leaves rapidly. "It's stuffed full of illustrations, you see," said he. "The expense of the pictures alone was absolutely e-nor-mous!" he added, dwelling upon the last word by way of emphasis. "But we're going to make it pay. The sale will be immense. Our agents already in the field report remarkable sales." "What's the title of the book?" asked Walter, who had yet been unable to determine this point, by reason of the rapid turning of the pages. "'Scenes in Bible Lands.' We include other countries besides Palestine, and we've made a book that'll sell. Most every family will want one." "What terms do you offer to agents?" "Why, the book sells at retail at three dollars and fifty cents. Of this the agent keeps one dollar and twenty-five cents. Pretty good, isn't it?" "Yes, I should think it was." "You see you have only to sell four copies a day to make five dollars. If you're smart, you can do better than that." It really did seem very good to Walter, who couldn't help comparing it with the miserable wages he had received from Mr. Drummond. "I think that would pay very well," he said. "Most paying business out," said the other. "Say the word, and I'll engage you on the spot." "Where would you want me to sell?" "I should like to have you go West. This way districts are mostly taken up. It would give you a good chance to travel and see the world." Now Walter was, like most young people, fond of new scenes, and this consideration was a weighty one. It would enable him to travel, and pay his expenses while doing so. "Better say the word." "I can't now. I must see my friends first." "Where are you going?" "To Willoughby." "How long are you going to stay?" "I can't tell. A few days probably." "Well, I'll give you the number of our office in New York. When you get ready, report to us there, and we'll put you in the field." To this Walter assented, and asked several questions further, to which he received encouraging answers. The stranger gave him his card, from which our hero learned that he had made the acquaintance of Mr. James Pusher, of the firm of Flint & Pusher, subscription publishers, No. -- Nassau St., New York. "Good-by," said Mr. Pusher, cordially, when Walter left the train for the Willoughby station; "hope to see you again." "Thank you," said Walter; "very likely you will." Taking his carpet-bag in his hand, for he had arranged to have his trunk come the next day, he walked over to the house of Mr. Shaw, his father's executor. Mr. Shaw was in his office, a little one-story building standing by itself a little to the left of his house. He was busily writing, and did not at once look up. When he saw who it was, he rose up and welcomed Walter with a smile. "I'm very glad to see you, Walter," he said. "I was just wishing you were here. When did you leave Stapleton?" "This afternoon, Mr. Shaw. I have just reached Willoughby." "And how did you like Stapleton?" "Tolerably well." "And Mr. Drummond,--how were you pleased with him?" "As to that," said Walter, smiling, "I can't say that I liked him as well as I might." "I judged that from what I have heard of his character. He has the reputation of being very mean. A cent in his eyes is as large as a dollar appears to some men. How did he pay you for your services?" "I worked for board wages." "And pretty poor board at that, I imagine." "I had no fear of the gout," said Walter. "The living isn't luxurious." "Well, I'm glad you are back again. For the present I shall expect you to be my guest." This settled the embarrassing question which had suggested itself as to where he should stay. His late father's house was of course shut up, and he had no relatives in Willoughby. "Thank you, Mr. Shaw," he said. "For a few days I shall be glad to accept your kind offer. What progress have you made in settling the estate?" "I can give you some idea of how it stands. There will be something left, but not much. After paying all debts, including Nancy's, there will certainly be a thousand dollars; but if you pay Nancy's legacy, that will take half of this sum." "The legacy shall be paid," said Walter, promptly, "no matter how little remains. I am glad there is enough for that." "I honor your determination, Walter, but I don't think Nancy will be willing to take half of what you have left." "Then don't let her know how little it is." "There is a chance of something more. I have made no account of the Great Metropolitan Mining stock, of which your father held shares to the amount of one hundred thousand dollars, cost price. How these will come out is very uncertain, but I think we can get something. Suppose it were only five per cent., that would make five thousand dollars. But it isn't best to count on that." "I shan't make any account of the mining stock," said Walter. "If I get anything, it will be so much more than I expect." "That is the best way. It will prevent disappointment." "How long before we find out about it?" "It is wholly uncertain. It may be six months; It may be two years. All I can say is, that I will look after your interests." "Thank you, I am sure of that." "Now, as to your plans. You were at the Essex Classical Institute, I think?" "Yes, sir." "What do you say to going back for a year? It is not an expensive school. You could stay a year, including all expenses, for the sum of five hundred dollars." Walter shook his head. "It would consume all my money; and as long as I am not going to college, my present education will be sufficient." "As to consuming all your money," said Mr. Shaw, "let me say one thing. I received many favors from your father, especially when a young man just starting in business. Let me repay them by paying half your expenses for the next year at school." "You are very kind, Mr. Shaw," said Walter, gratefully, "and I would accept that favor from you sooner than from any one; but I've made up my mind to take care of myself, _and paddle my own canoe_." "Well, perhaps you're right," said the lawyer, kindly; "but at least you will accept my advice. Have you formed any plans for the future?" CHAPTER XXII. MESSRS. FLINT AND PUSHER. Now that he was again in his native village, Walter realized how unpleasant had been his position at Mr. Drummond's from the new elasticity and cheerfulness which he felt. There had been something gloomy and oppressive in the atmosphere of his temporary home at Stapleton, and he certainly had very little enjoyment in Joshua's society. Mrs. Drummond was the only one for whom he felt the least regard. He passed a few days quietly, renewing old acquaintances and friendships. Nancy Forbes had gone to live with a brother, who was an old bachelor, and very glad to have her with him. Her savings and the legacy left her by Mr. Conrad together amounted to a thousand dollars, or rather more,--sufficient to make Nancy rich, in her own opinion. But she was not quite satisfied about the legacy. "They say, Walter, that you'll be left poor," she said. "You'll need this money." "No, I shan't, Nancy," answered Walter. "Besides, there's a lot of mining stock that'll come to something,--I don't know how much." "But I don't feel right about taking this money, Walter." "You needn't feel any scruples, Nancy. I can take care of myself. I can paddle my own canoe." "But you haven't got any canoe," said Nancy, who did not comprehend the allusion. "Besides, I don't see how that would help you to a living." Walter laughed. "I shall get a canoe, then," he said, "and I'll steer it on to Fortune." "At any rate," said Nancy, "I will leave you my money when I die." "Who knows but you'll marry and have a lot of children?" "That isn't very likely, Walter, and me forty-seven a'ready. I'm most an old woman." So the conversation ended. Nancy agreed, though reluctantly, to take the legacy, resolved some time or other to leave it to Walter. If she had known how little he really had left, she would not have consented to accept it at all. The same evening Walter sat in the lawyer's comfortable sitting-room, and together they discussed the future. "So you want to be a book agent, Walter?" said Mr. Shaw. "I can't say I think very highly of this plan." "Why not, Mr. Shaw?" "It will lead to nothing." "I don't mean to spend my life at it. I am more ambitious than that. But it will give me a chance to travel without expense, and I always wanted to see something of the world." "How old are you now?" "Fifteen." "You are well-grown of your age. You might readily be taken for sixteen." "Do you really think so?" asked Walter, gratified, like most boys of his age, at being thought to look older than he really was. "Yes; at sixteen I was smaller than you now are." "You see, Mr. Shaw, that, as I am so young, even if I spend a year at this business, I shall not be too old to undertake something else afterwards. In the mean time I shall see something of the world." "Well, Walter, I won't oppose you. If I had not so much confidence in you, I should warn you of the temptations that are likely to beset your youth, left, as you will be, entirely to yourself. Of course you will be thrown among all kinds of associates." "Yes, sir; but I think I shall be wise enough to avoid what will do me no good." "So I hope and believe. Now, what is the name of this publisher you were speaking of?" "Pusher. He's of the firm of Flint & Pusher." "I have heard of them. They are an enterprising firm." "I think I had better start pretty soon, Mr. Shaw. I shall enjoy myself better when I am at work." "Next Monday, then, if you desire it." It was then Friday. On Monday morning Mr. Shaw handed Walter a pocket-book containing a roll of bills. "You will need some money to defray your expenses," he said, "until you are able to earn something. You will find fifty dollars in this pocket-book. There is no occasion to thank me, for I have only advanced it from money realized from your father's estate. If you need any more, you can write me, and I can send you a check or money-order." "This will be quite enough, Mr. Shaw," said Walter, confidently. "It won't be long before I shall be paying my way; at least I hope so. I don't mean to be idle." "I am sure you won't be, or you will belie your reputation. Well, good-by, Walter. Write me soon and often. You know I look upon myself as in some sort your guardian." "I will certainly write you, Mr. Shaw. By the way, I never thought to ask you about the furniture of my room at the Essex Classical Institute." "It was purchased by the keeper of the boarding-house; at a sacrifice, it is true, but I thought it best to let it go, to save trouble." [Illustration] "I should like to see Lem," thought Walter, with a little sigh as he called to mind the pleasant hours he had passed with his school-fellow. "I'll go back and pay the old institute a visit some time, after I've got back from my travels." Walter reached New York by ten o'clock. Though his acquaintance with the city streets was very limited, as he had seldom visited it, he found his way without much trouble to the place of business of Messrs. Flint & Pusher. As they did not undertake to do a retail business, but worked entirely through agents, their rooms were not on the first floor, but on the third. Opening the door of the room, to which he was guided by a directory in the entry beneath, Walter found himself in a large apartment, the floor of which was heaped up with piles of books, chiefly octavos. An elderly gentleman, with a partially bald head, and wearing spectacles, was talking with two men, probably agents. "Well, young man," said he, in rather a sharp voice, "what can I do for you?" "Is Mr. Pusher in?" asked Walter. "He went out for a few minutes; will be back directly. Did you wish particularly to see him?" "Yes, sir." "Take a seat, then, and wait till he comes in." Walter sat down and listened to the conversation. "You met with fair success, then?" inquired Mr. Flint. "Yes, the book takes well. I sold ten in one day, and six and eight in other days." Walter pricked up his ears. He wondered whether the book was the one recommended to him. If so, a sale of ten copies would enable the agent to realize twelve dollars and a half, which was certainly doing very well. Just as the agents were going out, Mr. Pusher bustled in. His sharp eyes fell upon Walter, whom he immediately recognized. "Ha, my young friend, so you have found us out," he said, offering his hand. "Yes, sir." "Come to talk on business, I hope?" "Yes, sir, that is my object in coming." "Mr. Flint," said Mr. Pusher, "this is a young friend whose acquaintance I made a short time since. I told him, if ever he wanted employment, to come here, and we would give him something to do." Mr. Flint, who was a slower and a more cautious man than Mr. Pusher, regarded Walter a little doubtfully. "Do you mean as an agent?" he said. "Certainly I do." "He seems very young." "That's true, but age isn't always an advantage. He looks smart, and I'll guarantee that he is all he looks. I claim to be something of a judge of human nature too." "No doubt you're right," said Mr. Flint, who was accustomed to defer considerably to his more impetuous partner. "What's the young man's name?" "You've got me there," said Mr. Pusher, laughing. "If I ever knew, which is doubtful, I've forgotten." "My name is Walter Conrad," said our hero. "Very good. Well, Conrad," continued Mr. Pusher, in an off-hand manner, "what are your wishes? What book do you want to take hold of?" "You mentioned a book the other day,--'Scenes in Bible Lands.'" "Yes, our new book. That would be as good as any to begin on. How's the territory, Mr. Flint?" Mr. Flint referred to a book. "Most of the territory near by is taken up," he said. "Does Mr. Conrad wish to operate near home?" "I would rather go to a distance," said Walter. "As far as Ohio?" "Yes." "In that case you could map out your own route pretty much. We haven't got the West portioned out as we have the Middle and New England States." "In other words, we can give you a kind of roving commission, Conrad," put in Mr. Pusher. "That would suit me, sir," said Walter. "Still it would be best not to attempt to cover too much territory. A rolling stone gathers no moss, you know. There is one important question I must ask you to begin with. Have you got any money?" "Yes, sir, I have fifty dollars." "Good. Of course you will need money to get out to your field of labor, and will have to pay your expenses till you begin to earn something. Fifty dollars will answer very well." "As I don't know very well how the business is managed," said Walter, "I must ask for instructions." "Of course. You're a green hand. Sit down here, and I'll make it all plain to you." So Mr. Pusher, in his brief, incisive way, explained to Walter how he must manage. His instructions were readily comprehended, and Walter, as he listened, felt eager to enter upon the adventurous career which he had chosen. CHAPTER XXIII. WALTER LOSES HIS MONEY. Walter, by advice of Mr. Pusher, bought a ticket to Cleveland. There was a resident agent in this city, and a depository of books published by the firm. As Walter would be unable to carry with him as large a supply of books as he needed, he was authorized to send to the Cleveland agency when he got out, and the books would be sent him by express. "I will give you a letter to Mr. Greene, our agent in Cleveland," said Mr. Pusher, "and you can consult him as to your best field of operations." The letter was hastily written and handed to Walter. "Good-by, Mr. Pusher," he said, preparing to leave the office. "Good-by, my young friend. I shall hope to hear good accounts from you." So Walter went downstairs, and emerged into the street. He had no particular motive for remaining in New York, and felt eager to commence work. So he went at once to the Erie railway depot, and bought a through ticket to Cleveland, via Buffalo and Niagara Falls. Though he had not much money to spare, he determined not to neglect the opportunity he would have of seeing this great natural wonder, but to stop over a day in order to visit the falls. He selected a comfortable seat by a window, and waited till the train was ready to start. He realized that he had engaged in rather a large enterprise for a boy of fifteen, who had hitherto had all his wants supplied by others. He was about to go a thousand miles from home, to earn his own living,--in other words, to paddle his own canoe. But he did not feel in the least dismayed. He was ambitious and enterprising, and confident that he could earn his living as well as other boys of his age. He had never been far from home, but felt that he should enjoy visiting new and unfamiliar scenes. So he felt decidedly cheerful and hopeful as the cars whirled him out of the depot, and he commenced his Western journey. Walter put his strip of railway tickets into his vest-pocket, and his porte-monnaie, containing the balance of his money, into the pocket of his pantaloons. He wished to have the tickets at hand when the conductor came round. He sat alone at first, but after a while a lady got in who rode thirty miles or more, and then got out. A little later a young man passed through the cars, looking about him on either side. He paused at Walter's seat, and inquired, "Is this seat taken?" "No, sir," said Walter. "Then, with your permission, I will take it," said the stranger. "Tiresome work travelling, isn't it?" "I don't know," said Walter. "I rather like it; but then I never travelled much." "I have to travel a good deal on business," said the other, "and I've got tired of it. How many times do you think I have been over this road?" "Couldn't guess." "This is the fifteenth time. I know it like a book. How far are you going?" "To Cleveland." "Got relations there, I suppose?" "No," said Walter; "I am going on business." He was rather glad to let his companion know that he, too, was in business. "You're young to be in business," said his companion. "What sort of business is it?" "I am an agent for Flint & Pusher, a New York firm." "Publishers, aint they?" "Yes, sir." Walter's companion was a young man of twenty-five, or possibly a year or two older. He was rather flashily attired, with a cut-away coat and a low-cut vest, double-breasted, across which glittered a massive chain, which might have been gold, or might only have been gilt, since all that glitters is not gold. At any rate, it answered the purpose of making a show. His cravat was showy, and his whole appearance indicated absence of good taste. A cautious employer would scarcely have selected him from a crowd of applicants for a confidential position. Walter was vaguely conscious of this. Still he had seen but little of the world, and felt incompetent to judge others. "Are you going right through to Cleveland?" inquired the stranger. "No; I think I shall stop at Buffalo. I want to see Niagara Falls." "That's right. Better see them. They're stunning." "I suppose you have been there?" said Walter, with some curiosity. "Oh, yes, several times. I've a great mind to go again and show you round, but I don't know if I can spare so long a time from business." "I should like your company," said Walter, politely; "but I don't want to interfere with your engagements." "I'll think of it, and see how I can arrange matters," said the other. Walter was not particularly anxious for the continued society of his present companion. He was willing enough to talk with him, but there was something in his appearance and manner which prevented his being attracted to him. He turned away and began to view the scenery through which they were passing. The stranger took out a newspaper, and appeared to be reading attentively. Half an hour passed thus without a word being spoken on either side. At length his companion folded up the paper. "Do you smoke?" he asked. "No," said Walter. "I think I'll go into the smoking-car, and smoke a cigar. I should like to offer you one if you will take one." "No, thank you," said Walter; "I don't smoke, and I am afraid my first cigar wouldn't give me much pleasure." "I'll be back in a few minutes. Perhaps you'd like to look over this paper while I am gone." "Thank you," said Walter. He took the paper,--an illustrated weekly,--and looked over the pictures with considerable interest. He had just commenced reading a story when a boy passed through the car with a basket of oranges and apples depending from his arm. "Oranges--apples!" he called out, looking to the right and left in quest of customers. The day was warm, and through the open window dust had blown into the car. Walter's throat felt parched, and the oranges looked tempting. "How much are your oranges?" he inquired. "Five cents apiece, or three for a dime," answered the boy. "I'll take three," said Walter, reflecting that he could easily dispose of two himself, and considering that it would only be polite to offer one to his companion, whose paper he was reading, when he should return. "Here are three nice ones," said the boy, picking them out, and placing them in our hero's hands. Walter felt in his vest-pocket, thinking he had a little change there. He proved to be mistaken. There was nothing in that pocket except his railway tickets. Next, of course, he felt for his porte-monnaie, but he felt for it in vain. He started in surprise. "I thought my pocket-book was in that pocket," he reflected. "Can it be in the other?" He felt in the other pocket, but search here was equally fruitless. He next felt nervously in the pocket of his coat, though he was sure he couldn't have put his porte-monnaie there. Then it flashed upon him, with a feeling of dismay, that he had lost his pocket-book and all his remaining money. How or where, he could not possibly imagine, for the suddenness of the discovery quite bewildered him. "I won't take the oranges," he said to the boy. "I can't find my money." The boy, who had made sure of a sale, took back the fruit reluctantly, and passed on, crying out, "Here's your oranges and apples!" Walter set about thinking what had become of his money. The more he thought, the more certain he felt that he had put his porte-monnaie in the pocket in which he had first felt for it. Why was it not there now? That was a question which he felt utterly incompetent to answer. "Have you lost anything?" inquired a gentleman who sat just behind Walter. Looking back, he found that it was a gentleman of fifty who addressed him. "Yes, sir," he said, "I have lost my pocket-book." "Was there much money in it?" "About forty dollars, sir." "That is too much to lose. Was your ticket in it also?" "No, sir; that I have in my vest-pocket." "Where was your pocket-book when you last saw it?" inquired the gentleman. "In this pocket, sir." "Humph!" commented the other. "Who was that young man who was sitting with you a few minutes since?" "I don't know, sir." "He was a stranger, then?" "Yes, sir; I never met him till this morning." "Then I think I can tell you where your money has gone." "Where, sir?" demanded Walter, beginning to understand him. "I think your late companion was a pickpocket, and relieved you of it, while he pretended to be reading. I didn't like his appearance much." "I don't see how he could have done it without my feeling his hand in my pocket." "They understand their business, and can easily relieve one of his purse undetected. I once had my watch stolen without being conscious of it. Your porte-monnaie was in the pocket towards the man, and you were looking from the window. It was a very simple thing to relieve you of it." CHAPTER XXIV. SLIPPERY DICK. It is not natural for a boy of Walter's age to distrust those with whom he becomes acquainted even slightly. This lesson unfortunately is learned later in life. But the words of his fellow-traveller inspired him with conviction. He could think of no other way of accounting for his loss. He rose from his seat. "Where are you going?" asked the old gentleman. "I am going to look for the thief." "Do you expect to find him?" "He said he was going into the smoking-car." "My young friend, I strongly suspect that this was only to blind you. The cars have stopped at two stations since he left his seat, and if he took your money he has doubtless effected his escape." Walter was rather taken aback by this consideration. It seemed reasonable enough, and, if true, he didn't see how he was going to get back his money. "I dare say you are right," he said; "but I will go into the smoking-car and see." "Come back again, and let me know whether you find him." "Yes, sir." Walter went through two cars, looking about him on either side, thinking it possible that the thief might have taken his seat in one of them. There was very little chance of this, however. Next he passed into the smoking-car, where, to his joy no less than his surprise, he found the man of whom he was in search playing cards with three other passengers. He looked up carelessly as Walter approached, but did not betray the slightest confusion or sign of guilt. To let the reader into a secret, he had actually taken Walter's pocket-book, but was too cunning to keep it about him. He had taken out the money, and thrown the porte-monnaie itself from the car platform, taking an opportunity when he thought himself unobserved. As the money consisted of bills, which could not be identified as Walter's, he felt that he was in no danger of detection. He thought that he could afford to be indifferent. "Did you get tired of waiting?" he asked, addressing our hero. "That's pretty cool if he took the money," thought Walter. "May I speak to you a moment?" asked Walter. "Certainly." "I mean alone." "If you'll wait till I have finished the game," said the pickpocket, assuming a look of surprise. "Something private, eh?" "Yes," said Walter, gravely. He stood by impatiently while the game went on. He was anxious to find out as soon as possible what had become of his money, and what was the chance of recovering it. At length the game was finished, and a new one was about to be commenced, when Walter tapped his late companion on the shoulder. "Oh, you wanted to speak to me, did you?" he said indifferently. "Can't you wait till we have finished this game?" "No," said Walter, resolutely, "I can't wait. It is a matter of great importance." "Then, gentlemen, I must beg to be excused for five minutes," said the pickpocket, shrugging his shoulders, as if to express good-natured annoyance. "Now, my young friend, I am at your service." Walter proceeded to the other end of the car, which chanced to be unoccupied. Now that the moment had come, he hardly knew how to introduce the subject. Suppose that the person he addressed were innocent, it would be rather an awkward matter to charge him with the theft. "Did you see anything of my pocket-book?" he said, at length. "Your pocket-book?" returned the pickpocket, arching his brows. "Why, have you lost it?" "Yes." "When did you discover its loss?" "Shortly after you left me," said Walter, significantly. "Indeed! was there much money in it?" "Over thirty dollars." "That is quite a loss. I hope you have some more with you." "No, it is all I have." "I'm very sorry indeed. I did not see it. Have you searched on the floor?" "Yes; but it isn't there." "That's awkward. Was your ticket in the pocket-book?" "No, I had that in my vest-pocket." "That's fortunate. On my honor, I'm sorry for you. I haven't much money with me, but I'll lend you a dollar or two with the greatest of pleasure." This offer quite bewildered Walter. He felt confident that the other had stolen his money, and now here he was offering to lend him some of it. He did not care to make such a compromise, or to be bought off so cheap; so, though quite penniless, he determined to reject the offer. "I won't borrow," he said, coldly. "I was hoping you had seen my money." "Sorry I didn't. Better let me lend you some." "I would rather not borrow." Walter could not for the life of him add "Thank you," feeling no gratitude to the man who he felt well assured had robbed him. The pickpocket turned and went back to his game, and Walter slowly left the car. He had intended to ask him point-blank whether he had taken the money, but couldn't summon the necessary courage. He went back to his old seat. "Well," said the old gentleman who sat behind him, "I suppose you did not find your man?" "Yes, I did." "You didn't get your money?" he added, in surprise. "No, he said he had not seen it." "Did you tax him with taking it?" "No, I hardly ventured to do that." "Did he show any confusion?" "No, sir, he was perfectly cool. Still, I think he took it. He offered to lend me a dollar or two." "That was cool, certainly." "What would you advise me to do?" asked Walter. "I hardly know what to advise," said the other, thoughtfully. "I don't want him to make off with my money." "Of course not. That would be far from agreeable." "If he could only be searched, I might find the pocket-book on him." "In order to do that, he must be charged with the robbery." "That is true. It will be rather awkward for a boy like me to do that." "I'll tell you what you had better do, my young friend. Speak to the conductor." "I think I will," said Walter. Just at that moment the conductor entered the car. As he came up the aisle Walter stopped him, and explained his loss, and the suspicions he had formed. "You say the man is in the smoking-car?" said the conductor, who had listened attentively. "Yes." "Could you point him out?" "Yes." "I am glad of it. I have received warning by telegraph that one of the New York swell-mob is on the train, probably intent on mischief, but no description came with it, and I had no clue to the person. I have no doubt that the man you speak of is the party. If so, he is familiarly known as 'Slippery Dick.'" "Do you think you can get back my money?" asked Walter, anxiously. "I think there is a chance of it. Come with me and point out your man." Walter gladly accompanied the conductor to the smoking-car. His old acquaintance was busily engaged as before in a game, and laughing heartily at some favorable turn. "There he is," said Walter, indicating him with his finger. The conductor walked up to him, and tapped him on the shoulder. "What's wanted?" he asked, looking up. "You've looked at my ticket." "I wish to speak to you a moment." He rose without making any opposition, and walked to the other end of the car. "Well," he said, and there was a slight nervousness in his tone, "what's the matter? Wasn't my ticket all right?" "No trouble about that. The thing is, will you restore this boy's pocket-book?" "Sir," said the pickpocket, blustering, "do you mean to insult me? What have I to do with his pocket-book?" "You sat beside him, and he missed it directly after you left him." "What is that to me? You may search me if you like. You will find only one pocket-book upon me, and that is my own." "I am aware of that," said the conductor, coolly. "I saw you take the money out and throw it from the car platform." The pickpocket turned pale. "You are mistaken in the person," he said. "No, I am not. I advise you to restore the money forthwith." Without a word the thief, finding himself cornered, took from his pocket a roll of bills, which he handed to Walter. "Is that right?" asked the conductor. "Yes," said our hero, after counting his money. "So far, so good. And now, Slippery Dick," he continued, turning to the thief, "I advise you to leave the cars at the next station, or I will have you arrested. Take your choice." The detected rogue was not long in making his choice. Already the cars had slackened their speed, and a short distance ahead appeared a small station. The place seemed to be one of very little importance. One man, however, appeared to have business there. Walter saw his quondam acquaintance jump on the platform, and congratulated himself that his only loss was a porte-monnaie whose value did not exceed one dollar. I will only add that the conductor on seeing the pocket-book thrown away had thought nothing of it, supposing it to be an old one, but as soon as he heard of the robbery suspected at once the thief and his motive. CHAPTER XXV. A HARD CUSTOMER. Walter stopped long enough at Buffalo to visit Niagara Falls, as he had intended. Though he enjoyed the visit, and found the famous cataract fully up to his expectations, no incident occurred during the visit which deserves to be chronicled here. He resumed his journey, and arrived in due time at Cleveland. He had no difficulty in finding the office of Mr. Greene, the agent of Messrs. Flint & Pusher. He found that this gentleman, besides his agency, had a book and stationery business of his own. "I don't go out myself," he said to Walter; "but I keep a supply of Flint's books on hand, and forward them to his agents as called for. Have you done much in the business?" "No, sir, I am only a beginner. I have done nothing yet." "I thought not. You look too young." "Mr. Pusher told me I had better be guided by your advice." "I'll advise you as well as I can. First, I suppose you want to know where to go." "Yes, sir." "You had better go fifty miles off at least. The immediate neighborhood has been pretty well canvassed. There's C---- now, a flourishing and wealthy town. Suppose you go there first." "Very well, sir." "It's on the line of railway. Two hours will carry you there." "I'll go, this afternoon." "You are prompt." "I want to get to work as soon as possible." "I commend your resolution. It speaks well for your success." Walter arrived in C---- in time for supper. He went to a small public house, where he found that he could board for a dollar and a half a day, or seven dollars by the week. He engaged a week's board, reflecting that he could probably work to advantage a week in so large a place, or, if not, that five days at the daily rate would amount to more than the weekly terms. He did not at first propose to do anything that evening until it occurred to him that he might perhaps dispose of a copy of his book to the landlord in part payment for his board. He went into the public room after supper. "Are you travelling alone?" asked the landlord, who had his share of curiosity. "Yes," said Walter. "Not on business?" "Yes, on business." "What might it be now? You are rather young to be in business." "I am a book-agent." "Meeting with pretty good success?" "I'm just beginning," said Walter, smiling. "If you'll be my first customer, I'll stop with you a week." "What kind of a book have you got?" Walter showed it. It was got up in the usual style of subscription books, with abundance of illustrations. "It's one of the best books we ever sent out," said Walter, in a professional way. "Just look at the number of pictures. If you've got any children, they'll like it; and, if you haven't, it will be just the book for your centre-table." "I see you know how to talk," said the landlord, smiling. "What is the price?" "Three dollars and a half." "That's considerable." "But you know I'm going to take it out in board." "Well, that's a consideration, to be sure. A man doesn't feel it so much as if he took the money out of his pocket and paid cash down. What do you say, Mrs. Burton?" addressing his wife, who just then entered the room. "This young man wants to stay here a week, and pay partly in a book he is agent for. Shall I agree?" "Let me see the book," said Mrs. Burton, who was a comely, pleasant-looking woman of middle age. "What's the name of it?" "'Scenes in Bible Lands,'" said Walter. He opened it, taking care to display and point out the pictures. "I declare it is a nice book," said Mrs. Burton. "Is there a picture of Jerusalem?" "Here it is," said Walter, who happened to know just where to find it. "Isn't it a good picture? And there are plenty more as good. It's a book that ought to be in every family." "Really, Mr. Burton, I don't know but we might as well take it," said the landlady. "He takes it out in board, you know." "Just as you say," said the landlord. "I am willing." "Then I'll take the book. Emma will like to look at it." So Walter made the first sale, on which he realized a profit of one dollar and a quarter. "It's a pretty easy way to earn money," he reflected with satisfaction, "if I can only sell copies enough. One copy sold will pay for a day's board." He went to bed early, and enjoyed a sound and refreshing sleep. He was cheered with hopes of success on the morrow. If he could sell four copies a day, that would give him a profit of five dollars, and five dollars would leave him a handsome profit after paying expenses. The next morning after breakfast he started out, carrying with him three books. Knowing nothing of the residents of the village, he could only judge by the outward appearance of their houses. Seeing a large and handsome house standing back from the street, he decided to call. "The people living here must be rich," he thought. "They won't mind paying three dollars and a half for a nice book." Accordingly he walked up the gravelled path and rang the front-door bell. The door was opened by a housemaid. "Is the lady of the house at home?" asked Walter. "Do you want to see her?" "Yes." "Then wait here, and I'll tell her." A tall woman, with a thin face and a pinched expression, presented herself after five minutes. "Well, young man," she asked, after a sharp glance, "what is your business?" Her expression was not very encouraging, but Walter was bound not to lose an opportunity. "I should like to show you a new book, madam," he commenced, "a book of great value, beautifully illustrated, which is selling like wildfire." "How many copies have you sold?" inquired the lady, sharply. "One," answered Walter, rather confused. "Do you call that selling like wildfire?" she demanded with sarcasm. "I only commenced last evening," said Walter, "I referred to the sales of other agents." "What's the name of the book?" "'Scenes in Bible Lands.'" "Let me see it." Walter displayed the book. "Look at the beautiful pictures," he said. "I don't see anything remarkable about them. The binding isn't very strong. Shouldn't wonder if the book would go to pieces in a week." "I don't think there'll be any trouble that way," said Walter. "If it does, you'll be gone, so it won't trouble you." "With ordinary care it will hold long enough." "Oh, yes, of course you'd say so. I expected it. How much do you charge for the book?" "Three dollars and a half." "Three dollars and a half!" repeated the woman. "You seem to think people are made of money." "I don't fix the price, madam," said Walter, rather provoked. "The publishers do that." "I warrant they make two-thirds profit. Don't they now?" "I don't know," said Walter. "I don't know anything about the cost of publishing books; but this is a large one, and there are a great many pictures in it. They must have cost considerable." "Seems to me it's ridiculous to ask such a price for a book. Why, it's enough to buy a nice dress pattern!" "The book will last longer than the dress," said Walter. "But it is not so necessary. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'd like the book well enough to put on my parlor-table. I'll give you two dollars for it." "Two dollars!" ejaculated Walter, scarcely crediting the testimony of his ears. "Yes, two dollars; and I warrant you'll make money enough then." "I should lose money," said Walter. "I couldn't think of accepting such an offer." "In my opinion there isn't any book worth even two dollars." "I see we can't trade," said Walter, disgusted at such meanness in a lady who occupied so large a house, and might be supposed to have plenty of money. He began to replace the book in its brown-paper covering. "I don't know but I might give you twenty-five cents more. Come now, I'll give you two dollars and a quarter." "I can't take it," said Walter, shortly. "Three dollars and a half is the price, and I will not take a cent less." "You won't get it out of me then," retorted the lady, slamming the door in displeasure. Walter had already made up his mind to this effect, and had started on his way to the gate. "I wonder if I shall meet many people like her," he thought, and his courage was rather damped. CHAPTER XXVI. BUSINESS EXPERIENCES. Walter began to think that selling books would prove a harder and more disagreeable business than he anticipated. He had been brought face to face with meanness and selfishness, and they inspired him with disgust and indignation. Not that he expected everybody to buy his books, even if they could afford it. Still it was not necessary to insult him by offering half price. He walked slowly up the street, wondering if he should meet any more such customers. On the opposite side of the street he noticed a small shoemaker's shop. "I suppose it is of no use to go in there," thought Walter. "If they won't buy at a big house, there isn't much chance here." Still he thought he would go in. He had plenty of time on his hands, and might as well let slip no chance, however small. He pushed open the door, and found himself in a shop about twenty-five feet square, littered up with leather shavings and finished and unfinished shoes. A boy of fourteen was pegging, and his father, a man of middle age, was finishing a shoe. "Good-morning," said Walter. "Good-morning," said the shoemaker, turning round. "Do you want a pair of shoes this morning?" "No," said Walter, "I didn't come to buy, but to sell." "Well, what have you got to sell?" "A subscription book, finely illustrated." "What's the name of it?" "'Scenes in Bible Lands.'" "Let me look at it." He wiped his hands on his apron, and, taking the book, began to turn over the leaves. "It seems like a good book," he said. "Does it sell well?" "Yes, it sells largely. I have only just commenced, but other agents are doing well on it." "You are rather young for an agent." "Yes, but I'm old enough to work, and I'm going to give this a fair trial." "That's the way to talk. How much do you expect to get for this book?" "The price is three dollars and a half." "It's rather high." "But there are a good many pictures. Those are what cost money." "Yes, I suppose they do. Well, I've a great mind to take one." "I don't think you'll regret it. A good book will give you pleasure for a long time." "That's so. Well, here's the money;" and the shoemaker drew out five dollars from a leather pocket-book. "Can you give me the change?" "With pleasure." Walter was all the more pleased at effecting this sale because it was unexpected. He had expected to sell a book at the great house he had just called at, but thought that the price of the book might deter the shoemaker, whose income probably was not large. He thought he would like to know the name of the lady with whom he had such an unpleasant experience. "Can you tell me," he inquired, "who lives in that large house a little way up the street?" "You didn't sell a book there, did you?" asked the shoemaker, laughing. "No, but I got an offer of two dollars for one." "That's just like Mrs. Belknap," returned the other. "She has the name of being the meanest woman for miles around." "It can't be for want of money. She lives in a nice house." "Oh, she's rich enough,--the richest woman in town. When her husband was alive--old Squire Belknap--she wasn't quite so scrimping, for he was free-handed and liberal himself; but now she's a widow, she shows out her meanness. So she offered you two dollars?" "Yes, but she afterwards offered twenty-five cents more." "Then she must have wanted the book. She makes it her boast that no peddler ever took her in, and I guess she's about right." "I hope there are not many such people in town. If there are, I shall get discouraged." "We've got our share of mean people, I expect, but she's the worst." "Well, I suppose I must be going. Thank you for your purchase." "That's all right. If I like the book as well as I expect, I'll thank you." Walter left the shoemaker's shop with considerably higher spirits than he entered. His confidence in human nature, which had been rudely shaken by Mrs. Belknap, was in a degree restored, and his prospects looked brighter than a few minutes before. "I wonder who'll make the next purchase?" he thought. He stopped at a plain two-story house a little further up the road. The door was opened by an old lady. "What do you want?" she asked. "I am agent for an excellent book," commenced Walter. "Oh, you're a peddler," broke in the old lady, without waiting to hear him through. "I suppose I may be called so." "Are you the man that was round last spring selling jewelry?" "No, I have never been here before." "I don't know whether to believe you or not," said the old lady. "Your voice sounds like his. I can't see very well, for I've mislaid my specs. If you're the same man, I'll have you took up for selling bogus jewelry." "But I'm not the same one." "I don't know. The man I spoke of sold my darter a gold ring for a dollar, that turned out to be nothing but brass washed over. 'Twa'n't worth five cents." "I'm sorry you got cheated, but it isn't my fault." "Wait a minute, I'll call my darter." In reply to her mother's call a tall maiden lady of forty advanced to the door, with some straw in her hand, for she was braiding straw. "What's wanted, mother?" she asked. "Isn't this the same man that sold you that ring?" "La, no, mother. He was a man of forty-five, and this is only a boy." "I s'pose you must be right, but I can't see without my specs. Well, I'm sorry you're not the one, for I'd have had you took up onless you'd give back the dollar." Under the circumstances Walter himself was not sorry that there was no chance of identifying him with his knavish predecessor. "What have you got to sell?" asked the younger woman. "A book beautifully illustrated, called 'Scenes in Bible Lands.' Will you allow me to show it to you?" "He seems quite polite," said the old lady, now disposed to regard Walter more favorably. "Won't you come in?" Walter entered, and was shown into a small sitting-room, quite plainly furnished. The book was taken from him, and examined for a considerable length of time by the daughter, who, however, announced at the end that though she should like it very much, she couldn't afford to pay the price. As the appearance of the house bore out her assertion, Walter did not press the purchase, but was about to replace the book under his arm, when she said suddenly, "Wait a minute. There's Mrs. Thurman just coming in. Perhaps she'll buy one of your books." Walter was of course perfectly willing to wait on the chance of a sale. Mrs. Thurman was the wife of a trader in good circumstances, and disposed to spend liberally, according to her means. Walter was not obliged to recommend his book, for this was done by the spinster, who was disinterestedly bent on making a sale. So he sat quiet, a passive but interested auditor, while Miss Nancy Sprague extolled the book for him. "It does seem like an excellent book," said Mrs. Thurman, looking at the pictures. "Just the thing for your Delia," suggested Miss Nancy; "I am sure she would like it." "That reminds me to-morrow is Delia's birthday." "Then give her the book for a birthday present." "I had intended to buy her something else. Still I am not sure but this would suit her quite as well." "I am sure it would," responded Miss Nancy. "Then I will take it. Young man, how much do you ask for your book?" "Three dollars and a half." Mrs. Thurman paid the money, and received the book. "I am much obliged to you," said Walter, addressing Miss Nancy, "for recommending my book." "You're quite welcome," said Miss Nancy, who felt some satisfaction at gaining her point, though it would not benefit her any. "I'm sure you are quite polite for a peddler, and I hope you'll excuse mother for making such a mistake about you." "That is of no consequence," said Walter, smiling. "I think if your mother had had her glasses on she would not have made such a mistake." He left the house still farther encouraged. But during the next hour he failed to sell another copy. At length he managed to sell a third. As these were all he had brought out, and he was feeling rather tired, he went back to the tavern, and did not come out again till after dinner. He had sold three copies and cleared three dollars and seventy-five cents, which he was right in regarding as very fair success. CHAPTER XXVII. A CABIN IN THE WOODS. Walter found a good dinner ready for him at twelve o'clock, which he enjoyed the more because he felt that he had earned it in advance. He waited till about two o'clock, and again set out, this time in a different direction. As it takes all sorts of people to make a world, so the reception he met with at different places differed. In some he was received politely; in others he was treated as a humbug. But Walter was by this time getting accustomed to his position, and found that he must meet disagreeable people with as good humor as he could command. One farmer was willing to take the book if he would accept pay in apples, of which he offered him two barrels; but this offer he did not for a moment entertain, judging that he would find it difficult to carry about the apples, and probably difficult to dispose of them. However, he managed to sell two copies, though he had to call at twenty places to do it. Nevertheless, he felt well repaid by the degree of success he met with. "Five books sold to-day!" thought Walter, complacently, as he started on his walk home. "That gives me six dollars and a quarter profit. I wish I could keep that up." But our young merchant found that he was not likely to keep up such sales. The next day he sold but two copies, and the day succeeding three. Still for three days and a half the aggregate sale was eleven copies, making a clear profit of thirteen dollars and seventy-five cents. At the end of the week he had sold twenty copies; but to make up this number he had been obliged to visit one or two neighboring villages. He now prepared to move on. The next place at which he proposed to stop for a few days we will call Bolton. He had already written to Cleveland for a fresh supply of books to be forwarded to him there. He had but two books left, and his baggage being contained in a small valise, he decided to walk this distance, partly out of economy, but principally because it would enable him to see the country at his leisure. During the first five miles he succeeded in selling both books, which relieved him of the burden of carrying them, leaving him only his valise. Walter was strong and stout, and enjoyed his walk. There was a freshness and novelty about his present mode of life, which he liked. He did not imagine he should like to be a book-agent all his life, but for a time he found it quite agreeable. He stopped under the shade of a large elm and ate the lunch which he had brought with him from the inn. The sandwiches and apples were good, and, with the addition of some water from a stream near by, made a very acceptable lunch. When he resumed his walk after resting a couple of hours, the weather had changed. In the morning it was bright sunshine. Now the clouds had gathered, and a storm seemed imminent. To make matters worse, Walter had managed to stray from the road. He found himself walking in a narrow lane, lined on either side by thick woods. Soon the rain come pattering down, at first in small drops, but quickly poured down in a drenching shower. Walter took refuge in the woods, congratulating himself that he had sold the books, which otherwise would have run the risk of being spoiled. "I wish there were some house near by in which I could rest," thought Walter. The prospect of being benighted in the woods in such weather was far from pleasant. Looking around anxiously, he espied a small foot-path, which he followed, hoping, but hardly expecting, that it might lead to some place of refuge. To his agreeable surprise he emerged after a few minutes into a small clearing, perhaps half an acre in extent, in the middle of which was a rough cabin. It was a strange place for a house, but, rude as it was, Walter hailed its appearance with joy. At all events it promised protection from the weather, and the people who occupied it would doubtless be willing to give him, for pay of course, supper and lodging. Probably the accommodations would not be first class, but our hero was prepared to take what he could get, and be thankful for it. Accordingly he advanced fearlessly and pounded on the door with his fist, as there was neither bell nor knocker. The door not being opened immediately, he pounded again. This time a not particularly musical voice was heard from within:-- "Is that you, Jack?" "No," answered Walter, "it isn't Jack." His voice was probably recognized as that of a boy, and any apprehension that might have been felt by the person within was dissipated. Walter heard a bolt withdrawn, and the door opening revealed a tall, gaunt, bony woman, who eyed him in a manner which could not be considered very friendly or cordial. "Who are you?" she demanded abruptly, keeping the door partly closed. "I am a book-agent," said Walter. "Do you expect to sell any books here?" asked the woman, with grim humor. "No," said Walter, "but I have been caught in the storm, and lost my way. Can I stop here over night if the storm should hold on?" "This isn't a tavern," said the woman, ungraciously. "No, I suppose not," said Walter; "but it will be a favor to me if you will take me in, and I will pay you whatever you think right. I suppose there is no tavern near by." He half hoped there might be, for he had already made up his mind that this would not be a very agreeable place to stop at. "There's one five miles off," said the woman. "That's too far to go in such weather. If you'll let me stay here, I will pay you whatever you ask in advance." "Humph!" said the woman, doubtfully, "I don't know how Jack will like it." As Walter could know nothing of the sentiments of the Jack referred to, he remained silent, and waited for the woman to make up her mind, believing that she would decide in his favor. He proved to be right. "Well," she said, half unwillingly, "I don't know but I'll take you in, though it isn't my custom to accommodate travellers." "I will try not to give you much trouble," said Walter, relieved to find that he was sure of food and shelter. "Humph!" responded the woman. She led the way into the building, which appeared to contain two rooms on the first floor, and probably the same number of chambers above. There was no entry, but the door opened at once into the kitchen. "Come up to the fire if you're wet," said the woman. The invitation was hospitable, but the manner was not. However, Walter was glad to accept the invitation, without thinking too much of the manner in which it was expressed, for his clothes were pretty well saturated by the rain. There was no stove, but an old brick fireplace, on which two stout logs were burning. There was one convenience at least about living in the woods. Fuel was abundant, and required nothing but the labor of cutting it. "I think I'll take off my shoes," said Walter. "You can if you want to," said his grim hostess. He extended his wet feet towards the fire, and felt a sense of comfort stealing over him. He could hear the rain falling fiercely against the sides of the cabin, and felt glad that he was not compelled to stand the brunt of the storm. [Illustration] He looked around him guardedly, not wishing to let his hostess see that he was doing so, for she looked like one who might easily be offended. The room seemed remarkably bare of furniture. There was an unpainted table, and there were also three chairs, one of which had lost its back. These were plain wooden chairs, and though they appeared once to have been painted, few vestiges of the original paint now remained. On a shelf were a few articles of tin, but no articles of crockery were visible, except two cracked cups. Walter had before this visited the dwellings of the poor, but he had never seen a home so poorly provided with what are generally regarded as the necessaries of life. "I wonder what Lem would say if he should see me now," thought Walter, his thoughts going back to the Essex Classical Institute, and the friend whose studies he shared. They seemed far away, those days of careless happiness, when as yet the burdens of life were unfelt and scarcely even dreamed of. Did Walter sigh for their return? I think not, except on one account. His father was then alive, and he would have given years of his own life to recall that loved parent from the grave. But I do not think he would have cared, for the present at least, to give up his business career, humble though it was, and go back to his studies. He enjoyed the novelty of his position. He enjoyed even his present adventure, in spite of the discomforts that attended it, and there was something exciting in looking about him, and realizing that he was a guest in a rough cabin in the midst of the woods, a thousand miles away from home. Guarded as he had been in looking around him, it did not escape without observation. "Well, young man, this is a poor place, isn't it?" asked the woman, suddenly. "I don't know," said Walter, wishing to be polite. "That's what you're thinkin', I'll warrant," said the woman. "Well, you're not obliged to stay, if you don't want to." "But I do want to, and I am very much obliged to you for consenting to take me," said Walter, hastily. "You said you would pay in advance," said the woman. "So I will," said Walter, taking out his pocket-book, "if you will tell me how much I am to pay." "You may give me a dollar," said the woman. Walter drew out a roll of bills, and, finding a one-dollar note, handed it to the woman. She took it, glancing covetously at the remaining money which he replaced in his pocket-book. Walter noticed the glance, and, though he was not inclined to be suspicious, it gave him a vague feeling of anxiety. CHAPTER XXVIII. STRANGE ACQUAINTANCES. An hour passed without a word being spoken by his singular hostess. She went to the window from time to time, and looked out as if expecting some one. At length Walter determined to break the silence, which had become oppressive. It did not seem natural for two persons to be in the same room so long without speaking a word. "I should think you would find it lonely living in the woods away from any neighbors," he said. "I don't care for neighbors," said the woman, shortly. "Have you lived here long?" "That's as people reckon time," was the answer. Walter found himself no wiser than before, and the manner of his hostess did not encourage him to pursue his inquiries further on that subject. "You don't have far to go for fuel," was the next remark of our hero. "Any fool might see that," said the woman. "Not very polite," thought Walter. He relapsed into silence, judging that his hostess did not care to converse. Soon, however, she began to ask questions. "Did you say you was a book-peddler?" she inquired. "I am a book-agent." "Where are your books,--in that carpet-bag?" "No, I have sold all my books, and sent for some more." "Where did you sell them?" "In C----." "Have you come from there?" "Yes, I started from there this forenoon." "Where did you stop?" "At the tavern." "Is your business a good one?" she asked, eying him attentively. "I have done very well so far, but then I have been at it only a week." "It's a good thing to have money," said the woman, more to herself than to Walter. "Yes," said Walter, "it's very convenient to have money; but there are other things that are better." "Such as what?" demanded the woman abruptly. "Good health for one thing." "What else?" "A good conscience." She laughed scornfully. "I'll tell you there's nothing so good as money. I've wanted it all my life, and never could get it. Do you think I would live here in the woods if I had money? No, I should like to be a lady, and wear fine clothes, and drive about in a handsome carriage. Why are some people so lucky, while I live in this miserable hole?" She looked at Walter fiercely, as if she held him responsible for her ill-fortune. "Perhaps your luck will change some day," he said, though he had little faith in his own words. He wondered how the tall, gaunt woman of the backwoods would look dressed in silks and satins. "My luck never will change," she said, quickly. "I must live and die in some such hovel as this." "My luck has changed," said Walter, quietly; "but in a different way." "How?" she asked, betraying in her tone some curiosity. "A year ago--six months ago--my father was a rich man, or was considered so. He was thought to be worth over a hundred thousand dollars. All at once his property was swept away, and now I am obliged to earn my own living, as you see." "Is that true?" she asked. "Yes, it is true." "How did your father lose his money?" "By speculating in mines." "The more fool he!" "My father is dead," said Walter, gravely. "I cannot bear to hear him blamed." "Humph!" ejaculated the woman; but what she intended to convey by this utterance Walter could not tell. Again the woman went to the window and looked out. "It's time for Jack to be here," she said. "Your son?" asked Walter. "No, my husband." "He'll be pretty wet when he comes in," Walter ventured to say; but his remark elicited no response. After a while his hostess said, in her usual abrupt tone, "I expect you are hungry." "Yes," said Walter, "I am, but I can wait till your husband comes." "I don't know when he'll come. Likely he's kept." She took out from a small cupboard a plate of bread and some cold meat, and laid them on the table. Then she steeped some tea, and, when it was ready, she put that also on the table. "Set up," she said, briefly. Walter understood from this that supper was ready, and, putting on his shoes, which were now dry, he moved his chair up. "Likely you're used to something better," said the woman. This was true, but our hero politely said that the supper looked very good, and he did not doubt he would enjoy it. "That's lucky, for it's all you will get," said the woman. "There's not much use in wasting politeness on her," thought Walter. "She won't give any in return, that's certain." The woman poured him out some tea in one of the cracked cups. "We haven't got no milk nor sugar," she said. "My man and I don't care for them." The first sip of the tea, which was quite strong, nearly caused a wry expression on Walter's face, but he managed to control himself so far as not to betray his want of relish for the beverage his hostess offered him. The only redeeming quality it had was that it was hot, and, exposed as he had been to the storm, warm drink was agreeable. "There's some bread and there's some meat," said the woman. "You can help yourself." "Are you not going to eat supper with me?" asked Walter. "No, I shall wait for Jack." She sat down in a chair before the fire, leaving Walter to take care of himself, and seemed plunged in thought. "What a strange woman!" thought Walter. "I wonder if her husband is anything like her. If he is, they must be an agreeable couple." He ate heartily of the food, and succeeded in emptying his cup of tea. He would have taken another cup if there had been milk and sugar, but it was too bitter to be inviting. "Will you have some more tea?" asked the hostess, turning round. "No, I thank you." "You miss the milk and sugar?" "I like them in tea." "We can't afford to buy them, so it's lucky we don't like them." There was a bitterness in her tone whenever she talked of money, which led Walter to avoid the topic. Evidently she was a discontented woman, angry because her lot in life was not brighter. Walter pushed his chair from the table, and sat down again before the fire. She rose and cleared the table, replacing the bread and meat in the cupboard. "Where are you going next?" she asked, after a pause. Walter mentioned the name of the place. "Have you ever been there?" he asked. "Yes." "Is it a flourishing place?" "Yes, good enough, but I haven't been there for a year. It may have burned down for all I know." "I wonder what sort of a woman she was when she was young?" thought Walter. "I wonder if she was always so unsociable?" There was silence for another hour. Walter wished it were time to go to bed, for the presence of such a woman made him feel uncomfortable. But it was too early yet to suggest retiring. At length the silence was broken by a step outside. "That's Jack," said the woman, rising hastily; and over her face there came a transient gleam of satisfaction, the first Walter had observed. Before she could reach the door it was opened, and Jack entered. Walter looked up with some curiosity to see what sort of a man the husband of this woman might be. He saw a stout man, with a face like a bull-dog's, lowering eyes, and matted red hair and beard. "They are fitly mated," thought our hero. The man stopped short as his glance rested upon Walter, and he turned quickly to his wife. "Who have you got here, Meg?" he asked, in a rough voice. "He was overtaken by the storm, and wanted me to take him in, and give him supper and lodging." "He's a boy. What brings him into these woods?" "He says he's a book-peddler." "Where are his books?" "I have sold them all," said Walter, feeling called upon to take a personal share in the conversation. "How many did you have?" "Twenty." "How much did you charge for them?" "Three dollars and a half apiece." "That's seventy dollars, isn't it?" "Yes." "Well, you can stay here all night if you want to. We aint used to keepin' a tavern, but you'll fare as well as we." "Thank you. I was afraid I might have to stay out all night." "Now, Meg, get me something to eat quick. I'm most famished." While his wife was getting out the supper again, he sat down beside the fire, and Walter had a chance to scan his rough features. There was something in his appearance that inspired distrust, and our hero wished the night were past, and he were again on his way. CHAPTER XXIX. DANGER THREATENS. After supper, which the man devoured like a wild animal, he proved more sociable. He tried in a rough, uncouth manner to make himself agreeable, and asked Walter numerous questions. "Do you like peddlin'?" he asked. "I can't tell yet," said Walter. "I haven't been at it long enough." "You can make money pretty fast?" "I don't know. Some days I expect to do well, but other days I may not sell any books. But I like travelling about from place to place." "I don't know but I should like travellin' myself," said Jack. "Hey, Meg?" "Anything better than staying in this miserable hole," said the woman. "I'm sick and tired of it." "Well, old woman, maybe we'll start off soon. You couldn't get me a chance in your business, could you?" Walter doubted strongly whether a rough, uneducated man like the one before him would be well adapted for the book business, but he did not venture to say so. "If you would like to try it," he said, "I can give you the name of the agent in Cleveland. He is authorized to employ agents, and might engage you." "Would he engage the old woman too?" "I don't know whether he has any female agents." "I couldn't do nothing sellin' books," said Meg, "nor you either. If it was something else, I might make out." "Well, we'll think about it. This aint a very cheerful place to live, as you say, and it's about time for a change." About nine o'clock Walter intimated a desire to go to bed. "I have been walking considerable to-day," he said, "and I feel tired." "I'll show you the place you're to sleep in," said the woman. She lit a candle, and left the room, followed by Walter. She led the way up a rough, unpainted staircase and opened the door of the room over the one in which they had been seated. "We don't keep a hotel," said she, "and you must shift as well as you can. We didn't ask you to stay." Looking around him, Walter found that the chamber which he had entered was as bare as the room below, if not more so. There was not even a bedstead, but in the corner there was a bed on the floor with some ragged bedclothes spread over it. "That's where you're to sleep," said the woman, pointing it out. "Thank you," said Walter. "There isn't much to thank me for. Good-night." "Good-night," said Walter. She put the candle on the mantel-piece, for there was no bureau or table in the room, and went out. "This isn't a very stylish tavern, that's a fact," thought Walter, taking a survey of the room. "I shall have a hard bed, but I guess I can stand it for one night." There was something else that troubled him more than the poor accommodations. The ill looks of his host and hostess had made a strong impression upon his mind. The particular inquiries which they had made about his success in selling books, and their strong desire for money, led him to feel apprehensive of robbery. He was in the heart of the woods, far away from assistance, and at their mercy. What could he, a boy of fifteen, do against their combined attack? He would have preferred to sleep in the woods without a shelter, rather than have placed himself in their power. Under the influence of this apprehension, he examined the door to see if there was any way of locking it. But there was neither lock nor bolt. There had been a bolt once, but there was none now. Next he looked about the room to see if there was any heavy article of furniture with which he could barricade the door. But, as has already been said, there was neither bureau nor table. In fact, there was absolutely no article of furniture except a single wooden chair, and that, of course, would be of no service. "What shall I do?" thought Walter. "That man can enter the room when I am asleep, and rob me of all my money." It was a perplexing position to be in, and might have puzzled an older and more experienced traveller than our young hero. He opened his pocket-book, and, taking out the money, counted it. There were sixty dollars and a few cents within. "Where shall I hide it?" he considered. Looking about the room, he noticed a closet, the door of which was bolted on the outside. Withdrawing the bolt he opened the door and looked in. It was nearly empty, containing only a few articles of little or no value. A plan of operations rapidly suggested itself to Walter in case the room should be entered while he was awake. In pursuance of this plan he threw a few pennies upon the floor of the closet, and then closed the door again. Next he drew from the pocket-book all the money it contained, except a single five-dollar bill. The bank notes thus removed amounted to fifty-five dollars. He then drew off his stockings, and, laying the bills in the bottom, again put them on. "He won't suspect where they are," thought Walter, in a tone of satisfaction. "If he takes my pocket-book, I can stand the loss of five dollars." He put on his shoes, that he might be ready for instant flight, if occasion required it, and threw himself down on the outside of the coverlid. If our young hero, who, I hope, will prove such if the danger which he fears actually comes, could have overheard the conversation which was even then going on between Jack and Meg, he would have felt that his apprehensions were not without cause. When the woman returned from conducting Walter to his room, she found her husband sitting moodily beside the fire. "Well, Meg," he said, looking up, "where did you put him?" "In the room above." "I hope he'll sleep sound," said Jack, with a sinister smile. "I'll go up by and by and see how he rests." "What do you mean to do?" asked Meg. "He has got seventy dollars in that pocket-book of his. It must be ours." His wife did not answer immediately, but looked thoughtfully into the fire. "Well, what do you say?" he demanded impatiently. "What do I say? That I have no objection to taking the money, if there is no danger." "What danger is there?" "He may charge us with the theft." "He can't see me take it, when his eyes are shut." "But he may not be asleep." "So much the worse for him. I must have the money. Seventy dollars is worth taking, Meg. It's more money than I've had in my hands at one time for years." "I like money as well as you, Jack; but the boy will make a fuss when he finds the money is gone." "So much the worse for him," said Jack, fiercely. "I'll stop his noise very quick." "You won't harm the lad, Jack?" said Meg, earnestly. "Why not? What is he to you?" "Nothing, but I feel an interest in him. I don't want him harmed. Rob him if you will, but don't hurt him." "What should you care about him? You never saw him before to-day." "He told me his story. He has had ill-luck, like us. His father was very rich, not long since, but he suddenly lost all his property, and this boy is obliged to go out as a book-peddler." "What has that to do with us?" "You mustn't harm him, Jack." "I suppose you would like to have him inform against us, and set the police on our track." "No, I wouldn't, and you know it." "Then he must never leave this cabin alive," said Jack. "You would not murder him?" demanded Meg, horror-struck. "Yes, I would, if there is need of it." "Then I will go up and bid him leave the house. Better turn him out into the forest than keep him here for that." She had got half way to the door when her husband sprang forward, and clutched her fiercely by the shoulder. "What are you going to do?" he growled. "You shall not kill him. I will send him away." "I have a great mind to kill you," he muttered fiercely. "No, Jack, you wouldn't do that. I'm not a very good woman, but I've been a faithful wife to you, and you wouldn't have the heart to kill me." "How do you know?" he said. "I know you wouldn't. I am not afraid for myself, but for you as well as this boy. If you killed him, you might be hung, and then what would become of me?" "What else can I do?" asked her husband, irresolutely. "Threaten him as much as you like. Make him take an oath never to inform against you. He's a boy that'll keep his oath." "What makes you think so?" "I read it in his face. It is an honest face, and it can be trusted." "Well, old woman, perhaps you are right. The other way is dangerous, and if this will work as well, I don't mind trying it. Now let us go to bed, and when the boy's had time to fall asleep, I'll go in and secure the money." CHAPTER XXX. THE ROBBER WALKS INTO A TRAP. Walter's feelings, as he lay on his hard bed on the floor, were far from pleasant. He was not sure that an attempt would be made to rob him, but the probability seemed so great that he could not compose himself to sleep. Suspense was so painful that he almost wished that Jack would come up if he intended to. He was tired, but his mental anxiety triumphed over his bodily fatigue, and he tossed about restlessly. It was about nine o'clock when he went to bed. Two hours passed, and still there were no signs of the apprehended invasion. But, five minutes later, a heavy step was heard upon the staircase, which creaked beneath the weight of the man ascending. Jack tried to come up softly, but it creaked nevertheless. Walter's heart beat quick, as he heard the steps approaching nearer and nearer. It was certainly a trying moment, that might have tested the courage of one older than our hero. Presently the door opened softly, and Jack advanced stealthily into the chamber, carrying a candle which, however, was unlighted. He reckoned upon finding Walter undressed, and his clothes hanging over the chair; but the faint light that entered through the window showed him that his intended victim had not removed his clothing. Of course this made the task of taking his pocket-book much more difficult. "Confusion!" he muttered. "The boy hasn't undressed." Walter had closed his eyes, thinking it best to appear to be asleep; but he heard this exclamation, and it satisfied him of Jack's dishonest intentions. The robber paused a moment, and then, stooping over, inserted his hand into Walter's pocket. He drew out the pocket-book, Walter making no sign of being aware of what was going on. "I've got it," muttered Jack, with satisfaction, and stealthily retraced his steps to the door. He went out, carefully closing it after him, and again the steps creaked beneath his weight. "I'm afraid he'll come back when he finds how little there is in it," thought Walter. "If so, I must trust to my plan." Meg looked up with interest when her husband re-entered the room. She had been listening with nervous interest, fearing that there might be violence done. She had been relieved to hear no noise, and to see her husband returning quietly. "Have you got the pocket-book?" she asked. "Yes, Meg," he said, displaying it. "He went to bed with his clothes on, but I pulled it out of his pocket, as he lay asleep, and he will be none the wiser." "How much is there in it?" "I'm going to see. I haven't opened it yet." He opened the pocket-book, and uttered a cry of disappointment. "That's all," he said, displaying the five-dollar bill. "He must have had more." "He did have more. When he paid me the dollar for stoppin' here, he took it from a roll of bills." "What's he done with 'em, the young rascal?" "Perhaps he had another pocket-book. But that's the one he took out when he paid me." "I must go up again, Meg. He had seventy dollars, and I'm goin' to have the rest. Five dollars won't pay me for the trouble of stealin' it." "Don't hurt the boy, Jack." "I will, if he don't fork over the money," said her husband, fiercely. There was no longer any thought of concealment. It was necessary to wake Walter to find out where he had put the money. So Jack went upstairs boldly, not trying to soften the noise of his steps now, angry to think that he had been put to this extra trouble. Walter heard him coming, and guessed what brought him back. I will not deny that he felt nervous, but he determined to act manfully, whatever might be the result. He breathed a short prayer to God for help, for he knew that in times of peril he is the only sufficient help. The door was thrown open, and Jack strode in, bearing in his hand a candle, this time lighted. He advanced to the bed, and, bending over, shook Walter vigorously. "What's the matter?" asked our hero, this time opening his eyes, and assuming a look of surprise. "Is it time to get up?" "It's time for you to get up." "It isn't morning, is it?" "No; but I've got something to say to you." "Well," said Walter, sitting up in the bed, "I'm ready." "Where've you put that money you had last night?" "Why do you want to know?" demanded Walter, eying his host fixedly. "No matter why I want to know," said Jack, impatiently. "Tell me, if you know what's best for yourself." Walter put his hand in his pocket. "It was in my pocket-book," he said; "but it's gone." "Here is your pocket-book," said Jack, producing it. "Did you take it out of my pocket? What made you take it?" "None of your impudence, boy!" "Is it impudent to ask what made you take my property?" said Walter, firmly. "Yes, it is," said Jack, with an oath. "Do you mean to steal my money?" "Yes, I do; and the sooner you hand it over the better." "You have got my pocket-book already." "Perhaps you think I am green," sneered Jack. "I found only five dollars." "Then you had better give it back to me. Five dollars isn't worth taking." "You're a cool one, and no mistake," said Jack, surveying our hero with greater respect than he had before manifested. "Do you know that I could wring your neck?" "Yes, I suppose you could," said Walter, quietly. "You are a great deal stronger than I am." "Aint you afraid of me?" "I don't think I am. Why should I be?" "What's to hinder my killin' you? We're alone in the woods, far from help." "I don't think you'll do it," said Walter, meeting his gaze steadily. "You aint a coward, boy; I'll say that for you. Some boys of your age would be scared to death if they was in your place." "I don't think I am a coward," said Walter, quietly. "Are you going to give me back that pocket-book?" "Not if I know it; but I'll tell you what you're goin' to do." "What's that?" "Hunt up the rest of that money, and pretty quick too." "What makes you think I have got any more money?" "Didn't you tell me you sold twenty books, at three dollars and a half? That makes seventy dollars, accordin' to my reckonin'." "You're right there; but I have sent to Cleveland for some more books, and had to send the money with the order." This staggered the robber at first, till he remembered what his wife had told him. "That don't go down," he said roughly. "The old woman saw a big roll of bills when you paid her for your lodgin'. You haven't had any chance of payin' them away." Walter recalled the covetous glance of the woman when he displayed the bills, and he regretted too late his imprudence in revealing the amount of money he had with him. He saw that it was of no use to attempt to deceive Jack any longer. It might prove dangerous, and could do no good. "I have some more money," he said; "but I hope you will let me keep it." "What made you take it out of your pocket-book?" "Because I thought I should have a visit from you." "What made you think so?" demanded Jack, rather surprised. "I can't tell, but I expected a visit, so I took out most of my money and hid it." "Then you'd better find it again. I can't wait here all night. Is it in your other pocket?" "No." "Is that all you can say? Get up, and find me that money, or it'll be the worse for you." "Then give me the pocket-book and five dollars. I can't get along if you take all my money." Jack reflected that he could easily take away the pocket-book again, and decided to comply with our hero's request as an inducement for him to find the other money. "Here it is," he said. "Now get me the rest." "I hid some money in that closet," said Walter. "I thought you would think of looking there." No sooner was the closet pointed out than Jack eagerly strode towards it and threw open the door. He entered it, and began to peer about him, holding the candle in his hand. "Where did you put it?" he inquired, turning to question Walter. But he had scarcely spoken when our hero closed the door hastily, and, before Jack could recover from his surprise, had bolted it on the outside. To add to the discomfiture of the imprisoned robber, the wind produced by the violent slamming of the door blew out the candle, and he found himself a captive, in utter darkness. "Let me out, or I'll murder you!" he roared, kicking the barrier that separated him from his late victim, now his captor. Walter saw that there was no time to lose. The door, though strong, would probably soon give way before the strength of his prisoner. When the liberation took place, he must be gone. He held the handle of his carpet-bag between his teeth, and, getting out of the window, hung down. The distance was not great, and he alighted upon the ground without injury. Without delay he plunged into the woods, not caring in what direction he went, as long as it carried him away from his dishonest landlord. CHAPTER XXXI. WALTER'S ESCAPE. Though Walter was in a room on the second floor, the distance to the ground was not so great but that he could easily hang from the window-sill and jump without injury. Before following him in his flight, we will pause to inquire how the robber, unexpectedly taken captive, fared. Nothing could have surprised Jack more than this sudden turning of the tables. But a minute since Walter was completely in his power. Now, through the boy's coolness and nerve, his thievish intentions were baffled, and he was placed in the humiliating position of a prisoner in his own house. "Open the door, or I'll murder you!" he roared, kicking it violently. There was no reply, for Walter was already half way out of the window, and did not think it best to answer. Jack kicked again, but the door was a strong one, and, though it shook, did not give way. "Draw the bolt, I say," roared the captive again, appending an oath, "or I'll wring your neck." But our hero was already on the ground, and speeding away into the shelter of the friendly woods. If any man was thoroughly mad, that man was Jack. It was not enough that he had been ingloriously defeated, but the most galling thing about it was that this had been done by a boy. "I'll make him pay for this!" muttered Jack, furiously. He saw that Walter had no intention of releasing him, and that his deliverance must come from himself. He kicked furiously, and broke through one of the panels of the door; but still the bolt held, and continued to hold, though he threw himself against the door with all his force. Meanwhile his wife below had listened intently, at the bottom of the staircase, not without anxiety as to the result. She was a woman, and, though by no means of an amiable disposition, she was not without some humanity. She knew her husband's brutal temper, and she feared that Walter would come to harm. Part of her anxiety was selfish, to be sure, for she dreaded the penalty for her husband; but she was partly actuated by a feeling of rough good-will towards her young guest. She didn't mind his being robbed, for she felt that in some way she had been cheated out of that measure of worldly prosperity which was her due, and she had no particular scruple as to the means of getting even with the world. The fact that Walter, too, had suffered bad fortune increased her good-will towards him, and made her more reluctant that he should be ill-treated. At first, as she listened, and while the conversation was going on, she heard nothing to excite her alarm. But when her husband had been locked in the closet, and began to kick at the door, there was such a noise that Meg, though misapprehending the state of things, got frightened. "He's killing the poor boy, I'm afraid," she said, clasping her hands. "Why, why need he be so violent? I told him not to harm him." Next she heard Jack's voice in angry tones, but could not understand what he said. This was followed by a fresh shower of kicks at the resisting door. "I would go up if I dared," she thought; "but I am afraid I should see the poor boy dying." She feared, also, her husband's anger at any interference; for, as she had reason to know, his temper was not of the gentlest. So she stood anxiously at the foot of the staircase, and continued to listen. Meanwhile Jack, finding he could not release himself readily, bethought himself of his wife. "Meg!" he called out, in stentorian tones. His wife heard the summons and made haste to obey it. She hurried upstairs, and, opening the chamber door, found herself, to her surprise, in darkness. "Where are you, Jack?" she asked, in some bewilderment. "Here," answered her husband. "Where?" asked Meg; for the tones were muffled by the interposition of the door, and she could not get a clear idea of where her husband was. "In the closet, you fool! Come and open the door," was the polite reply. Wondering how her husband could have got into the closet, and, also, what had become of Walter, she advanced hastily to the closet-door, and drew the bolt. Jack dashed out furiously, cursing in a manner I shall not repeat. "How came you here, Jack?" asked his wife. "Where's the boy?" It was so dark that he could not readily discover Walter's flight. He strode to the bedstead, and, kneeling down, began to feel about for him. "Curse it, the boy's gone!" he exclaimed. "Why didn't you stop him?" This he said on supposition that Walter had escaped by the stairs. "I don't know what you mean. I've seen nothing of the boy. Wasn't he here when you came up?" "Yes, he was, but now he's gone. He must have got out of the window," he added, with a sudden thought. "I don't understand it," said Meg. "How came you shut up in that closet?" "The boy sent me in on a fool's errand, and then locked me in." "Tell me about it, Jack." Her husband rehearsed the story, heaping execrations upon his own folly for being outwitted by a boy. "But you've got the pocket-book and the five dollars," said his wife, by way of comforting him. "No, I haven't. I gave them back to him, to get him to tell me where the rest of the money was. I meant to take it away from him again." "Then he's escaped with all his money?" "Yes," growled Jack; "he's fooled me completely. But it isn't too late. I may catch him yet. He's hiding in the woods somewhere. If I do get hold of him, I'll give him something to remember me by. I'll learn him to fool me." "I wouldn't go out to-night, Jack," said his wife. "It's most twelve." "If I don't go now, I'll lose him. Go downstairs, Meg, and light the candle." "Did he have the money with him?" "He said he hid it." "Then perhaps he left it behind him. He had to go away in a hurry." "That's so, Meg. Hurry down, and light the candle, and we'll hunt for it." The suggestion was a reasonable one, and Jack caught at it. If the money were left behind, it would repay him in part for his mortification at having been fooled by a boy, and he might be tempted to let him go. What vexed him most was the idea of having been baffled completely; and the discovery of the money would go far to make things even. Meg came up with the lighted candle; and they commenced a joint search, first in the closet, where they found the five pennies which Walter had thrown on the floor, and, afterwards, about the room, and particularly the bedding. But the roll of bills was nowhere to be found. Walter had, as we know, carried it away with him. This was the conclusion to which the seekers were ultimately brought. "The money aint anywhere here," said Jack. "The boy's got it with him." "Likely he has," said Meg. "I'm goin' for him," said her husband. "Go downstairs, Meg, and I'll foller." "You'd better wait till mornin', Jack," said his wife. "You're a fool!" he said, unceremoniously. "If I wait till daylight, he'll be out of the woods, and I can't catch him." "There isn't much chance now. It's dark, and you won't be likely to find him." "I'll risk that. Anyhow, I'm goin' and so you needn't say any more about it." Jack descended to the room below, put on his boots and hat, and, opening the outer door, sallied out into the darkness. He paused before the door in uncertainty. "I wish I knowed which way he went," he muttered. There seemed little to determine the choice of direction on the part of the fugitive. There was no regular path, as Jack and his wife were the only dwellers in the forest who had occasion to use one, except such as occasionally strayed in from the outer world. There was, indeed, a path slightly marked, but this Walter could not see in the darkness. Nevertheless, as chance would have it, he struck into it and followed it for some distance. Having nothing else to determine his course, it was only natural that Jack should take this path. Now that he was already started on his expedition, and found the natural darkness of the night deepened and made more intense by the thick foliage of the forest trees, he realized that his chances of coming upon Walter were by no means encouraging. But he kept on with dogged determination. "I'd like to catch the young rascal, even if I don't get a penny of the money," he said to himself. He resolved, in case he was successful, first, to give his victim a severe beating, and next, to convey him home, and keep him for weeks a close prisoner in the very closet in which he had himself been confined. The thought of such an appropriate vengeance yielded him considerable satisfaction, and stimulated him to keep up the search. CHAPTER XXXII. A STRANGE HIDING-PLACE. Meanwhile Walter had the advantage of quarter of an hour's start of his pursuer. Jack had indeed been released within five minutes, but he had consumed ten minutes more in searching for the money. It was too dark, however, to make rapid progress. Still Walter pushed on, resolved to put as great a distance as possible between the cabin and himself, for he anticipated pursuit, and judged that, if caught, he would fare badly for the trick he had played upon his host. He had proceeded perhaps half a mile when he stopped to rest. Two or three times he had tripped over projecting roots which the darkness prevented his seeing in time to avoid. "I'll rest a few minutes, and then push on," he thought. It was late, but the excitement of his position prevented him from feeling sleepy. He wished to get out of the woods into some road or open field, where he would be in less danger of encountering Jack, and where perhaps he might find assistance against him. He was leaning against an immense tree, one of the largest and oldest in the forest. Walter began idly to examine it. He discovered, by feeling, that it was hollow inside. Curiosity led him to examine farther. He ascertained that the interior was eaten out by gradual decay, making a large hollow space inside. "I shouldn't wonder if I could get in," he said to himself. He made the attempt, and found that he was correct in his supposition. He could easily stand erect inside. "That is curious," thought Walter. "The tree must be very old." He emerged from the trunk, and once more threw himself down beside it. Five minutes later and his attention was drawn by a sound of approaching footsteps. Then came an oath, which sounded startlingly near. It was uttered by Jack, who had tripped over a root, and was picking himself up in no very good humor. The enemy, it appeared, was close upon him. Walter started to his feet in dismay. His first thought was immediate flight, but if he were heard by Jack, the latter would no doubt be able to run him down. "What shall I do?" thought Walter, in alarm. Quickly the hollow trunk occurred to him. He seized his carpet-bag, and with as little delay as possible concealed himself in the interior. He was just in time, for Jack was by this time only a few rods distant. Walter counted upon his passing on; but on reaching the old tree Jack paused, and said aloud, "Where can the young rascal be? I wonder if I have passed him? I'll rest here five minutes. He may straggle along." With these words he sank upon the ground, in the very same place where Walter had been reclining two minutes before. He was so near that our hero could have put out his hand and touched him. It was certainly a very uncomfortable situation for Walter. He hardly dared to breathe or to stir lest his enemy should hear him. "He's led me a pretty tramp," muttered Jack. "I'm as tired as a dog, but I'm bound to get hold of him to-night. If I do, I'll half kill him." "Then I hope you won't get hold of him," Walter ejaculated inwardly. He began to wish he had run on instead of seeking this concealment. In the first case, the darkness of the night would have favored him, and even if Jack had heard him it was by no means certain that he would have caught him. Now an unlucky movement or a cough would betray his hiding-place, and there would be no chance of escape. He began to feel his constrained position irksome, but did not dare to seek relief by change of posture. "I wish he'd go," thought our hero. But Jack was in no hurry. He appeared to wish to waylay Walter, and was constantly listening to catch the sound of his approach. At last a little relief came. A sound was heard, which Jack suspected might proceed from his late guest. He started to his feet, and walked a few steps away. Walter availed himself of this opportunity to change his position a little. "It isn't he," said Jack, disappointed. "Perhaps he's gone another way." He did not throw himself down this time, but remained standing, in evident uncertainty. At length Walter was relieved to hear him say, "Well, I shan't catch him by stopping here, that's sure." Then he started, and Walter, listening intently, heard the sound of his receding steps. When sufficient time had elapsed, he ventured out from his concealment, and stopped to consider the situation. What should he do? It was hardly prudent to go on, for it would only bring him nearer to the enemy. If he ventured back, he would be farther away from the edge of the woods, and might encounter Meg, who might also be in pursuit. He did not feel in danger of capture from this quarter, but the woman might find means of communicating with her husband. On the whole, it seemed safest, for the present at least, to stick to the friendly tree which had proved so good a protector. He stood beside it, watching carefully, intending, whenever peril threatened, to take instant refuge inside. This was not particularly satisfactory, but he hoped Jack would soon tire of the pursuit, and retrace his steps towards the cabin. If he should do that, he would then be safe in continuing his flight. Jack pushed on, believing that our hero was in advance. It had been a fatiguing day, and this made his present midnight tramp more disagreeable. His hopes of overtaking Walter became fainter and fainter, and nature began to assert her rights. A drowsiness which he found it hard to combat assailed him, and he found he must yield to it for a time at least. "I wish I was at home, and in bed," he muttered. "I'll lie down and take a short nap, and then start again." He threw himself down on the ground, and no longer resisted the approaches of sleep. In five minutes his senses were locked in a deep slumber, which, instead of a short nap, continued for several hours. While he is sleeping we will go back to Walter. He, too, was sleepy, and would gladly have laid down and slept if he had dared. But he felt the peril of his position too sensibly to give way to his feelings. He watched vigilantly for an hour, but nothing could be seen of Jack. That hour seemed to him to creep with snail-like pace. "I can't stand this watching till morning," he said to himself. "I will find some out-of-the-way place, and try to sleep a little." Searching about he found such a place as he desired. He lay down, and was soon fast asleep. So pursuer and pursued had yielded to the spell of the same enchantress, and half a mile distant from each other were enjoying welcome repose. Some hours passed away. The sun rose, and its rays lighted up the dim recesses of the forest. When Walter opened his eyes he could not at first remember where he was. He lifted his head from his carpet-bag which he had used as a pillow, and looked around him in surprise; but recollection quickly came to his aid. "I must have been sleeping several hours," he said to himself, "for it is now morning. I wonder if the man who was after me has gone home?" He decided that this was probable, and resolved to make an attempt to reach the edge of the forest. He wanted to get into the region of civilization again, if for no other reason, because he felt hungry, and was likely to remain so as long as he continued in the forest. He now felt fresh and strong, and, taking his carpet-bag in his hand, prepared to start on his journey. But he had scarcely taken a dozen steps when a female figure stepped out from a covert, and he found himself face to face with Meg. Not knowing but that her husband might be close behind, he started back in alarm and hesitation. She observed this, and said, "You needn't be afraid, boy. I don't want to harm you." "Is your husband with you?" asked Walter, on his guard. "No, he isn't. He started out after you before midnight, and hasn't been back since. That made me uneasy, and I came out to look for him." "I have seen him," said Walter. "Where and when?" asked the woman, eagerly. It was strange that such a coarse brute should have inspired any woman with love, but Meg did certainly love her husband, in spite of his frequent bad treatment. "It must have been within an hour of the time I left your house. He stopped under that tree. That was where I saw him." "Did he see you?" "No, I was hidden." "How long did he stay?" "Only a few minutes, to get rested, I suppose. Then he went on." "In what direction?" "That way." "I am glad he did not harm you. He was so angry when he started that I was afraid of what would happen if he met you. You must keep out of his way." "That is what I mean to do if I can," said Walter. "Can you tell me the shortest way out of the woods?" "Go in that direction," said the woman, pointing, "and half a mile will bring you out." "It is rather hard to follow a straight path in the woods. If you will act as my guide, I will give you a dollar." Meg hesitated. "If my husband should find out that I helped you to escape, he would be very angry." "Why need he know? You needn't tell him you met me." The woman hesitated. Finally love of money prevailed. "I'll do it," she said, abruptly. "Follow me." She took the lead, and Walter followed closely in her steps. Remembering the night before, he was not wholly assured of her good faith, and resolved to keep his eyes open, and make his escape instantly if he should see any signs of treachery. Possibly Meg might intend to lead him into a trap, and deliver him up to her husband. He was naturally trustful, but his adventures in the cabin taught him a lesson of distrust. CHAPTER XXXIII. WALTER SHOWS STRATEGY. Walter followed Meg through the woods. He felt sure that he would not have far to go to reach the open fields. He had been delayed heretofore, not by the distance, but by not knowing in what direction to go. Few words were spoken between him and Meg. Remembering what had happened at the cabin, and that even now he was fleeing from her husband, he did not feel inclined to be sociable, and her thoughts were divided between the money she was to be paid as the price of her services, and her husband, for whose prolonged absence she could not account. After walking for fifteen minutes, they came to the edge of the forest. Skirting it was a meadow, wet in parts, for the surface was low. "Where is the road?" asked Walter. "You'll have to cross this meadow, and you'll come to it. It isn't mor'n quarter of a mile. You'll find your way well enough without me." Walter felt relieved at the prospect of a speedy return to the region of civilization. It seemed to him as if he had passed the previous night far away in some wild frontier cabin, instead of in the centre of a populous and thriving neighborhood, within a few miles of several flourishing villages. He drew out a dollar-bill, and offered it to Meg. "This is the money I agreed to pay you," he said. "Thank you, besides." "You haven't much cause to thank me," she said, abruptly. "I would have robbed you if I had the chance." "I am sorry for that," said Walter. "Money got in that way never does any good." "Money is sure to do good, no matter how it comes," said the woman, fiercely. "Think of what it will buy!--a comfortable home, ease, luxury, respect. Some time before I die I hope to have as much as I want." "I hope you will," said Walter; "but I don't think you will find it as powerful as you think." His words might as well have remained unspoken, for she paid no attention to them. She seemed to be listening intently. Suddenly she clutched his arm. "I hear my husband's steps," she said, hurriedly. "Fly, or it will be the worse for you." "Thank you for the caution," said Walter, roused to the necessity of immediate action. "Don't stop to thank me. Go!" she said, stamping her foot impatiently. He obeyed at once, and started on a run across the meadow. A minute later, Jack came in sight. "What, Meg, are you here?" he said, in surprise. "Yes; I got anxious about you, because you did not come home. I was afraid something had happened to you." "What could happen to me?" he retorted, contemptuously. "I'm not a baby. Have you seen the boy?" He did not wait for an answer, for, looking across the meadow, he saw the flying figure of our hero. "There he is, now!" he exclaimed, in a tone of fierce satisfaction. "Let him go, Jack!" pleaded Meg, who, in spite of herself, felt a sympathy for the boy who, like herself, had been unfortunate. He threw off the hand which she had placed upon his arm, saying, contemptuously, "You're a fool!" and then dashed off in pursuit of Walter. Walter had the start, and had already succeeded in placing two hundred yards between himself and his pursuer. But Jack was strong and athletic, and could run faster than a boy of fifteen, and the distance between the two constantly diminished. Walter looked over his shoulder, as he ran, and, brave as he was, there came over him a sickening sensation of fear as he met the fierce, triumphant glance of his enemy. "Stop!" called out Jack, hoarsely. Walter did not answer, neither did he obey. He was determined to hold out to the last, and when he surrendered it would be only as a measure of necessity. "Are you going to stop or not? You'd better," growled Jack. [Illustration] Walter still remained silent; but his heart bounded with sudden hope as he saw before him a means of possible escape. Only a few rods in advance was a deep ditch, at least twelve feet wide, over which a single plank was thrown as a bridge for foot-passengers. Walter summoned his energies, and sped like a deer forward and over the bridge, when, stooping down, he hastily pulled it over after him, thus cutting off his enemy's advance. Jack saw his intention, and tried to reach the edge of the ditch soon enough to prevent it. But he was just too late. Baffled and enraged, he looked across the gulf which separated him from his intended victim. "Put back that plank," he roared, with an oath. "I would rather not," said Walter, who stood facing him on the other side, hot and excited. "I'll kill you if I get at you," said Jack, shaking his fist menacingly. "What have I done to you?" asked Walter, quietly. "Why do you want to harm me?" "Didn't you lock me up in the closet last night?" "You wanted to take my money." "I'll have it yet." "It was all I could do," said Walter, who did not wish to excite any additional anger in his already irritated foe. "I haven't got but a little money, and I wanted to keep it." "Money isn't the only thing you may lose," said the ruffian, significantly. "Put back that plank. Do you hear me?" "Yes," said Walter; "I hear, but I cannot do it." "You're playin' a dangerous game, young one," said Jack. "Perhaps you think I can't get over." "I don't think you can," said Walter, glancing at the width of the ditch. "You may find yourself mistaken." Walter did not answer. "Will you put back that plank?" demanded Jack, once more. "No," answered Walter. "You'll be sorry for it then, you young cub!" said Jack, fiercely. He walked back about fifty feet, and then faced round. His intention was clear enough. He meant to jump over the ditch. Could he do it? That was the question which suggested itself to the anxious consideration of our hero. If the ground had been firm on the other side, such a jump for a grown man would not have been by any means a remarkable one. But the soft, spongy soil was unfavorable for a spring. Still it was possible that Jack might succeed. If he did, was there any help for Walter? Our hero took the plank, and put it over his shoulder, moving with it farther down the edge. An idea had occurred to him, which had not yet suggested itself to Jack, or the latter might have been less confident of success. Jack stood still for a moment, and then, gathering up his strength, dashed forward. Arrived at the brink, he made a spring, but the soft bank yielded him no support. He fell short of the opposite bank by at least two feet, and, to his anger and disgust, landed in the water and slime at the bottom of the ditch. With a volley of execrations, he scrambled out, landing at last, but with the loss of one boot, which had been drawn off by the clinging mud in which it had become firmly planted. Still he was on the same side with Walter, and the latter was now in his power. This was what he thought; but an instant later he saw his mistake. Walter had stretched the plank over the ditch a few rods further up, and was passing over it in safety. Jack ran hastily to the spot, hoping to gain possession of the plank which had been of such service to his opponent, and want of which had entailed such misfortunes upon him. But Walter was too quick for him. The plank was drawn over, and again he faced his intended victim with the width of the ditch between. He looked across at Walter with a glance of baffled rage. It was something new to him to be worsted by a boy, and it mortified him and angered him to such an extent that, had he got hold of him at that moment, murder might have been committed. "Put down that plank, and come across," he called out. Walter did not reply. "Why don't you answer, you rascal?" "You know well enough what I would say," said Walter. "I don't care to come." "I shall get hold of you sooner or later." "Perhaps you will," said Walter; "but not if I can help it." "You're on the wrong side of the ditch. You can't escape." "So are you on the wrong side. You can't get home without crossing." "I can keep you there all day." "I can stand it as well as you," said Walter. He felt bolder than at first, for he appreciated the advantage which he had in possessing the plank. True the situation was not a comfortable one, and he would have gladly exchanged it for one that offered greater security. Still, on the whole, he felt cool and calm, and waited patiently for the issue. CHAPTER XXXIV. DELIVERANCE. Jack might have waded back again across the ditch without inflicting much additional damage upon his already wet and miry clothing; but he fancied that Walter was in his power, and hoped he would capitulate. To this end, he saw that it was necessary to reassure him, and deceive him as to his own intentions. "Come across, boy," he said, softening his tone. "You needn't be afraid. I didn't mean nothing. I was only tryin' to see if I couldn't frighten you a little." "I'm very well off where I am," said Walter. "I think I'll stay where I am." "You won't want to stay there all day." "I'd rather stay here all day than be on the same side with you." "You needn't be afraid." "I am not afraid," said Walter. "You think I want to hurt you." "I think I am safer on this side." "Come, boy, I'll make a bargain with you. You've put me to a good deal of trouble." "I don't see that." "You locked me up in the closet, and you've kept me all night huntin' after you." "You were not obliged to hunt after me, and as for locking you up in the closet, it was the only way I had of saving my money." Jack did not care to answer Walter's argument, but proceeded: "Now I've got you sure, but I'll do the fair thing. If you'll come across and pay me ten dollars for my trouble, I'll let you go without hurtin' you." "What's to prevent you taking all my money, if you get me over there?" "Haven't I said I wouldn't?" "You might forget your promise," said Walter, whose confidence in Jack's word was by no means great. A man who would steal probably would not be troubled by many scruples on the subject of violating his word. "If you don't come, I'll take every cent, and give you a beating beside," said Jack, his anger gaining the ascendency. "Well, what are you goin' to do about it?" demanded Jack, after a brief pause. "I'll stay where I am." "I can come over any time, and get hold of you." "Perhaps you can," said Walter. "I'll take the risk." "I'll wait a while," thought Jack. "He'll come round after a while." He sat down, and taking a clay pipe from his pocket, filled the bowl with tobacco, and commenced smoking. Walter perceived that he was besieged, but kept cool, and clung to his plank, which was his only hope of safety. He began to speculate as to the length of time the besieging force would hold out. He was already hungry, and there was a prospect of his being starved into a surrender, or there would have been, if luckily his opponent had not been also destitute of provisions. In fact, the besieging party soon became disorganized from this cause. A night in the open air had given keenness to Jack's appetite, and he felt an uncomfortable craving for food. "I wish Meg would come along," he muttered. "I feel empty." But Meg did not come. She stood for a few minutes in the edge of the woods, and watched her husband's pursuit of Walter. She saw his failure to overtake his intended victim, and this made her easier in her mind. I do not wish to represent her as better than she was. Her anxiety was chiefly for her husband. She did not wish him to commit any act of violence which would put him without the pale of the law. It was this consideration, rather than a regard for Walter's safety, that influenced her, though she felt some slight interest in our hero. She went home, feeling that she could do no good in staying. Jack resented her disappearance. "She might know I wanted some breakfast," he growled to himself. "As long as she gets enough to eat herself, she cares little for me." This censure was not deserved. Meg was not a good woman, but she was devoted to the coarse brute whom she called husband, and was at any time ready to sacrifice her own comfort to his. Two hours passed, and still besieger and besieged eyed each other from opposite sides of the bank. Jack grew more and more irritable as the cravings of his appetite increased, and the slight hope that Meg might appear with some breakfast was dissipated. Walter also became more hungry, but showed no signs of impatience. At this time a boy was seen coming across the meadow. Jack espied him, and the idea struck him that he might through him lay in a stock of provisions. "Come here, boy," he said. "Where do you live?" The boy pointed to a small farm-house half a mile distant. "Do you want to earn some money?" "I dunno," said the boy, who had no objections to the money, but, knowing Jack's shady reputation, was in doubt as to what was expected of him. "Go home, and get a loaf of bread and some cold meat, and bring me, and I'll give you half a dollar." "Didn't you bring your luncheon?" asked the boy. "No, I came away without it, and I can't spare time to go back." It occurred to the boy, noticing Jack's lazy posture, that business did not appear to be very driving with the man whose time was so valuable. "Perhaps mother won't give me the bread and meat," he said. "You can give her half the money." The boy looked across to Walter, wondering what kept him on the other side. Our hero saw a chance of obtaining help. "I'll give you a dollar," he called out, "if you'll go and tell somebody that this man is trying to rob me of all my money. I slept in his house last night, and he tried to rob me there. Now he will do the same if he can get hold of me." "If you tell that, I'll wring your neck," exclaimed Jack. "It's all a lie. The boy slept at my house, as he says, and stole some money from me. He escaped, but I'm bound to get it back if I stay here all day." "That is not true," said Walter. "Carry my message, and I will give you a dollar, and will, besides, reward the men that come to my assistance." The boy looked from one to the other in doubt what to do. "If you want your head broke, you'll do as he says," said Jack, rather uneasy. "He won't pay what he promises." "You shall certainly be paid," said Walter. "You'd better shut up, or it'll be the worse for you," growled Jack. "Go and get my breakfast quick, boy, and I'll pay you the fifty cents." "All right," said the boy, "I'll go." He turned, but when he was behind Jack, so that the latter could not observe him, he made a sign to Walter that he would do as he wished. Fifteen minutes later Jack rose to his feet. An idea had occurred to him. At the distance of a furlong there was a rail-fence. It occurred to him that one of these rails would enable him to cross the ditch, and get at his victim. He was not afraid Walter would escape, since he could easily turn back and capture him if he ventured across. Walter did not understand his design in leaving the ditch. Was it possible that he meant to raise the siege? This seemed hardly probable. He watched, with some anxiety, the movements of his foe, fearing some surprise. When Jack reached the fence, and began to pull out one of the rails he understood his object. His position was evidently becoming more dangerous. Jack came back with a triumphant smile upon his face. "Now, you young cub," he said, "I've got you!" Walter watched him warily, and lowered the plank, ready to convert it into a bridge as soon as necessary. Jack put down the rail. It was long enough to span the ditch, but was rather narrow, so that some caution was needful in crossing it. Walter had moved several rods farther up, and thrown the plank across. Though his chances of escape from the peril that menaced him seemed to have diminished since his enemy was also provided with a bridge and it became now a question of superior speed, Walter was not alarmed. Indeed his prospects of deliverance appeared brighter than ever, for he caught sight of two men approaching across the meadow, and he suspected that they were sent by the boy whom he had hired. These men had not yet attracted the attention of Jack, whose back was turned towards them. He crossed the rail, and, at the same time, Walter crossed the plank. This he threw across, and then, leaving it on the bank, set out on a quick run. "Now I'll catch him," thought Jack, with exultation; but he quickly caught sight of our hero's reinforcements. He saw that his game was up, and he abandoned it. His reputation was too well known in the neighborhood for the story he had told to the boy to gain credence. He was forced to content himself with shaking his fist at Walter, and then, in discomfiture, returned to the woods, where he made up for his disappointment by venting his spite on Meg. She would have fared worse, had he known that Walter had found his way out of the wood through her guidance. CHAPTER XXXV. THE LAST OF JACK MANGUM. "What's the matter?" asked one of the two men as Walter came up. "I got lost in the woods, and passed the night in that man's house," said our hero. "He tried to rob me, but I locked him in the closet, and jumped out of the window and escaped. This morning he got on my track, and would have caught me but for the ditch." "You locked him in the closet!" repeated the other. "How were you able to do that? You are only a boy, while he is a strong man." Walter explained the matter briefly. "That was pretty smart," said Peter Halcomb, for this was the name of the man who questioned him. "You're able to take care of yourself." "I don't know how it would turn out, if you hadn't come up." "I happened to be at home when my boy came and told me that Jack Mangum had offered him fifty cents for some breakfast. He told me about you also, and, as I suspected Jack was up to some of his tricks, I came along." "I am very much obliged to you," said Walter, "and I hope you'll let me pay you for your trouble." "I don't want any pay, but you may pay my boy what you promised him, if you want to." "I certainly will; and I never paid away money with more pleasure. As I haven't had anything to eat since yesterday afternoon, I should like to have you direct me to the nearest place where I can get some breakfast." "Come to my house; I guess my wife can scare up some breakfast for you. She'll be glad to see the boy that got the better of Jack Mangum." "How long has this Jack Mangum lived about here?" asked Walter, after accepting with thanks the offer of a breakfast. "About five years. He's been in the county jail twice during that time, and there's a warrant out for him now. He's a confirmed thief. He'd rather steal any time than earn an honest living." "Has he ever stolen anything from you?" "I've missed some of my chickens from time to time, and, though I didn't catch him taking them, I've no doubt he was the thief. Once I lost a lamb, and I suppose it went in the same direction." "So there is a warrant out for him now?" "Yes, and I expect he'll be taken in a day or two. In that case he'll have the privilege of a few months' free board in the county jail." "Where is the jail?" "In T----." "That's the town I'm going to." "Is it? Do your folks live there?" "No, I'm travelling on business." "What's your business?" asked the farmer. The question was an abrupt one, but was not meant to be rude. In country towns everybody feels that he has a right to become acquainted with the business of any one with whom he comes in contact, even in its minutest details. Walter understood this, having himself lived in a country village, and answered without taking offence:-- "I am a book-agent." "Be you? How do you make it pay?" "Pretty well, but I can tell better by and by; I've only been in it a week." "You're pretty young to be a book-peddler Where do your folks live?" "In New York." "You've come some ways from home." "Yes; I thought I should like to see the country." "How old are you?" "Fifteen." "You'll make a smart man if you keep on." "I hope I shall," said Walter, modestly; "but I am afraid you overrate me." "I'll tell you what I judge from. A boy of fifteen that can get the better of Jack Mangum is smart, and no mistake." "I hope I shall realize your prediction," returned Walter, who naturally felt pleased with the compliment. Like most boys, he liked to be considered smart, although he did not allow himself to be puffed up by inordinate ideas of his own importance, as is the case with many of his age. While this conversation was going on, they had been walking towards the farm-house in which Peter Holcomb lived. It was an humble one-story building, with an attic above. On each side of it were broad fields, some under cultivation; and there was an appearance of thrift and comfort despite the smallness of the house. "Come in," said Peter, leading the way. "John," he added, addressing the hired man, who had accompanied him, "you may go into the potato field and hoe. I'll be out directly." Walter followed him into a broad, low room,--the kitchen,--in which Mrs. Holcomb, a pleasant looking woman, was engaged in cooking. "Mary," said her husband, "can't you scare up some breakfast for this young man? He stopped at Jack Mangum's last night, and didn't like his accommodations well enough to stay to breakfast." "You don't say so," repeated Mrs. Holcomb her countenance expressing curiosity. "That's about the last place I'd want to stop at." "I shouldn't want to go there again," said Walter; "but I didn't know anything about the man, or I would rather have stayed out in the woods." "Well, Mary, how about the breakfast?" "I guess I can find some," said she. "Sit right down here, and I'll see what I can do for you." She went to the pantry, and speedily reappeared with some cold meat, a loaf of bread, and some fresh butter, which she placed on the table. "I've got some hot water," she said, "and, in about five minutes, I can give you some warm tea. It won't be much of a breakfast, but if you'll stop for dinner, I can give you something better." "It looks nice," said Walter, "and I don't know when I have been so hungry." At this moment the farmer's boy, who had served as Walter's messenger, came into the kitchen. "You got away," he said, smiling. "Yes, thanks to you," said Walter. "Here is what I promised you." "I don't know as I ought to take it," said the boy, hesitating, though he evidently wanted it. "You will do me a favor by accepting it," said Walter. "You got me out of a bad scrape. Besides, you had a chance to earn some money from Jack Mangum." "I wouldn't have done anything for him, at any rate. He's a thief." Finally Peter, for he was named after his father, accepted the dollar, and, sitting down by Walter, asked him about his adventure in the wood, listening with great interest to the details. "I wouldn't have dared to do as you did," he said. "Perhaps you would if you had been obliged to." By this time the tea was steeped, and Walter's breakfast was before him. He made so vigorous an onslaught upon the bread and meat that he was almost ashamed of his appetite; but Mrs. Holcomb evidently felt flattered at the compliment paid to her cookery, and watched the demolition of the provisions with satisfaction. "You had better stop to dinner," she said. "We shall have some roast meat and apple-pudding." "Thank you," said Walter; "but I have eaten enough to last me for several hours. Can you tell me how far it is to the next town?" "About five miles. I'm going to ride over there in about an hour. If you'll wait till then I'll take you over." Walter very readily consented to wait. He was rather afraid that if he ventured to walk he might find Jack Mangum waiting to waylay him somewhere in the road, and he had no desire for a second encounter with him. The farmer absolutely refused to accept pay for breakfast, though Walter urged it. It was contrary to his ideas of hospitality. "We don't keep a tavern," he said; "and we never shall miss the little you ate. Come again and see us if you come back this way." "Thank you," said Walter, "I will accept your invitation with pleasure, but I shall not feel like calling on Mr. Mangum." "I've no doubt he would be glad to see you," said Peter Holcomb, smiling. "Yes, he was very sorry to have me leave him last night." Walter thought he had seen the last of Jack Mangum; but he was mistaken. Three days later, while walking in the main street of T----, with a book under his arm, for he had received a fresh supply from the agent at Cleveland, he heard the sound of wheels. Looking up, he saw a wagon approaching, containing two men. One of them, as he afterwards learned, was the sheriff. The other he immediately recognized as Jack Mangum. There was no mistaking his sinister face and forbidding scowl. He had been taken early that morning by the sheriff, who, with a couple of men to assist him, had visited the cabin in the forest, and, despite the resistance offered by Jack, who was aided by his wife, he had been bound, and was now being conveyed to jail. He also looked up and recognized Walter. His face became even more sinister, as he shook his fist at our hero. "I'll be even with you some day, you young cub!" he exclaimed. "Not if I can help it," thought Walter; but he did not answer in words. He was rather gratified to hear the next day that Jack had been sentenced to six months' imprisonment. He felt some pity, however, for Meg, who might have been a good woman if she had been married to a different man. CHAPTER XXXVI. JOSHUA BIDS GOOD-BY TO STAPLETON. Leaving Walter busily engaged in selling books, we will glance at the Drummond household, and inquire how the members of that interesting family fared after Walter's departure. Joshua's discontent increased daily. He was now eighteen, and his father absolutely refused to increase his allowance of twenty-five cents a week, which was certainly ridiculously small for a boy of his age. "If you want money you must work for it," he said. "How much will you give me if I will go into your store?" asked Joshua. "Fifty cents a week and your board." "I get my board now." "You don't earn it." "I don't see why I need to," said Joshua. "Aint you a rich man?" "No, I'm not," said his father; "and if I were I am not going to waste my hard-earned money on supporting you extravagantly." "There's no danger of that," sneered Joshua, "We live meaner than any family in town." "You needn't find fault with your victuals, as long as you get them free," retorted his father. "If you'll give me two dollars a week, I'll come into the store." "Two dollars!" exclaimed Mr. Drummond. "Are you crazy?" "You think as much of a cent as most people do of a dollar," said Joshua, bitterly. "Two dollars isn't much for the son of a rich man." "I have already told you that I am not rich." "You can't help being rich," said Joshua, "for you don't spend any money." "I've heard enough of your impudence," said his father, angrily. "If you can get more wages than I offer you, you are at liberty to engage anywhere else." "Tom Burton gets a dollar and a quarter a day for pegging shoes," said Joshua. "He dresses twice as well as I do." "He has to pay his board out of it." "He only pays three dollars a week, and that leaves him four dollars and a half clear." "So you consider Tom Burton better off than you are?" "Yes." "Then I'll make you an offer. I'll get you a place in a shoe-shop, and let you have all you earn over and above three dollars a week, which you can pay for your board." Joshua seemed by no means pleased with this proposal. "I'm not going to work in a shoe-shop," he said, sullenly. "Why not?" "It's a dirty business." "Yet you were envying Tom Burton just now." "It'll do well enough for him. He's a poor man's son." "So was I a poor man's son. I had to work when I was a boy, and that's the way I earned all I have. Not that I am rich," added Mr. Drummond, cautiously, for he was afraid the knowledge of his wealth would tempt his family to expect a more lavish expenditure, and this would not by any means suit him. "You didn't work in a shoe-shop." "I should have been glad of the chance to do it, for I could have earned more money that way than by being errand-boy in a store. It's just as honorable to work in a shop as to be clerk in a store." Though we are not partial to Mr. Drummond, he was undoubtedly correct in this opinion, and it would be well if boys would get over their prejudice against trades, which, on the whole, offer more assured prospects of ultimate prosperity than the crowded city and country stores. This conversation was not particularly satisfactory to Joshua. As he now received his board and twenty-five cents a week, he did not care to enter his father's store for only twenty-five cents a week more. Probably it would have been wiser for Mr. Drummond to grant his request, and pay him two dollars a week. With this inducement Joshua might have formed habits of industry. He would, at all events, have been kept out of mischief, and it would have done him good to earn his living by hard work. Mr. Drummond's policy of mortifying his pride by doling out a weekly pittance so small that it kept him in a state of perpetual discontent was far from wise. Most boys appreciate considerable liberality, and naturally expect to be treated better as they grow older. Joshua, now nearly nineteen, found himself treated like a boy of twelve, and he resented it. It set him speculating about his father's death, which would leave him master, as he hoped, of the "old man's" savings. It is unfortunate when such a state of feeling comes to exist between a father and a son. The time came, and that speedily, when Mr. Drummond bitterly repented that he had not made some concessions to Joshua. Finding his father obstinate, Joshua took refuge at first in sullenness, and for several days sat at the table without speaking a word to his father, excepting when absolutely obliged to do so. Mr. Drummond, however, was not a sensitive man, and troubled himself very little about Joshua's moods. "He'll get over it after a while," he said to himself. "If he'd rather hold his tongue, I don't care." Next Joshua began to consider whether there was any way in which to help himself. "If I only had a hundred dollars," he thought, "I'd go to New York, and see if I couldn't get a place in a store." That, he reflected, would be much better and more agreeable than being in a country store. He would be his own master, and would be able to put on airs of importance whenever he came home on a vacation. But his father would give him no help in securing such a position, and he could not go to the city without money. As for a hundred dollars, it might as well be a million, so far as he had any chance of securing it. While he was thinking this matter over, a dangerous thought entered his mind. His father, he knew, had a small brass-nailed trunk, in which he kept his money and securities. He had seen him going to it more than once. "I wonder how much he's got in it?" thought Joshua. "As it's all coming to me some day there's no harm in my knowing." There seemed little chance of finding out, however. The trunk was always locked, and Mr. Drummond carried the key about with him in his pocket. If he had been a careless man, there might have been some chance of his some day leaving the trunk unlocked, or mislaying the key; but in money matters Mr. Drummond was never careless. Joshua would have been obliged to wait years, if he had depended upon this contingency. One day, however, Joshua found in the road a bunch of keys of various sizes attached to a ring. He cared very little to whom they belonged, but it flashed upon him at once that one of these keys might fit his father's strong-box. He hurried home at once with his treasure, and ran upstairs breathless with excitement. He knew where the trunk was kept. Mr. Drummond, relying on the security of the lock, kept it in the closet of his bed-chamber. "Where are you going, Joshua?" asked his mother. "Upstairs, to change my clothes," was the answer. "I've got a piece of pie for you." "I'll come down in five minutes." Joshua made his way at once to the closet, and, entering, began to try his keys, one after the other. The very last one was successful in opening the trunk. Joshua trembled with excitement as he saw the contents of the trunk laid open to his gaze. He turned over the papers nervously, hoping to come upon some rolls of bills. In one corner he found fifty dollars in gold pieces. Besides these, there were some mortgages, in which he felt little interest. But among the contents of the trunk were some folded papers which he recognized at once as United States Bonds. Opening one of them, he found it to be a Five-Twenty Bond for five hundred dollars. Five hundred dollars! What could he not do with five hundred dollars! He could go to the city, and board, enjoying himself meanwhile, till he could find a place. His galling dependence would be over, and he would be his own master. True it would be a theft, but Joshua had an excuse ready. "It will all be mine some day," he said to himself. "It's only taking a part of my own in advance." He seized the gold and the bond, and, hastily concealing both in his breast-pocket, went downstairs, first locking the trunk, and putting it away where he found it. "What's the matter, Joshua?" asked his mother, struck by his nervous and excited manner. "Nothing," he answered, shortly. "Are you well?" "I've got a little headache,--that is all." "Perhaps you'd better not eat anything then." "It won't do me any harm. I'll take a cup of tea, if you've got any." "I can make some in five minutes." Joshua ate his lunch, and, going upstairs again, came down speedily, arrayed in his best clothes. He got out of the house without his mother seeing him, and made his way to a railway station four miles distant, where he purchased a ticket for New York. He took a seat by a window, and, as the car began to move, he said to himself, in exultation, "Now I am going to see life." CHAPTER XXXVII. CONCLUSION. Three months later Walter arrived at Columbus, the capital of the State, after a business tour of considerable length, during which he had visited from twenty to thirty different towns and villages. He had now got used to the business, and understood better what arguments to employ with those whom he wished to purchase his book. The consequence was, that he had met with a degree of success which exceeded his anticipations. He had tested his powers, and found that they were adequate to the task he had undertaken,--that of earning his own living. He had paddled his own canoe thus far without assistance, and he felt confident that, if his health continued good, he should be able to do so hereafter. After eating supper, and spending an hour or two in the public room of the hotel, Walter went up to his room. Here he took out a blank-book, in which he kept an account of his sales and expenditures, and, taking a piece of paper, figured up the grand result. He wished to know just how he stood. After a brief computation, he said, with satisfaction, "I have sold two hundred and eighty books, which gives a gross profit of three hundred and fifty dollars. My expenses have been exactly two hundred and sixty-three dollars. That leaves me eighty-seven dollars net profit." This was a result which might well yield Walter satisfaction. He was only fifteen, and this was his first business experience. Moreover, he was nearly a thousand miles away from home and friends, surrounded by strangers. Yet, by his energy and business ability, he had been able to pay all his expenses, and these, of course, were considerable, as he was constantly moving, and yet had made a dollar a day clear profit. "That is rather better than working for my board in Mr. Drummond's store," he reflected. "I am afraid it would have taken me a long time to make my fortune if I had stayed there. I wonder how my amiable cousin Joshua is getting along." This thought led to the sudden recollection that he had written to Mr. Shaw, asking him to write to the hotel at Columbus where he was now stopping, giving him any news that he might consider interesting. Such a letter might be awaiting him. He went downstairs, and approached the clerk. "Have any letters been received here for me?" he inquired. "What name?" asked the clerk. "Walter Conrad." "There is a letter for that address. It was received a week since." "Give it to me," said Walter, eagerly. He took the letter, and recognized at once in the address Clement Shaw's irregular handwriting. Cut off, as he had been for over a month, from all communication with former friends, he grasped the letter with a sensation of joy, and hurried back to his room to read it quietly, and without risk of interruption. The letter ran as follows:-- "MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND: I have just received your letter asking me to write you at Columbus. I am glad to obtain your address, as I have a matter of importance to speak of. First, however, let me congratulate you on the success you have met with as a book-agent. It is not a business to which I should advise you to devote yourself permanently; but I have no doubt that the experience which you acquire, and the necessary contact into which it brings you with different classes of people, will do you good, while the new scenes which it brings before your eyes will gratify the natural love of adventure which you share in common with those of your age. When you set out, I had misgivings as to your success, I admit. It was certainly an arduous undertaking for a boy of fifteen; but you have already demonstrated that you are able to _paddle your own canoe_; and I shall hereafter feel confident of your success in life, so far at least as relates to earning your living. That you may also be successful in building up a good character, and taking an honorable position among your fellow-men, I earnestly hope. "I now come to the business upon which I wish to speak to you. "You will remember that a man named James Wall was prominently identified with the Great Metropolitan Mining Company, by which your poor father lost his fortune. Indeed, this Wall, who is a plausible sort of fellow, was the one who induced him to embark in this disastrous speculation. I suspect he has feathered his own nest pretty well already, and that he intends to do so still more. I was surprised to hear from him some ten days since. I will not copy the letter, but send you the substance of it. He reports that in winding up the affairs of the company, there is a prospect of realizing two per cent. for the stockholders, which, as your father owned a thousand shares, would yield two thousand dollars. It may be some time, he adds, before the dividend will be declared and paid. He professes a willingness, however, to pay two thousand dollars cash for a transfer of your father's claims upon the company. "Now, two thousand dollars are not to be despised; but, my impression is, that such a man as James Wall would never have made such an offer if he had not expected the assets would amount to considerable more than two per cent. I am unwilling to close with the offer until I know more about the affairs of the company. Here it has struck me that you can be of assistance. This Wall lives in a town named Portville, in Wisconsin, on the shore of Lake Superior. I would suggest that you change your name, go at once to Portville, and find out what you can. I can give you no instructions, but must trust to your own native shrewdness, in which I feel sure you are not deficient. If it should be necessary to give up your present business, do so without hesitation, since the other business is of more importance. I expect you to start at once; and I will write Mr. Wall that I have his offer under consideration. If you need money, draw upon me. "I hear that Joshua Drummond has run away from home, carrying away considerable money belonging to his father. The latter appears to lament the loss of his money more than of his son. "I remain your sincere friend, "CLEMENT SHAW." This letter gave Walter considerable food for reflection. He determined to wind up his book agency, and leave as soon as possible for Portville. It was encouraging to think that, in any event, he was likely to realize two thousand dollars from the mining shares, which he had looked upon as valueless. Besides, he felt there was good reason to hope they would prove even more valuable. Three days later, having closed his accounts as agent, he started for Portville. Those of my readers who may desire to follow him in his new experiences, and learn his success, as well as those who feel desirous of ascertaining Joshua Drummond's fortunes, are referred to the next volume of this series, to be called STRIVE AND SUCCEED; or, THE PROGRESS OF WALTER CONRAD. +--------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's note: | | | | Obvious typographic errors have been corrected. | | | | A table of contents has been added. | | | +--------------------------------------------------+ 
61453	----	SIXTY YEARS A BOOKMAN _WITH OTHER RECOLLECTIONS AND REFLECTIONS_ _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ THE FASCINATION OF BOOKS AND OTHER ESSAYS THE PLEASURES OF BOOKLAND IN FRIENDSHIP'S GARDEN LIBERTY AND BROTHERHOOD, ETC., ETC. [Illustration: J. Shaylor] SIXTY YEARS A BOOKMAN _WITH OTHER RECOLLECTIONS AND REFLECTIONS_ BY JOSEPH SHAYLOR LONDON SELWYN & BLOUNT, LTD. 21 YORK BUILDINGS, ADELPHI, W.C. _First Printed 1923_ _Made and Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner Ltd., _Frome and London_ to MY CHILDREN and also to MY MANY FRIENDS IN THE BOOK-SELLING TRADE with the sincere wish that their lives may be crowned with as much success and happiness as that which has blessed my career CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I My Early Life in the Country 11 II My Early London Experiences 30 III Some Recollections of Stationers' Hall Court 52 IV Some Further Recollections and Reflections 82 V Some Personal Associations 112 VI The Bookselling Trade and Underselling 138 VII Term and Sale Catalogues 169 VIII Limited Editions and the Pleasures of Collecting 188 IX The Whitefriars Club 198 PREFACE At the request of numerous friends, but with some hesitation, I have decided to issue a short account of certain of my experiences and impressions during a long and delightful association with the bookselling trade. In doing so, I hope that it may find a welcome with those members of the trade with whom I have been in happy association for over sixty years, and that my experience may be a stimulus to those who are still plodding their way among the many details of what I consider one of the most interesting and fascinating trades, a trade of which all the details are never learned. The bookselling trade has its pleasurable associations as well as its drawbacks, and, although my early experiences had not great attractions for me, yet, owing to industry and attention to business, I have much pleasure in looking back upon what from many points of view may be considered as a prosperous career. Personally, I love the making and selling of books, and sincerely hope that these callings may still have a future far and away greater than the period through which I have passed. In addition to "Recollections" of a personal character, I have included portions of a few articles which I think may interest my readers and friends. These have appeared at various times, and I hope that they will now meet with as kindly a reception as they did when they were first published. "Sixty Years a Bookman" is intended for three classes of readers--my Personal Friends, the Bookselling Trade, and the General Public; and I trust that there will be found something in these records of a long and busy life to appeal to them all. JOSEPH SHAYLOR Gloucester House, Holden Road, Woodside Park, N. CHAPTER I My Early Life in the Country In what is known as the Stroud Valley, Gloucestershire, or, as it was deservedly called by Queen Victoria, the Golden Valley, stands a little straggling village called the Thrupp, in which on July 12, 1844, I was born; but my early recollections of this beautiful valley began at a village about one mile distant, named Swells Hill, to which my parents afterwards removed. This village is situated on the side of the eastern portion of the Cotswolds, a district full of beautiful hills, gorge-like valleys, dells and glades, celebrated not only for its beauty and historical associations but for its numerous industries. Swells Hill overlooks the busy village of Brimscombe and is on the fringe of the delightful Minchinhampton Common, which consists of some thousand acres of open country; its highest part being about 650 feet above the sea level; on it, there are many local traditions of great battles having been fought, and on one particular spot in the centre of the Common the celebrated George Whitfield preached in 1743 to thousands of people. Minchinhampton Common was presented to the parish so named in the reign of Henry VIII by Dame Alice Hampton. On it are now golf links, which are well known all over the country and many notable contests have been played there by some of our most celebrated professionals. From the quarries on this Common I have often collected fossils of snakes and other reptiles which I suppose belonged to some prehistoric period, but how long ago I have been unable to learn. Pit dwellings, long and round tunnels with camps and earthworks, abound in this district. Some of the depressions in the surface of the Common vary in depth. I used to be told that they were the burying places of those who had fought in the days of the Civil Wars. I cannot of course guarantee the correctness of this statement, but I do know that these depressions have frequently given me in my school days very much pleasure, as in the winter they were often filled with snow, and a good run and jump landed one in the centre of the hollow. It was a great pleasure to see who could jump the farthest and come out the wettest. As far as I can remember, most of my early education, or what may be called my twopenny education, was acquired at an old-fashioned Dame's School and a local Church School where the main ideas of education were answering the questions in Pinnock's "Catechism" and learning, and I must say immediately forgetting, the questions and answers from the Church Catechism; but I have no doubt I received impressions which were useful in after life. When about nine years of age, I was sent to Amberley School. To reach this School I had to cross Minchinhampton Common, nearly two miles from my home; this distance I traversed sometimes four times a day. At that time home lessons were considered of great importance, but the weariness of them made a lasting impression upon me. However, it was at this School that I obtained the best part of my education. With Amberley I have many associations never to be forgotten. I remember how when nearing the School I listened for the Master's whistle which he always appeared in the open to blow, and how considerate he was with the boys who came from a distance before marking them late. How on occasions when the hounds on a wintry day came at full speed past our School leave was given to some of us boys to chase with them. Many a good run I have had following them over hedges and ditches until outdistanced, but the excitement left behind very pleasant recollections, and was the cause of my writing the following verses: Hurrah for To-morrow! 'Tis the first hunting day, And with the good hounds we'll hark hark away, For the Fox will be drawn from the thick bushy wood, It's the rascal that stole the grey duck's little brood. You remember the time, 'twas one bright summer morn, When the hens had their chicks and the bees had a swarm, And the duck had her ducklings, and fine ones were they, As e'er swam on a pond, or play'd pranks in the hay. Farmer Giles was out early, the sheep had gone wrong, And old Towler was with him, they scarcely had gone When that crafty old Reynard, who had watched them away, Stole the ducks and he had them for dinner that day. How he must have enjoyed each tender young bone As he scrunched and he scrunched till each tit-bit was gone; But who would begrudge him a feast in his den, I dare wager a bet he won't do it again. For we're off in the morn, while the true scent is strong, To capture his brush and it won't take us long, For the horses and hounds are all fit for the fray, So Ahoy! Tally Ho! Tally Ho! Harkaway! Close by the Schools stands Rose Cottage where Mrs. Craik, then Miss Muloch, wrote her most successful novel "John Halifax, Gentleman." This was published in 1857, the year I was at school, and I have no doubt I must often have seen Miss Muloch when she was writing her great novel. The background of this story runs from Tewkesbury through Nailsworth to Amberley Common; the latter, figuring in the novel as Enderly Flats, is described as the highest tableland in England. The whole neighbourhood is identified with incidents delineated in the book, and in Amberley Churchyard the little blind daughter of John Halifax and Ursula lies at rest. In the small village of Woodchester, in the valley below Amberley, there is an important Monastery which contains many interesting associations, but my recollections are more concerned with the parish church of Woodchester where I remember being taken by my mother to see what is left of some old Roman villa with tessellated pavement and other remains. I believe these are uncovered at certain times and the public allowed to inspect them. One other of my youthful enjoyments was the occasional fishing and bathing in the Thames and Severn Canal. This canal joins together at Lechlade these two great rivers. In the canal as it passed through the Golden Valley, there was always a good supply of water and the fishing here was very good. I never got beyond roach, dace and perch, but there were frequently pike and other fish caught by the expert. Anyone who has indulged in fishing, if only as I did in my boyhood, will never forget the fascination it has upon the lover of sport, and I pity the boy who has not the sportive instinct. I learned to swim also in these waters, but want of opportunity in after years prevented my ever becoming a really good swimmer. Looking back upon my boyhood from the standpoint of to-day, I am inclined to think that, practically, education does not begin until the first steps are taken in the business of life, although from my own experience the great influence exercised upon character by a good mother, which I fortunately had, lasts with a boy and helps to mould his life and disposition more than he can at the moment anticipate. I am quite sure that through the early start I made both in the country and in London, nothing contributed more to my even routine and carefully considered actions than the influence exercised upon me by a mother's love. In September, 1857, I was sent on trial, before being apprenticed, to a Mr. Bucknell, a bookseller in George Street, Stroud, and, apparently proving satisfactory, was afterwards apprenticed for five years, "out of doors," that is living at home, with the magnificent remuneration of one shilling per week for the first year, increasing by one shilling per week at the beginning of the next year, and to be continued upon the same ratio for five years. Mr. Bucknell, however, after fifteen months of my apprenticeship sold the business to Mr. John Clark and I was what is called "turned over" to him, but the period of my apprenticeship was extended to seven years and a little more liberal salary given me. When Mr. Bucknell left, he presented me with a copy of Charles Mackay's poems in which he wrote the following after my name: "With an earnest wish that his future life may be deserving of that approval from his fellow-men which he now receives after fifteen months of his apprenticeship from S.G. Bucknell." Without being in any way conceited, I cannot help feeling that his good wishes have to a certain extent been fulfilled. From a quiet village life to the busy town of Stroud was a great change. My time for work was from eight o'clock in the morning until eight at night six days of the week, summer and winter, and my only holidays were Good Friday and Christmas Day. The Bill originating Bank Holidays had not then been passed. Sometimes during the winter months the walk home was anything but pleasant, especially as I had to walk beside the canal for a considerable distance and more than once had a narrow escape from falling in. It is a truism that familiarity breeds contempt, and I must admit that this familiarity strengthened me in what to many would have been a dangerous journey, and it has no doubt helped me in keeping my nerves and my temper from running away with me. However, all's well that ends well, and although during my seven years' apprenticeship I had many temptations and dangers, yet I think I came through them stronger both in mind and body. I remember that occasionally on my morning walk through some of the lanes to business, I would meet that sportsman Mr. Paul Hawkins Fisher with his attendants, each carrying a hawk on his hand, well hooded; sometimes, I have seen them let fly when they would attack some startled bird, but I understood they were only training the hawks for future warfare. It was, however, sportive food for my imagination. During my years of apprenticeship many events happened, both social and political, that interested me, and I can only write them down as my memory helps me and not in any way in the order of their happening. One of my earliest recollections was of an election before vote by ballot was introduced. The members for the Borough were Edward Horsman and G. Poulet Scrope, the latter an author of considerable importance. I remember that, although there was no opposition to the members, speaking on the hustings, for the nomination, continued until twelve o'clock, with the intention of nominating Lord John Russell should he not have been successful in the constituency he was fighting; but he was successful, so no nomination was necessary. I had occasionally the pleasure of seeing Lord John Russell, as he lived near Amberley, from which his eldest son took the title of Viscount Amberley. Speaking of contests but of another character, it was in 1860 the fight between Tom Sayers and J.C. Heenan took place. What a tremendous excitement it produced! I well remember the day after the fight, having fetched the newspapers from the London train and folded them in the shop, how I stopped every minute to read another line describing the fight and how angry my master was at my taking so long. But I could not help it, for the details were quite worth the trouble I brought upon myself. Some months later I had the pleasure of seeing Sayers box in connexion with a travelling circus. It was one of the red-letter days in my life to see the man of whom I had thought so much, showing his skill as a boxer. It was generally understood that it was at Stroud that Tom Sayers had his first fight; he was a bricklayer and was engaged in work at the Stroud Brewery, and falling out with one of his fellow-workmen, a fight followed which probably led to further developments. I have also seen his opponent J.C. Heenan boxing in a circus, but I did not consider him in any way an equal to Tom Sayers. Although my time was fully occupied, I was able to enjoy a good game of cricket with some of my many friends on Rodborough Common. We used to meet at five o'clock in the morning, and, after a good game, had breakfast before starting work at eight o'clock. I also joined a class to learn Latin: there was a dear old gentleman bachelor who loved literature and education and he took in hand some half-dozen young fellows to teach them Latin. We used to meet at his house at eight in the evening for one hour's tuition. I enjoyed it and managed to master the early chapters of Virgil's "Æneid," and, though I am afraid the results have not been very great, the little knowledge I obtained has been useful. I was also much interested in a singing class, over which a Mr. Helmore, brother to the Rev. T. Helmore, the great Church choirmaster, presided. We gave performances in the Subscription Rooms of "The Messiah," "The Creation" and other musical classics. I have often thought of the absurdity of one of the choirmaster's eccentricities when performing "The Creation." Very early in the oratorio the words are, "And God said let there be light, and there was light." Before the singing began the lights were turned down and I was placed near the man who turned on the gas. At the opportune moment I had to give the signal, the light was turned on and light became a fact. I have often thought how almost profane it was, but I believe it passed without any serious protest. Another yearly event which became fixed in my mind was the appearance of Dr. Cumming to speak on the coming end of the world. There was a wealthy lady of Amberley who was a great believer in Dr. Cumming, and each year he came down and stayed with her and always delivered one of his unfulfilled prophecies. It was my duty to take the tickets and see the audience into their seats, but, as the audience year by year grew smaller by degrees and beautifully less, this was very easy work. Like most moderate-sized towns at this period, Stroud had its Young Men's Institute, of which I was a member, and it was the custom during the winter to have lectures, etc. I well remember the great success that always attended the lectures given by George Dawson, a preacher, lecturer and politician, and George Grossmith, the father of the well-known actor in Gilbert and Sullivan's plays. These lectures were usually of a literary or biographical character and undoubtedly laid the foundations for thought and study in the minds of those who listened to them. During my apprenticeship, my master, Mr. John Clark, was sometimes very exacting, and I know I had to thank Mrs. Clark and some of their daughters for helping to an extent to ease my work, and for making my strenuous life run smoothly. Part of my work was to learn printing. This I did, and was able to set up the type of a volume of sermons by a local vicar. The volume made no reputation, either for the vicar or the producer of the work. It was, however, in the buying and selling of books that I was most interested. These were the great days of the poets, who then had large sales, Tupper's "Proverbial Philosophy," I think the greatest. What a change from then to now! I have no doubt that if you asked for this book to-day in a bookseller's shop no one would know of its existence, but, without doubt, those of Tupper and other poets were the principal books given as presents. I remember that Tennyson's "Enoch Arden," published by Edward Moxon in 1864, even in such a small town as Stroud had a large sale. I understand that 50,000 copies of this book were sold during the first year of its publication. There is one thing I was greatly blessed with--a good memory; and I can safely say I knew every book in our stock. When a traveller came round for orders, I was always stationed near my master and the traveller and if an order was being given I had to say whether the book was in stock or not. Those were also the days when booksellers sold patent medicines, in which a large trade was done; especially with such articles as Holloway's, Morrison's, and other pills, with various preparations to cure every disease under the sun. In looking back to those times, I have often dwelt upon the thought whether it is best for youths to be brought up under severe discipline or under easy surroundings and have come to the conclusion that the happy medium is most desirable, for in my own case and although my master Mr. Clark was a straightforward honourable man, he was not a man who sympathized with labour, but looked upon it as something one had to put up with; but where a man is just and honourable as he was this influence is for good, and labour is made more pleasant and agreeable. I have much to thank Mr. Clark for, especially in the directions mentioned, and always feel that the thoroughness of his business habits had a lasting effect upon me. I can look back upon my seven years' apprenticeship with much thankfulness, not only for my personal good health but the many pleasant associations with which I was surrounded. CHAPTER II My Early London Experiences In September, 1864, I came to London, although not for the first time, as I had made two visits to the metropolis before this important event in my life. On one of these occasions I well remember sitting on an omnibus which came down from Snow Hill and at the bottom of the hill a horse was switched on to the front of the 'bus to pull it up Holborn Hill which was then paved with rugged stones. Even with three horses, they had to pull from one side to the other in their effort to reach the top. This dip is now bridged over by the Holborn Viaduct, which I remember seeing Queen Victoria declare open in 1872. The other occasion was to visit the Exhibition of 1862. It was a great revelation and interested me much. Before coming to my situation in London, I had quite made up my mind that I would see anything there was to be seen that was within my reach and means. I think one of the earliest events which happened was the hanging at Newgate of Muller, who murdered a Mr. Briggs whilst riding in a train from Liverpool Street to Bow. He committed the murder and managed to escape to America, but was deported, tried and condemned to be hung. In those days the gallows was erected in the Old Bailey, the night before the execution, and the condemned was brought out through the prison door in the Old Bailey and mounted steps to the scaffold, with Calcraft the hangman walking beside him. In this way you obtained a good view of the culprit. I arrived at the Old Bailey at five in the morning so had a long wait until eight, the time of the execution, but the talking and byplay helped to pass the time. I had a good view of the terrible ordeal and came away with some new experiences, one of which was that I lost in the crowd a very dainty scarf pin which had been given to me on leaving Stroud. This taught me the advisability of leaving my valuables at home when going into crowds. I had now settled down at Islington, which was just one mile from the General Post Office and when leaving home too near 8.30, which was the time for getting to business, I could take a cab with a friend for this distance. It cost us sixpence, threepence each for one mile; but cab fares, like many other things, have changed since then. Before coming to London, I had never been inside a theatre. My first experience was at Sadlers Wells Theatre, where a Miss Marriott was playing "Hamlet." My interest and enthusiasm in that play has from that time never ceased. I went to see it on Monday, on Tuesday, and on Wednesday, and if funds had allowed my inclination would have continued for the rest of the week. "Hamlet" made a greater impression on me than any sermon I ever heard. I learned a great deal of the play by heart, and, although I have seen "Hamlet" played many times since, it never impressed me so much as it did on that occasion at Sadlers Wells. This theatre was opened in 1844 and for some twenty years Samuel Phelps was associated with it, his aim being to produce all Shakespeare's plays, but he only succeeded in producing thirty-four of them. Phelps was a great tragedian, and I have often seen him acting at Drury Lane Theatre. From very early in my youth I have been a lover of Shakespeare, and this was mainly brought about through one of my sisters joining with me in taking Cassell's edition in seven-penny monthly numbers, which we both read as they were issued. They were published in three volumes and I have the copy now bound in calf. Like many others of my books, they have to me a speaking remembrance. It was in 1867 that a new and interesting experience came my way. For many years various associations had held meetings in Hyde Park to air their grievances, either imaginary or otherwise. At one of these, the Home Secretary, Spencer H. Walpole, decided that a different method should be adopted in their management. This was objected to by a particular Association and they defied the Home Secretary, with the result that he had the gates of the Park closed against them. The people were so incensed at this that although the railings of the Park were as far as possible protected by the police, the crowds were too strong for them and broke the railings in many places and held their meeting. I was among those who helped to pull down the railings and got for my trouble a good blow on my back from a policeman's truncheon. However, I had an experience which was new and interesting: I cannot say who was in the right, but I remember the Home Secretary had to resign a few days afterwards for what was stated to be lack of tactfulness in regard to this meeting. One of the most sickening and disgusting sights which I remember was the old slaughter-houses of Smithfield. This Market stood where Paternoster Square now stands. Cattle were driven into the market during the night, bullocks and sheep, and were killed in the early morning and sometimes during the day. I have watched them being slaughtered and seen the blood flow from the slaughter-houses into Paternoster Row. To people of to-day it does not seem possible that such a thing could be allowed in the heart of the City of London. The butchers would often parade round their shops with what was called a Cleaver Chorus; this was done by bringing together with a clash a marrow-bone and their cleaver or hatchet, and quite an attractive sound was produced but not much harmony. When there was an execution taking place at Newgate, these men would gather together in a body in their disgusting blood-soaked overalls and just before the time for the execution rush singing into the crowd surrounding the gallows. However thick the crowd was, the people would give way rather than come into contact with these greasy and disgusting butchers, who by these means got a front position in what should have been a sad and mournful ceremony. It was probably through there being so much more meat near at hand that the prices for lunch were much cheaper then than they are now. I remember in Warwick Lane there used to be a popular refreshment house called "The Bedford," and many times I have had a good lunch there for sixpence, a lunch which consisted of toad-in-the-hole (it was made of a good beef-steak in the middle of batter pudding) for fourpence, potatoes one penny, and ale one penny. Things have changed greatly since those times. There also used to be in the Oxford Arms passage, situated where some of the St. Paul's residentiary houses now stand, an inn, in association with the hay market held there, named the Oxford Arms. Here each day there was brought on to the table a good joint of beef or a leg of mutton from which you could cut and come again, with vegetables, pastry, etc., all for the price of one shilling. For the sake of many in the City, one is often tempted to wish some of these old customs were with us still. I have a lingering remembrance of an important event occurring just before bedtime in December, 1867. A fire was evident somewhere at the West End, so off I started and was in time to see the last of Her Majesty's Theatre which was that night entirely burned down. It was a grand sight, but the crowd which collected was unbearable. I understood that at the time an opera was being played and several of the great performers of the day, such as Titiens, Christine Neilson, and Santley, were among the artistes present. It was a sight never to be forgotten. It was about this time that Adah Isaacs Menken, an American actress and poet and also the wife of J.C. Heenan, the prize fighter, was playing the hero in "Mazeppa" at Astley's Theatre. She was a splendid and attractive figure, and when she came on the stage, dressed only in tights, mounting her horse and riding away into the wilds to be picked to pieces by the birds, she had a tremendous ovation. The performance was a great attraction and most young men made a point of seeing it. It was said that a bet had been made as to whether the actress's legs were padded and the attendant who helped her on to the horse was bribed to pinch her leg to settle the bet. I heard that he did so, and got a kick in return which not only settled the bet but also the attendant. The changes that have been made in London since my early days have been very great. I never pass down Holborn but I think of the passage called Middle Row, which I have often gone through, in front of the delightful old-fashioned Shakespearean houses of which we are all so proud. At that time there was a row of houses on the other side of the passage, and at nearly the bottom of the hill stood the publishing house of Darton & Harvey. This, like many others, has been swept away by the present Holborn Viaduct. The Thames Embankment was opened within my early recollection, also the Law Courts; and there was also the sweeping away of Holywell Street, where I have passed many a pleasant hour poring over the boxes of old books in search of a treasure. I remember once, as I thought, buying for 2_s._ 6_d._ a book with not a very chaste reputation. It was done up very carefully in a sealed envelope and when I opened it at home I found it was an old soiled Common Prayer Book. I did not get what I expected, but perhaps it was better for me that I was swindled. London, however, is being made a city of which we are all proud. Although there is still much to be done, the changes and improvements have been great since my early days. Going back to the Theatre and Music Hall, these were the times of the songs "Champagne Charlie is my name," sung by Leybourne, "The Bells go a Ringing for Sarah," by Kate Santley, Stead's "The Perfect Cure," and, from a different point of view, the delightful singing by Sims Reeves of "Come into the Garden, Maud," and Carlotta Patti of "Home, Sweet Home," and "Comin' through the Rye." These now appear very old-fashioned, but they touched the imagination more than many of the songs of the present day. Blondin was at this time at the height of his popularity. His performances at the Crystal Palace, and afterwards at the Alexandra Palace and other places, attracted great crowds. It made you hold your breath to watch him on the high rope balancing a four-legged chair and then stand upon it, or sometimes carry a man on his back across the rope or wheel him in a barrow. Among other exhibitions, I remember seeing General Tom Thumb and Minnie Warren with their troop of midget humanity, performing at St. James's Hall. Cremorne Gardens and Highbury Barn were at this time at the height of their popularity, and although from where I lived it meant a night out to visit the former, the latter was within walking distance. I wanted to see everything possible, and I think so far I succeeded, for my wanderings were varied from the top of St. Paul's Cathedral and the Monument to the Cider Cellars in the Strand and to Nicholson's Judge and Jury and the Poesie Plastics of Leicester Square. Living as I did at this time in the north of London, I frequently walked through Highbury to what is now the beautiful Finsbury Park. The New River was then an open stream beside which it was pleasant to walk. On passing through a wicket-gate, one came to a building called the Sluice House, at which refreshments could be procured. A path through a field took us to Finsbury Park Tavern on the site of which the refreshment houses in Finsbury Park now stand. Boats were let out for hire on the lake, and pigeon shooting was one of the sports carried on in the grounds. Many times have I seen a considerable number of these injured innocents brought down. This sport, I am pleased to think, is not so popular now as it was at that period. It was, I suppose, somewhat natural to a young man who has been brought up in a very puritanical atmosphere and among the strictest sect of the Pharisees, to take every advantage of the liberty I was now enjoying. I was anxious, however, to see and hear some of the preachers of whom I had heard so much. This attraction, however, soon died away, because to an extent I found no sympathy. The first great preacher I went to hear was the Rev. C.H. Spurgeon. Unfortunately my impression of him was a bad one, for he had just given out his text when several people walked into the chapel. The preacher stopped and looked hard at the people entering. When they were seated, he said, "We are sorry we could not wait for you, but you will be in time to go away with the rest." I thought this a most unkind and uncalled-for remark, and made up my mind I would never hear him again, and I did not. Another incident, I suppose I must call it, or eccentricity, occurred at the only time I heard Dr. Parker at the City Temple. Before beginning his sermon he waited a few minutes and then said, "We are not feeling quite well this evening, so shall dispense with our usual action." To me, this was nothing but unnecessary egotism. The one man to whom I always enjoyed listening was the Rev. J.C.M. Bellew, who preached in Bloomsbury. He was a great elocutionist, his sermons were well constructed and interesting, and to me the music was the greatest charm of all. The most eloquent and informing sermon I ever heard was one by Canon Liddon, in St. Paul's Cathedral, on Buddha. He preached for one hour and a quarter, and never did I experience quicker or more intellectual enjoyment than on that occasion. I also had the pleasure of hearing, at Islington, Professor Huxley deliver one of his controversial addresses. Huxley's life was principally spent in the promulgating of right and truth, and his eloquence was almost an inspiration. The only time I had the pleasure of hearing John Bright speak was at the Highbury Congregational Church, when he presided at a lecture given by the Rev. R.W. Dale. A more eloquent introduction than that given by John Bright I have never heard. Sport was always one of my fascinations, whether it was running, walking, boxing, or cricket. I have no doubt the cricket I so much enjoyed during my apprenticeship helped me in obtaining a position in the eleven at Stationers' Hall Court, where for many years a good team was always available for a Saturday afternoon game; and I am pleased to record that in these early days there were few things I looked forward to with greater pleasure than the Saturday afternoon cricket, especially when I was chosen as one of the eleven. One Saturday afternoon an extraordinary incident took place at a cricket match, at which I was a spectator; it was between Middlesex and Nottingham, on the ground now held by the Smithfield Market near Holloway. Tom Hearn, the great Middlesex bowler, was holding the ball ready for delivery, when a pigeon came flying over the wicket. Hearn looked up and in a moment threw the ball into the air and struck the pigeon in the breast. The poor bird fluttered down close to the wicket. It was a clever shot and Hearn was greatly cheered. Occasionally during the week, boxing was one of my great delights, and I flatter myself I was quite up to the average in this most useful exercise. I have seen most of the champion boxers of that period engaged in the noble art of self-defence, and on one occasion I was persuaded to have the gloves on with a professional prize fighter, but my weak points were soon found out, and I felt it was best to leave well alone. What greatly interested me on one occasion was my visit to a ratting match. The wager was laid on a terrier for £25 that he would kill 300 rats in fifteen minutes. The rats were taken out of traps and counted into a square pit, and as they fell in they rushed to one corner of it. When the 300 were all in, it was a wonderful sight to see them in a heap in one corner of the pit. The dog, Peter was his name, was put in the middle of the pit and when the referee called time, he was let go and the killing began with a vengeance. The bet was won with a minute to spare, and I can safely say I never spent fourteen minutes amid greater tension and excitement. In these times, on Good Friday, there was always wrestling at the Agricultural Hall. I usually went and well remember the splendid contest between the Cornish and Cumberland wrestlers. It was great sport, and for a few minutes during the surging back and forward before a firm grip had been obtained by one of the giants, the spectators almost held their breath in the excitement. I often wonder whether this particular sport of wrestling has, like many other things, become almost a thing of the past, or is it that our lives have so changed that we now take little notice of such matters. Although somewhat indirectly connected with sport, I have always derived a great deal of fun and enjoyment from watching the return of the visitors of the Epsom Races to see the Derby run. From Clapham Common to the Elephant and Castle, and on to the City there was for many hours one continuous stream of people and conveyances, some in good style, while others rode in donkey carts or any conveyance obtainable. These race-goers mostly sang comic songs, were all bent upon enjoyment, and in many cases the race appeared to be a secondary consideration. These enjoyments have now mostly passed away, a better tone prevails with the people, and the means of conveyance to Epsom Downs have been greatly accelerated. I once had the pleasure of seeing the Derby ran; it was in 1896, when the race was won by Persimmon, King Edward VII's (then Prince of Wales) horse. It was a splendid race, and never could there have been a greater reception than was given when the Prince came from the Stand after the race to lead his horse back to the weighing machine. My experience on that occasion must have been almost a record. I left business at one o'clock, went by cab to London Bridge, caught a train to Epsom, arrived at my arranged stand on the race-course, and saw each race run until the Derby was over and the Prince had led his horse off the course; then to the station and back to town and was in business again at four o'clock--in all, three hours. This was a good record. During the summer, with a small band of fellow-assistants, I often arranged pedestrian outings. We frequently started early on Saturday, after business, slept the night out and returned by train on Sunday evening. Two of these outings are still fresh in my memory. On the first occasion, we went by train to Gravesend, then walked to Chatham, where we spent a very uncomfortable night, thence to Rochester Cathedral and the Dickens country, afterwards walking to St. Mary's Cray and staying on the way to inspect Kit's Coty House in Kent, a prehistoric structure which belongs to the Stone or Bronze Age. It consists of a large flat stone supported by two other stones and is a link with the past and well worth a visit. From St. Mary's Cray we reached home by train. Another of our outings was by rail to Hampton Court, then a walk to Staines, where we had to sleep on the floor and on billiard tables, but, not being very comfortable, we got up at three o'clock in the morning and spent our time, until breakfast was ready, rowing on the Thames. From Staines we walked to Windsor, and were in time for service at St. George's Chapel, and I had the pleasure of hearing the then Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr. Tait; thence home by train. Such outings as these can only be enjoyed at one period of life, and I have always been glad I undertook them when I did, for other things came into my life which made me, I hope, a better and happier man. CHAPTER III Some Recollections of Stationers' Hall Court Although I have referred in another chapter to my early association with bookselling, yet it was not until my entry into the employ of Simpkin, Marshall & Co., on September 23, 1864, that my real bookselling experience commenced. This may not be quite in accord with the title I have chosen of "Sixty Years a Bookman," but, as previously stated, I served seven years' apprenticeship to a bookseller before entering the firm of Simpkin, Marshall & Co., and these two periods extend beyond that implied by the title of this book. As long as my memory lasts, I shall never forget the first few weeks of my experience in this firm, from 8.30 in the morning until the work was finished. Up and down stairs and ladders searching for books made one so tired that sometimes I could scarcely crawl to my home. Even to this I soon became accustomed, and the tiredness to an extent, so far as my body was concerned, became a thing of the past; but it will never be effaced from my memory. These were also the times when the principal day of the month was Magazine day, and after the ordinary business hours were over every one stopped to put together each customer's magazines. I quite think that if there were not then a greater number of different magazines published, they had, certainly as far as this firm was concerned, a much larger sale. Anyway, it was a day that one felt thankful to see finished. At this period late hours were considered inevitable, for during the winter season it was frequently ten o'clock before we got away, while some assistants in the firm and in other book firms at certain times worked until after twelve o'clock at night. I remember, when speaking of this to a fellow-assistant, being told that this was nothing to what it had been formerly: a short Saturday afternoon and no Bank Holiday, and occasionally some of the people would only see their homes three times during the week; they had to sleep on or under the counters. Fortunately, all these absurd arrangements are now ancient history and never again likely to be a part of what is called civilization or business methods. I well remember my first holiday, if it can be so called. It was the Christmas following the September of my entering Simpkins. I wanted to spend it at Weston-super-Mare, and as Christmas came on Sunday, Monday was given as a holiday. I caught a G.W.R. train about ten o'clock on the Saturday evening. There was only a single line then to Weston, from a junction on the main line at which we stopped. From here, in a single railroad carriage with a white horse attached to it, we jogged for many miles and arrived at our destination at six in the morning. My friends were waiting for me, and we had a jolly Christmas. I started back by a midnight train on Monday, arriving in London at seven on the Tuesday morning. I had some breakfast and then went to business until nine o'clock at night. This was what was then called a Christmas holiday. But with all this, I can bear testimony to the kindness and consideration shown to the assistants by the partners of this period in the firm of Simpkin, Marshall & Co., especially Messrs. John, Frederick and William Miles; and as far as I am personally concerned, I shall always remember with a thankful heart the courtesy and consideration I received from them. These were the times of Old Moore's and Hannay's Almanacs, the publishing day of the former being a great occasion. At this time it was published by the Stationers' Company, as nearly as possible on November 21, at twelve o'clock. On the day of publication the Hall doors were opened, and the porter who first got through with a sack-load of almanacs received a gift of, I think, five shillings. There were always a number of people to watch this publishing event, and the winner was greatly cheered. At this time "Hannay's Almanac" also had a large sale, but it only survived a few years after the first issue of the greatly renowned "Whitaker's Almanack," now over fifty years old. This almanac deserves the success it has secured. No business or even private intelligence department can afford to be without it; it practically has no competitor, and the knowledge it contains might well be termed universal and encyclopædic. While speaking of Stationers' Hall and Stationers' Court, I will try to remove an impression which suggests that the word Stationers originated from the locality in bygone times being connected with the paper trade. This is not so; but being so near St. Paul's Cathedral, it was one of the _stations_ at which vendors of crosses and other wares for religious observances had their stands or shops for the sale of these articles; hence its origin. The following streets also derived their names through being near or associated with St. Paul's Cathedral: Paternoster Row, Creed Lane, Ave Maria Lane and Graces Court. In Ivy Lane dwelt the wax-chandlers who in bygone times supplied tapers for lighting the Cathedral. I cannot say if religion at this period had a passion for more excitement than at the present time, but undoubtedly there were more books of that character sold than there are to-day. What immense sales such books as the following had: Hall's "Come to Jesus," "Heaven Our Home," "The Sinner's Friend," "Across the River," Beecher's "Life Thoughts," "The Pathway of Promise," "Able to Save," Baynes' "Lyra Anglicana," "Christ is Coming," "Letters from Hell," "The Gates Ajar," Oxenden's "Pathway of Safety," "The Heavenly Home," or the "Employment and Enjoyment of the Saints in Heaven," with works by Dr. Guthrie, Richard Weaver, Dr. Vaughan, A.K.H.B., Dr. Winslow, and books on the coming end of the world by Dr. Cummings. In fact, one of the leading journals of this time discussed the question as to what devotional books were most popular, and the answer given was, "Not the 'Imitation of Christ,'" but works telling the Christian how to make the best of both worlds, and describing heaven as minutely as if it were a first-class hotel, where every pleasure is provided for the elect. Judging from the titles this would appear correct, but fortunately this class of book has almost ceased to be, and works of a more reasonable and literary character have taken their place. Some years ago I wrote an article bearing upon this subject, and as I feel that the words are as true to-day as when written, I here produce portions from the article which deals more fully with this question. It must be apparent to anyone glancing through the publishers' lists of the books now being issued, and comparing them with the lists of fifty years ago, that a great decline has taken place in the production of religious books. This decline is observable not only in the old-fashioned religious publications which were looked upon as belonging to the classics, but also in the more modern productions of a like character. These latter sold by their thousands, but the demand for both appears at the present to have nearly passed away, and their sale is now of the most limited description. In an attempt to account for this decline more or less plausible reasons have been adduced, but the most forcible, perhaps, is, that just now there is no religious wave passing over the country, nor are there any great ecclesiastics who have time or who consider it part of their duty to be continually issuing books on purely religious subjects. Add to this the fact that trade frequently runs in cycles, with the effect that the depression in this particular class of literature is just now at its lowest point. When this is so, something often occurs to bring it back again to its normal condition, and this may prove to be the case in the production and sale of religious books. A potent factor in this depression is undoubtedly the growth of independent thought, which was such a marked characteristic in the latter part of the nineteenth century. The influence of Puritanism, which so deeply affected English life, and which in past ages permeated the action and thought of this country, has now nearly spent itself, so the sale of old Puritan books has almost ceased. During that period the noblest characters were moulded from those appearing in the Bible; these are now shaped more by education and culture. Whether this will be to the advantage of the nation, must be left for a future generation to decide. There is much truth in the remark that the literature of a nation largely indicates the disposition of its people; but this observation scarcely applies to the religious side of our national life, for, although there has been a great decline in the issue of religious books, the activity of nearly all sections of the Christian Church during the same period has been most marked. The result of this is the establishment by the various religious denominations of special publishing departments for their own particular class of religious works. They have also weekly and monthly periodicals which circulate amongst their own people and through their own channels; and although these with their books do not in all cases come through the ordinary distributing agencies, and are not always recorded in the return of books issued during the year, yet, even taking all this into account, there is undoubtedly a great decline in the issue of religious works. For some years previous to this period many of our religious writers were at the height of their popularity and their books were having immense sales. Much of this success was due to the writers' influence in the pulpit. Among the most prominent was the Rev. J.R. Macduff, whose first and best known book, and the one that had the longest vitality, was "The Faithful Promiser." Originally written with the intention of being sent only to his old friends as a memento of his connexion with the parish he had just left, it found favour with a much larger public who eagerly purchased edition after edition until hundreds of thousands of copies were sold. Next in popularity was his "Morning and Night Watches," which also had an enormous sale, and his "Memories of Bethany," the sale of which ran into many thousands. All the books of this author were more or less successful (and he was a most voluminous writer), but the sale of the majority has now very greatly decreased, while some are seldom, if ever, inquired for. Dean Goulburn's "Thoughts on Personal Religion" was once to be found in every bookseller's shop throughout the kingdom, and at the height of its popularity had an annual sale of nearly ten thousand copies; now its circulation is of a very limited character. This was one of the books which Mr. Gladstone generally gave to the young men who were fortunate enough to come within his sphere of influence. Another author whose books were formerly very popular was Bishop Oxenden. The one which had the biggest sale was "The Pathway of Safety," but most of his works sold by their tens of thousands. Mention should also be made of those by the Rev. Horatius Bonar, especially his "Hymns of Faith and Hope," each volume as it appeared passing through many editions. The following names will bring back to many readers the titles of books which have been appreciated by young as well as old: the Rev. John Angell James, the Rev. Newman Hall (over a million of the latter's "Come to Jesus" have been disposed of), Miss Havergal, Miss Marsh, the Rev. James Hamilton, the Rev. W. Jay, and the Rev. C.H. Spurgeon. These names represent a few only out of the many writers of religious books which were then popular. Most of them have greatly decreased sales, while others have fallen out altogether and are probably quite unknown to the present generation. There were also issued about this time many religious works published anonymously. These caused a great stir, and met with an extensive demand. Amongst them were "Able to Save," "Pathway of Promise," "Meet for Heaven," "Throne of Grace," "Heaven our Home," but, like the works already noticed, they have also run their course. The first half of the Victorian era was apparently the Golden Age for religious books, for besides those writers who issued their books independently there was at this period a large number of separate series and libraries in vogue which contained reissues of most of the leading works by the old divines. To show the variety and range of these issues, a selected few might here be mentioned. The most important amongst them were "The Christian's Family Library." This was under the editorship of the Rev. Edward Bickersteth, and consisted of about fifty-two volumes, all of a theological character. Another was the "Biblical Cabinet," issued by Clark, of Edinburgh, in forty-six volumes. The "Lady's Closet Library" contained volumes on "The Marys," "The Marthas," "The Lydias," "The Hannahs," etc., of Scripture; "The Christian's Fireside Library," in which were such books as Bigg's "Handbook of Popery" and McIlvaine's "Evidences of Christianity"; "The Library of Christian Biography," edited by Rev. Robert Bickersteth, was another important series, whose general title indicates the class of literature it contained. Under the editorship of such well-known men as Dr. Pye Smith, Robert Southey, and James Montgomery, a series of "Sacred Classics" were very popular: so also was "The London Theological Library," containing such representative works as Lardner's "Credibility of Gospel History" and Milner's "Church of Christ." The following titles of a few series out of many may be of interest: "Protestant's Sound Literature," "Pickering's Christian Classics," "Library of Puritan Divines," "The Sacred Family Library," "The Spiritual Library," and "The Practical Christian's Library." In most of these libraries there appeared an edition of some of these old-fashioned and now almost obsolete religious books represented by the following titles: Boston's "Crook in the Lot," Sutton's "Learning to Live, and Learning to Die," Ken's "Divine Love," Taylor's "Holy Living and Dying," Watson's "Apology," Baxter's "Saints' Rest," Magee on "The Atonement," Paley's "Evidences," and Law's "Serious Call." Most of these have now a very flickering existence, while for others there is no market whatever. How truly the wise and eloquent words of Bishop Carpenter in his Hulsean Lectures illustrate the reputation and influence of many of the writers of religious books, both ancient and modern, and of the books themselves, some of these having a vitality only during their authors' lives, while others, like their writers, shed influence through succeeding generations. The Bishop says: "She [History] measures men not by the tawdry reputations of the hour, but by the influence they can diffuse; she watches the circling wave which forms as men cast their force into the great ocean of life, and she measures their power by the life of that wave; and she finds that few--few indeed--have been able to spread their influences beyond their age; she notes many exalted to the skies, and she sees that in the next generation their name is clean put out; she measures the greatness of men as men do the height of mountains, by the length of the shadows they cast upon the surface of the world; and, measuring thus, she bids those whose influence lives through the ages to sit like gods among the hills of time." It is intended here to consider only those works or writers which were of a popular character. It would therefore be out of place to record the various volumes of sermons, biographies, or theological treatises on the various systems which have more or less occupied the attention of the religious world, and have to a large extent shaped the character of many of our denominations. In passing, however, it may be of interest to direct attention to that vast array of literature which sprang into existence through the religious controversies which have to a large extent influenced the English Church. The greatest of these was that known as the Tractarian Movement, and centred round the illustrious names of Keble, Newman, and Pusey. An extensive library might be formed of the works brought forth by this polemic controversy. The publication of "Essays and Reviews," Seeley's "Ecce Homo," Gladstone's "Vatican Decrees," and "Lux Mundi," edited by Canon Gore, also produced a flood of literature which has left an indelible mark on religious thought and practice. To these may probably be traced that diffusion of religious influence which has entered into so many branches of our literature and even to our fiction. Another branch of religious literature which shows a conspicuous decline is that of "Family Prayers." Years ago, no bookseller's shop would be complete without a copy of Oxenden's, Bickersteth's, Villiers', or Thornton's "Family Prayers"; and such old-fashioned volumes as Hawker's "Daily Portion," "The New Week's Preparation," Jenk's "Devotions," Fletcher's "Family Devotion," and the "Family Prayers" of Toplady and Reven, were all in constant demand. With these are associated a number of volumes of private devotion, Bishop Wilson's "Sacra Privata" and "Pietas Quotidiana" being the most popular. These, like the "Family Prayers," show a great decline both in their production and sale. It is difficult to suggest a reason for this decline other than that of the general evolution in religious thought which is continually changing the course of human progress and action. Religion is undoubtedly the greatest factor in influencing the character of a nation, so from this foundation there will probably spring up in the future a broad, reasonable, and intelligent class of writings which in their development and thought will be more cosmopolitan than doctrinal, and which will deserve to be classed as English literature. In comparing the educational literature of this period the changes have also been very great; those were the days when the works edited by Dr. Smith took the lead in the higher branches of education. Colenso's Arithmetic was the most popular book on that subject, while Cornwell's Geography and his other books were great sellers. The "Child's Guide to Knowledge" sold in its thousands, Chambers's educational books were very popular, as were also Brewer's Guides, "Stepping Stones to Knowledge," Weale's Series, Pinnock's, Guy's, and Wilson's Catechisms and Gleig's School Series. Of not quite the same character but greatly used for educational purposes were "Line upon Line" and "Peep of Day." Of the latter, some 250,000 copies were sold in the early days of its publication. Spelling books were then a most important part of educational literature, the most popular being Butter's, but the following also had large sales, Guy's, Mavor's and Vyse's. The copyright of Vyse's sold for £2,500, with an annuity to the author of £50 per year. The change in this class of educational literature has been very great. It was in 1864 that the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge announced that their books could now be obtained by booksellers on favourable terms. This was also the first year of the publication of "The Statesman's Year Book," which has had a continuous, and I hope will have a lasting, success. There were also many libraries which had large sales and were very popular. Among them were Hurst and Blackett's, Bentley's Standard Library, Select Library of Fiction, Run and Read Library, Railway Library, Parlour Library, Travellers' Library, Home and Colonial Library, Bohn's Various Libraries, The Cottage Library, consisting of some 300 volumes, Lardner's Scientific Library, and Beale's Sixpenny Library. Most of our older poets had at this period very large sales; but, like other things, there has been a great change in poetry, not only in the style of writing but also in the ideals, which are more lofty and inspiring and are far above such writers as Cowper, Longfellow, Moore, Tupper and others who at this period were very popular. About this time the following Magazines were started, and they all had a considerable popularity and very large sales, but, strangely enough, they have now all ceased to exist: "The Sunday Magazine," of which over one hundred thousand of the first number was sold, "Good Words," also selling largely, "The Argosy," "Aunt Judy's Magazine," "Belgravia," "London Society," "Tinsley's Magazine," edited by Anthony Trollope, and "The Broadway." Number one had a sale of over 100,000 copies. In 1865 "The Fortnightly Review" was started under the editorship of G.H. Lewes. From that time onward it has maintained a reputation for scholarly, intellectual and scientific articles and is always up to date upon all subjects of the day. In looking back, it is interesting to note the change in the character of book illustrations. Formerly, especially at Christmas time, there was a large output of well-illustrated books, principally in black and white, and there were then few illustrations printed in colour. The illustrations of Gustave Doré must take the first place as commanding the greatest public attention. Among other popular illustrators of this period were John Tenniel, Birket Foster, Selous, T. Leighton, G.J. Pinwell, Noel Humphreys, J.E. Millais, John Gilbert, Arthur Hughes, Kate Greenaway, Richard Doyle, A.B. Houghton, Sidney Cooper, and the brothers Dalziel, who were also great producers of the printing blocks. Another of the leading features of the trade was the immense sale of Birthday Books, from Shakespeare to Tennyson. Every poet with a reputation had a compilation made from his writings for which there was always a receptive public. One of the most fascinating and lasting of juvenile books popular at this time was "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland." The larger part of the first edition of this book was sold to an American publisher so that a second edition could be quickly announced; that was probably a wise policy and helped to draw attention to the value of the book. During this and the following years, many authors had great reputations which to-day have almost ceased. The books of most of them have long been out of print, and are almost forgotten except by those who lived during the middle of the nineteenth century. I would instance "A.L.O.E.," who had some fifty books in circulation, the author of "Mary Powell," who issued some twenty-four popular stories, the Rev. J.C. Ryle, Hugh Miller, Mrs. Webb, William and Mary Howitt, Artemus Ward, Mrs. Sewell, R.M. Ballantyne, Samuel Smiles, Miss Yonge, James Grant, Mayne Reid, John Timbs, S. Baring-Gould, Mrs. Carey Brock, Mrs. Gatty, and many others. Some of the novelists who have come to stay had at this period very large sales. Among them, of course, were Dickens, Thackeray, Scott, C. Kingsley, Miss Braddon, Anthony Trollope, George Eliot, and others who, I think, laid a foundation which was very helpful to our later novelists; but it is quite a question whether a new departure is not now developing and that the novel of to-day deals more particularly with the practical events of everyday life and the effect they have upon the moral and spiritual development of the nation. When Paternoster Square took the place of Newgate Market in 1872, it was quite anticipated that this position would be occupied entirely by publishers and thus form a centre for the trade, but at present this hope has not been realized. During these years great changes took place in Paternoster Row, many of the old buildings giving place to new ones of greater architectural beauty. The following houses are at the present time examples of the improvements which took place by rebuilding: Longmans, Blackwoods, Nelsons, Aldine Chambers. Other changes and improvements are in progress to-day. The Oxford University Press took over the business of the Oxford Bible Warehouse, with what success may be judged by its palatial buildings and business in Amen Corner and Ave Maria Lane, to which it moved in 1883. There has also been a great change in books besides those previously mentioned, from the superficial gentility of the middle and later part of the Victorian era, to the common-sense practical way we now have of reasoning out the social and political events of the day. This change, if guided by proper thought and consideration for others, will undoubtedly lead to a better and happier England. There are, however, still many changes required, especially in the making and selling of books; and it is to be hoped that by a greater union and more harmony and uniformity in the trade, a more general prosperity will be associated with it, and that many of the disputes and difficulties, often more imaginary than real, will be avoided. It appears to me that the shortest way to attain these ideals will be a central control consisting of representatives of both masters and men in the publishing and bookselling trade, who will settle disputes and whose aim will be to see that a satisfactory profit is realized by the various interests represented. This question has been more fully dealt with in a later chapter. The Elementary Education Act which was passed by W.E. Forster in 1870 created a great change in the educational literature of this period, the sum asked for in Parliament in 1871 being about one and a half million pounds. What the future educational grant will be, it is impossible to say, though it is to be hoped that it will make as great an improvement in the people as it has done in educational literature. Another noticeable fact in connexion with books is the few foreign books--especially French--which are now translated and issued in this country. The following authors at this early period had very large sales: Victor Hugo, Jules Verne, Figuier, Erckmann-Chatrian and others. It was in July, 1869, that Simpkin, Marshall & Co. gave their first and last dinner in celebration of the twenty-fifth anniversary of the present building in Stationers' Hall Court, at which the then head of the firm, Mr. John Miles, presided. It was a most social and happy event, and I wish the celebration had been continued. I remember that one of the old hands, William Griffiths, sang a song of his own composition which showed the good feeling then existing between employer and employed. I can only give one of the verses: "Then here's success to Simpkin's Firm and may they always find, In studying their interest us ever of one mind; May their connexion far and wide extend the globe around, And as each year shall onward roll may all of us be found In this fine new house I'm singing of, One of the olden time." to which I certainly say Amen. Before Simpkin, Marshall & Co. added to their premises the building which now runs into Ave Maria Lane, these were occupied by a competing wholesale firm named Whittaker & Co. The two houses were on good terms, and, when out of stock of certain books, we could always borrow from our neighbouring firm, which shows that a good feeling existed at this period even between competitors. This business was taken over by Messrs. W. Kent & Co. in 1876. CHAPTER IV Some Further Recollections and Reflections In my previous chapter I dealt with many things in the book trade which impressed me more particularly in the first years of my Stationers' Hall Court experience. I will now try to give a brief account of other incidents with which I was associated during some of the following years. These are not stated in chronological order but have been jotted down as they have reappeared in my memory. One thing which has struck me is to find what a number of publishers during the last fifty years have either ceased to exist or have been incorporated with other firms; many of them being houses of great importance and publishers of a considerable number of popular books. The following are some of the firms which I am able to call to my memory which were then in existence: Messrs. Walton & Maberley, A.W. Bennett, J. Bennett, J. Russell Smith, H. Colburn, John Maxwell (the husband of Miss Braddon), Bradbury, Evans & Co., J.C. Nimmo (the publisher of many beautiful books), Houlston & Wright (the publishers of the Enquire Within series), Groombridge & Son, Rivington & Co. (taken over by Longmans & Co.), J. Masters, W. Hunt, W. Mackintosh, E. Moxon (the early publisher of Tennyson's and Swinburne's works), J. Camden Hotten (who published and introduced into this country Mark Twain, Bret Harte, and Artemus Ward. He died at the age of forty, and his business was taken over by Messrs. Chatto & Windus), J.C. Newby, Saunders & Ottley, Griffith & Farran (the successors to John Newbery), W. Day & Son (high-class printers and publishers), W. Tegg, Hardwick, J. & C. Mozley, A. Strahan (one of the most enthusiastic publishers of his day), Tinsley Bros. (they published for T. Hardy, George Meredith, and Miss Braddon), R. Bentley (his business was taken over by Macmillan in 1898), N. Trübner, and Charles Knight (who died in 1873, aged 81; he was the first publisher of the British Almanac and Companion and also issued the Penny Cyclopædia and the History of England, with other interesting and educational work), L. Booth, Virtue, R. & A. Suttaby, Smith Elder & Co. (now incorporated with John Murray), and many others. It is also somewhat astonishing what a change has taken place in the character of the books issued by some publishers. To instance a few, Messrs. Cassell & Co. principally issued educational and serial publications, C. Griffin were educational and religious publishers, Messrs. Nelson & Son published mainly juveniles, including a large selection of 1_d._, 2_d._, 3_d._, 4_d._, and 6_d._ books. Messrs. W. Collins & Son were also educational and religious publishers. I should like to place on the other side some of the gains the publishing trade has received, and mention new firms that are among the leaders of the trade to-day. Messrs. Methuen & Co. have by a literary judgment and a judicial trend established one of the leading publishing businesses since the period before mentioned. In 1894 Mr. W. Heinemann issued his first original popular 6_s._ novel; this was Sir Thomas Hall Caine's "The Manxman," which not only had a great sale but was a send off such as few publishers have experienced. This novel being first issued in the 6_s._ form, had a considerable influence in bringing the three-volume novel to an end in 1897. The credit, however, for the original 6_s._ novel must be given to Mr. Vizetelly, who commenced some ten years earlier the issue of his one-volume 6_s._ novel series, which contained, beside other important novels, "A Mummer's Wife," by George Moore. Mr. J.M. Dent, in founding the "Every Man Library," made for his firm a name which is known throughout the world. In this he established a library of literary classics in its broader sense, issuing them in every particular worthy of the books produced. He has thus earned the gratitude of students in every country in which the English language is spoken or read. This firm has also produced many works of great literary and epoch-making value. Important additions to literature, including Fiction, have been made by such firms as Messrs. Hodder & Stoughton, Hutchinson & Co., T. Fisher Unwin, Constable & Co., E. Arnold, G. Harrap, Sidgwick & Jackson, Eveleigh Nash, A. Melrose, T. Werner Laurie, Duckworth, Selwyn & Blount, H. Jenkins, J. Lane, Chatto & Windus, with others, all of whom, it is hoped, have a great future before them. In 1873 the Cambridge University Press opened their business premises in Paternoster Row; previous to this, Messrs. Rivington & Co. had acted as their London agents. In 1874 the Oxford University Press began their now very important business under the management of Mr. Frowde. It is now managed by Mr. Humphrey Milford. I cannot, however, help thinking that there were more books of what may be termed a literary or classical character issued and sold during the early part of my career than there are to-day. It certainly looks as though the publishers of the future will have considerable opportunities of issuing the works of some of the great masters in literature. Whether or not we are to-day producing works of a character which will be sought for and collected by future generations it is difficult to say. There is one thing certain, however, and that is the spirit and desire to collect first editions of special authors was never greater than it is now. Undoubtedly, the desire to write books as well as to read them is an element to be dealt with, and if it were possible for the publisher to be so gifted that he would publish only books that were really worth publishing, much of the rubbish now being issued and which has only an ephemeral sale would never spoil paper and print. We shall, I suppose, never get perfection, but that is no reason why we should not aim at getting it. Take poetry, for instance. In my young days, Milton, Tupper, Longfellow, Keats, Shelley, Byron, with others, were considered the leading sellers, while Tennyson, W. Morris, Swinburne, Lewis Morris, the Brownings, were fast pushing some of the older poets out of existence and gaining a deserved popularity, which will last for many generations. Tennyson's popularity was such that it was reported that when he changed his publishers from Moxon to Strahan the latter promised to give him annually the sum of £4,500 for the right to publish his books. There are few poets to-day who could command such an arrangement. Then there is Swinburne, who in one of his volumes had expressed himself somewhat too realistically and was refused further publication by E. Moxon. Some of his later works were issued by J.C. Hotten and afterwards by Chatto & Windus. There are few, if any, publishers to-day who would take up the Moxon attitude, but times have changed for the better. In 1890 there were 114 volumes of poetry published, in 1891, 146; and I should conclude that from that period up to the beginning of the war, the number issued fluctuated to a very small extent. In the classified analysis of books and new editions published in 1917, poetry and the drama numbered 544, while in 1918 there were 642 published, which shows that the war has had a considerable influence in providing food for the imagination, poetry being frequently a true interpretation of the feelings of the individual as well as of the nation. * * * * * The Victorian era was noted for the issue of many books which sent a thrill of excitement through both the religious and intellectual world. It was in 1867 that "Essays and Reviews" was published, and as it contained contributions by some of the leading men of that period, it greatly influenced the tendency towards liberty of thought and helped forward the period when human life and reason should have its consideration as well as the supernatural. Darwin's "Origin of Species" was still a living influence, although published in 1859, and undoubtedly prepared the way for such men as Huxley and Herbert Spencer. It is not too much to say that these, with other books by men of like opinions, created the spirit of reason and toleration which is having its effect upon the life and education of to-day. The Victorian era has also been termed the age of the novelist. To a certain extent that is true, as we undoubtedly had during Queen Victoria's reign some of the greatest authors of fiction that this nation has ever produced. To confirm this it is only necessary to mention the names of such men as Charles Dickens, W.M. Thackeray, George Meredith, Thomas Hardy, R.D. Blackmore, H.S. Merriman, C. Kingsley, S.R. Crockett, Charles Reade, Anthony Trollope, Wilkie Collins, Charles Lever, Lord Lytton. All of these authors still have a large number of readers and admirers and their circulation has been enormous. It is perhaps a debatable question whether the female novelists of this period will live as long as the male novelist. Undoubtedly there were many whose works had very important sales, such as Charlotte Brontë, Mrs. Henry Wood, Miss Braddon, Miss Muloch, Miss C.M. Yonge, Edna Lyall, Mrs. Sewell, Mrs. Oliphant, with many others; but I think it very doubtful if a collected edition, from a literary point of view, of many of these authors will ever be undertaken by a publisher. At this period the publishing arrangements between this country and America were in a most unsatisfactory condition, there being only a Copyright Act which allowed an American to possess copyright in England while no Englishman could hold copyright in the United States, so that directly a book obtained popularity in either country it was reprinted, much to the loss of both author and publisher. I remember that in America a very popular novel had been published entitled "Arthur Bonnicastle." The American publisher, with the idea of securing copyright in England, had the last chapter printed and published here prior to the publication of the book, but a firm of London publishers, knowing its popularity in America, had printed an edition before hearing of the arrangement for the last chapter. They were therefore compelled to strike out the last chapter, as the copyright in this country had been secured, and issued the book with an explanatory preface exposing the injustice of allowing an American firm to secure copyright in this country while no Englishman could hold copyright in the United States. This action probably helped considerably the passing of the various Copyright Acts which have made it now possible for the authors in each country to obtain greater satisfaction from the results of their labours than they had done in previous years. It was about 1870 that Edna Lyall's books became very popular, and, being on very friendly terms with Mr. C. Layton, the representative in London of Messrs. Appleton & Co. of New York, I suggested that his firm should reprint this author's books in America. This was done, and they proved a very great success. There was, however, one very satisfactory arrangement between the principal American publishers which I dare say may have existed in this country. This was that any American publisher who was first in the field with an English author was not afterwards interfered with, however popular the author might become. I know this was the case with Edna Lyall, who received considerable sums from her American publishers, although they had no copyright in her books. In relation to copyright, I will mention a great event which took place in 1912: the closing for ever of the necessary registration at Stationers' Hall of all books published to secure copyright. The original charter was granted in 1557 and varied according to alterations made by Parliament. The old Copyright Act was limited to seven years after the death of the author, or forty-two years from the date of publication, whichever should be longer. The new Act gave a term of copyright for life and fifty years after. It came into operation on July 1, 1912, and from that date no registration was required. Though the new Act has undoubtedly many advantages one cannot help regretting that this source of important details respecting titles, authors and other information, has now ceased and that a system which shows the registration of some of Shakespeare's plays, and many other books of which all lovers of English literature are justly proud, is closed for ever. The last book to be registered by the Stationers' Company was "A Guide to the Shops Act," which appears rather an ignominious ending. One never-to-be-forgotten event took place in 1885, upon the publication of the Revised Version of the Bible. The Oxford & Cambridge University Presses had united in purchasing the publishing rights, for which it was reported they paid some £20,000. The New Testament had been published in 1881, and it was reported that over one million copies were sold within twenty-four hours of its publication, so when the complete Bible was issued the excitement was intense. Numbers could only be supplied in small quantities and for many weeks the greatest anxiety prevailed in the trade. The desire to obtain copies not only for this country but also for our Colonies was very great. Eventually the supply was equal to the demand, but, judging from opinions now occasionally expressed, it does not appear that the revised edition is the final edition. In all probability we shall have a revised edition of the revised version. While speaking of the Bible, I am proud to be the possessor of a copy of the one hundred copies produced for the Caxton Celebration in 1877. This copy was presented to me by Mr. Frowde, who had so much to do with its production by the Oxford University Press. At a luncheon given after the opening of the Caxton Exhibition, at which Mr. Gladstone, amongst others, was present, he addressed the audience, and, holding up a copy of this edition in his hand, explained how it had been produced. This, he said, was partly performed at Oxford and partly at London. The impression was limited to 100 copies, and not a sheet was worked from the printing press until the clock struck two on the morning of the 30th June, 1877, the day of the luncheon; the copies were then printed, dried, hot pressed and sent to London by an early train, taken to the binding works of the Oxford warehouse, rolled, folded, rolled again, pressed, collated, sewed, backed, cut, gilt, and excellently bound in morocco, all within twelve hours. The first copy was sent to Mr. Gladstone. The production of such a book in such a short space of time must have created a record. It was a wonderful performance of which the Oxford University Press may be justly proud, and I am very delighted to possess a copy. * * * * * Probably there is no other word in the English language that conveys a greater and a more varied meaning than that of Books. Besides reminding us of the books we have known and loved, it also throws the mind back to ancient history and the records handed down to us on Babylonian bricks or Egyptian papyrus. It was said by St. John, some 2,000 years ago, that if all the books had been written which might have been written upon a particular subject, the world itself could not contain them. If the world could not have contained them 2,000 years ago, what would have been the condition of affairs since the introduction of printing? Records of different nationalities are being continually discovered and printed, and there are few things more fascinating than the knowledge they reveal of ancient history and the manners and customs of the ancient peoples. Recent explorations have greatly added to our knowledge of the past and probably, when some of the Eastern peoples have settled down to peaceable pursuits instead of national war and strife, we shall have given to us from the sands of Asia and Africa, records and information which will astonish the world, for if, as Dr. Keith states, this world has probably been inhabited for some fifteen millions of years it is to be hoped that records of its peoples' lives and habits exist, and that in some way they have been preserved. Although all lovers of books and literature are interested in these ancient records, I do not intend attempting even a sketch of these fascinating periods of history and literature, but shall deal with a slight summary of a few names of authors, from the time of the first book printed by Caxton in 1474. This was entitled "Recuyell of the Historyes of Troye," which it is said laid a foundation upon which has been built the greatest of all the elements which will endow the world with civilization. It is generally understood that one hundred different volumes were issued from the Caxton press. It is, I suppose, a somewhat debatable question whether true literature really gained or lost by the introduction of printing; but it is quite certain that its influence for good has been very great. By the making of books, and thus being able to circulate in a cheaper form the old literature and help on the making of the new, it acted as a stimulus for good which developed greatly during the following centuries. Take the Bible alone; it is to the wide circulation given to it through the introduction of printing that we owe the peace and goodwill that are by degrees permeating the civilized world. We do not know what literature had been destroyed during previous ages, but through the printing press many great authors of the fifteenth and sixteenth century have been preserved and have left for all time works of which the English-speaking race are justly proud. Among these authors are Francis Bacon, Francis Beaumont, William Camden, George Chapman, John Donne, M. Drayton, R. Hakluyt, G. Herbert, Richard Hooker, Ben Jonson, John Knox, John Lyly, Robert Herrick, Christopher Marlowe, Sir Walter Ralegh, William Shakespeare, Sir Philip Sidney, Edmund Spencer, and many others. The authors of the seventeenth century also contributed largely to the literature of this country, among them being Joseph Addison, Richard Baxter, Sir T. Browne, John Bunyan, the Earl of Clarendon, John Dryden, John Locke, John Milton, Samuel Pepys, Sir W. Temple, Henry Vaughan, Edmund Waller, Isaac Walton, Daniel Defoe, A. Pope, S. Richardson and Jonathan Swift. This list could be largely increased by the addition of many well-known authors of later periods, but undoubtedly the introduction of printing greatly stimulated the love of literature and books which has grown up to the present day. I have not attempted to give the names of authors who lived during the eighteenth or nineteenth century as many of them are as familiar as household words. During the last and the present century, there have been many authors whose works will be read by generations yet to come, but it is quite a question whether or no a great change has not taken place in the present-day lovers of books, both in the serious reader as well as the lover of lighter literature. Undoubtedly the war has not only made people think, but has made them reason upon the why and the wherefore of things. I cannot help feeling that the future of literature as well as that of daily life will have to be viewed from more solidly scientific foundations, and people will want books in which the facts of life are interwoven with the everyday possibilities of life and much of the supernatural imaginings will have gone for ever. Future authors have a great source in the present to draw upon in the moral and physical as well as the ideal life. Those who have the clearest ideas upon these points will be those whose works will be handed down to the generations yet to come. These views are not so much from the authors' point of view, as of one who has been associated with books and has watched events for over sixty years. During that period there have been many and important changes in the character of books as well as of public opinion with regard to them. I anticipate, however, that greater changes are possible in the near future. From my own observation I cannot help feeling that the future of making and selling books, apart from authorship, will involve many changes. What a great influence must have been exercised by the sending out to the trenches and to all the various departments and agencies connected with the war, the millions of books and miscellaneous reading matter to those engaged in the war. Few people realize to what an enormous extent this was done. It was officially stated that in January, 1919, the Camps Library dispatched to France 129,000 novels, and 60,000 other publications were forwarded regularly every week. These are in addition to those sent out by the American Government and by the Y.M.C.A. and other agencies, and as there will be more money earned in the future by the people generally than there has ever been before, it is to be hoped that they will spend some of it upon books. What I shall hope to see is that every place which is established for public recreation or instruction has a well-selected library and reading-room. We can only speculate upon the good this would do, although I am firmly convinced that the great work which the Free Libraries have done, and are still doing, will be largely extended. Our young people must have some place of interest to which they can always go. Then we shall be a happier and more contented people. Besides this, the author with high and noble ideals will have some object in producing works which help to nobler thoughts and aspirations, works which lead to a higher and better life. Books enable us to realize our lives and make us feel the wonder and mystery of the world, they widen our horizon and create a sympathy with humanity. The influence of literature marks the growth of liberty and joy. The buying and selling of books is a delightful occupation. The bookseller in his work lives in a bygone world as well as in the present. Speaking for myself, I know what a comfort it is in old age to have an exhaustless treasury in books, to have the best in life of all the ages to fall back upon. The man who gives up his work to enjoy old age has nothing to fear if his mind is enriched by knowledge of the best in life and can enjoy the sympathy and friendship of books. My own love of books was the cause of my entering to a small extent into authorship. Besides occasionally contributing to our trade journals, I also wrote articles in the "Encyclopædia Britannica" on publishing, etc., and also in "The Nineteenth Century," "The Fortnightly Review," and other journals. Some of these I afterwards collected in a volume which I published in 1912 under the title of "The Fascination of Books." I have also issued volumes entitled "The Pleasure of Literature and the Solace of Books," "Saunterings in Bookland," and others. I have also published yearly since 1903, a little "Friend to Friend Kalendar," to which each year I have contributed a poem on Friendship. This has not only had a large circulation, but has brought me many letters of appreciation and added to my many friendships. The trade of the bookseller, as we now know him, has gradually developed from the early part of the last century. Until then the bookseller either largely printed, or in association with other publisher-booksellers joined in producing, many of the books they sold, the various bookselling partners whose names were on the title page sometimes numbering over twenty different firms. The making and selling of books has now developed into many different channels. There is the Author, the Author's Agent, the Publisher, the wholesale Distributor, and lastly, but not the least important, is the Bookseller. These various mediums through which most books must pass, have to be considered, particularly as regards terms, and although a book may cost little in its production, there are many expenses to be considered before its selling price can be fixed. This has led to much dissatisfaction during the past fifty years, and although arrangements entirely satisfactory to the trade generally have not yet been made, it is now in a more flourishing condition than it has ever been. What I think is now required is the formation of a Booksellers' Central Committee, of which Authors, Publishers, and Booksellers should become members. This would exclude the Author's Agent and every one not directly connected with the trade of bookselling, as printers, binders and others have their own organizations. Committees of each branch of the trade should be formed to deal with all trade technicalities, but discussions by the members in Council would be allowed upon any departmental difficulty, and the decision of the whole body accepted as final. In connexion with this body, an arrangement might be made whereby the trade assistants could have a separate establishment for educational and other matters connected with the trade. They should have the power of electing a certain number of members to represent them when any Trades Union or other difficult question came up for general consideration. The future is full of difficulties, and it is only through friendly discussions among the various representatives of all departments of the bookselling trade that these difficulties can be satisfactorily settled. The need for some progressive alteration in the trade must be apparent to every one associated with it, especially when we look back for some fifty years and remember the difficulties that then existed respecting the giving of discounts to the public, and then consider how during the terrible war now brought to a close and in the years since, the question of discounts has seldom arisen. Those who remember the difficulties which the discount system caused at the before-mentioned period will feel thankful for the part taken in its abolition by the united action of the Publishers' and Booksellers' Associations, and especially by the general establishment of the net book system and in many cases the doing away with the odd copy. But this subject has been more fully dealt with in the chapter on Underselling. It is, however, only by trade organization that difficulties which must in future arise can be solved, and it is to be hoped that it will further the interest of the assistants and the younger members of the trade so that instead of that want of knowledge which we often hear expressed, we shall have men engaged who are worthy of their craft, and with altered surroundings bookselling, if not regarded as a profession, may be considered as an occupation of light and leading. I have not dealt here with what is known as the second-hand bookseller. He is the one individual in our trade whom I envy. It is true that while he deals with the books of the past the ordinary bookseller deals with those of the present, and those to come. His knowledge, however, of his particular branch of trade is, I think, wonderful, for not only does he know the history of a book from its birth to its place upon his shelves, but a little conversation with him and a walk round his shop and the taking down some of the books from their shelves, is sufficient to make any book-lover forget this world in the pleasure and imaginings of those precious treasures which to know is to revere. CHAPTER V Some Personal Associations I have entitled this chapter "Some Personal Associations," and will first speak of a great and happy event which was only ended after forty-three years of married life. It was in 1868 that I became engaged and in 1870 married, a marriage for which no man ever had more cause to be thankful than myself, owing to the true happiness of my married life, the sympathy, kind thought and consideration of my late wife. In fact, everything which goes to make this life worth living was mine, or I may say ours. Like everything earthly, alas! it came to an end; but while memory lasts it will never be forgotten. Recalling all this, while thankful for a very happy past, I face what is left to me of the future with a thankful heart. I am also thankful for my dear children, who have all taken up their positions in life and are battling with its duties. They are to me an inexpressible comfort and a blessing, and I can only hope they will pass through and enjoy their lives as much as I have done mine. I should like to refer here to one other great event in my life, that of becoming a Managing Director of Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co., Ltd., in 1894. My great aim in life had always been to climb the ladder of prosperity as far as I possibly could. While speaking of Simpkin, Marshall & Co., I may mention a few traditional facts regarding the origin and development of that important firm in its connexion with the bookselling trade. Its originator and founder was Mr. Benjamin Crosby, whose descendants are now represented by the firm of Messrs. Crosby, Lockwood & Co., and whose predecessors were in past years partners of Simpkin, Marshall & Co. Mr. Benjamin Crosby came from Yorkshire to London and was apprenticed to a bookseller, James Nunn, in Great Queen Street; he afterwards worked for George Robinson, who was then considered the "King of Booksellers"; finally, he took over the business of Mr. Stalker in Stationers' Hall Court, whose premises were then situated upon the same ground as the buildings now occupied by Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co. After an attack of paralysis in 1814, Mr. Benjamin Crosby parted with his business to W. Simpkin and R. Marshall. I have always understood that Simpkin was a hatter in Bridge Street, Blackfriars, and, having capital, he associated himself with Marshall, who was an assistant of Benjamin Crosby. They, however, took over only the London trade portion of the business, the country portion going to Baldwin, Cradock & Joy. This firm failed in 1837, and the country portion of the old firm came into the hands of Simpkin, Marshall & Co. In 1829 Simpkin retired from the business, and the financial management of the firm was taken over by Mr. John Miles, senior, under whose supervision very satisfactory results were obtained. Mr. Miles was also associated with the publishing business of Joseph Johnson of St. Paul's Churchyard, who issued the works of the poet Cowper, the critical writings of Priestley, and other important works. Being thus connected with bookselling, Mr. Miles placed his two elder sons in important positions in the trade. The one, named after his father, entered the firm of Simpkin, Marshall & Co., and Mr. Joseph Johnson Miles, evidently named after his publisher friend, entered the firm of Hamilton, Adams & Co. Later on, two other sons of Mr. John Miles, senior, entered the firm of Simpkin, Marshall & Co., and still later several grandsons became partners in the two separate firms before mentioned. The same traditions of business were continued and carried on for nearly eighty years. It is rather remarkable that, in the period which followed, an amalgamation should take place in 1889 between these two firms and Messrs. W. Kent & Co., and that, after so many years of competition, they should be brought together into one trading company. In the busy whirl of Stationers' Hall Court, though there was little opportunity for humour, something occasionally happened that permeated the whole house with amusement, such as when a mistake had been made and one of the partners tried to find out who had made it. However, not being able to discover the offender, he came at last to the most humorous man in the house and tried to fasten it upon him but failed. "Well," he said, with energy, "I must hang somebody." After a pause, the answer came: "Hang me, sir; I want a rise." With a smile the principal left the room and nothing more was heard of the mistake. Many such incidents have occurred, but they have been lost by the hurrying on of time. This subject, however, has been dealt with in an article entitled "Bookselling and some of its Humours," in my volume on "The Fascination of Books," published in 1912. Among my later duties at Stationers' Hall Court was that of superintending the purchase, or, as it is termed, the subscription of new books. Every new book issued from the various publishers was first submitted to Simpkin, Marshall & Co., and the number they bought often governed the numbers purchased by the various members of the trade. These varied according to the author's reputation and the sales of their previous issues, and in many cases from a small number to many hundreds were usually ordered. I remember on one occasion a 6_s._ book by a popular novelist was submitted to us and an order given for 12,000 copies. October is undoubtedly the most important publishing month of the year, and upon many days during that period, between 150 to 200 different books have frequently been offered for subscription. In 1917 I retired from the position of a Managing Director, but still remain one of the Directors of the Company. It is to me a very great pleasure to be still associated with a house to which I owe so much and occasionally to see the many valued friends with whom I have been associated for over fifty years. Although I have nominally ceased to be a bookseller yet I have several connexions which I hope will keep me in touch with the trade as long as I live. Besides being a Director of Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co., Ltd., I have been for many years Chairman of Messrs. Henry Williams & Co. (Old Bailey), Ltd., also a Director of Messrs. C.W. Faulkner & Co., Ltd., and other companies, so I am still anything but an idle man. Although this chapter may appear somewhat egotistical, during my life in London I have been connected with many trade and other associations which have been more or less of a personal as well as of an interesting character, and I mention these facts to show that I have not been indifferent to or wanting in sympathy with the various undertakings in which I am concerned. My first experience was in joining the Committee of the Early Closing Association, then in quite an elementary condition. Like many other Associations which have had small beginnings, it has worked its way through storm and sunshine and has done, and is still doing, much useful work. At the present moment, it is one of the great helpful influences in bettering the condition of the worker. At one of our meetings, held, I think, at St. James's Hall, I had the honour of being on the platform with Anthony Trollope, the great novelist, and John McGregor of Rob Roy fame, who each made delightfully interesting speeches which helped greatly to popularize the Association. I always felt an interest in young men's associations, and joined one while living near Highbury. It was at this time that what was then called Mock Parliaments were usually one of the items in the season's programme. At one of these gatherings with which I was associated, I little thought what a prominent position its leading speakers would hold in the future. The debate on this occasion was a vote of want of confidence in Lord Beaconsfield's Foreign policy, as just then there was much opposition and discontent respecting his actions. This vote of censure was moved by Lawson Walton, who was destined to become Attorney-General; the present Sir Robert Perks seconded the resolution. The Chairman or Speaker for the occasion was Sir Clarence Smith, recently one of the Sheriffs of the City of London. Needless to say, the motion was carried unanimously. It is pleasant to look back upon the day of small things and to see the development of lives that are useful both in their surroundings and to the state. Another interesting Association was that of the University Extension, of the Finsbury Park branch of which I was Chairman for several years. During the autumn of one of our sessions, it was suggested that we should ask Chevalier Marconi, who was just then beginning to be known as an inventor of some new method of telegraphy, to give us a demonstration of his wireless process. He agreed to do so, but little did we think what would be the result of this system and what wonderful influence his discovery would have upon the civilised world. As Chairman, it was my pleasurable duty to receive Chevalier Marconi, and I was greatly surprised to find so young and apparently inexperienced a person. A few minutes' conversation, however, soon showed that he had a firm foundation for the subject which he was developing. We had arranged to get communication between Highgate and New Southgate, where we were holding the demonstration. Unfortunately, the poles for dispatching the messages to be sent from Highgate did not arrive in time, so we had to content ourselves with having the messages sent from a field close by. Everything worked to our entire satisfaction, and various messages were received stamped in accordance with the Morse system. Whenever there is any further development of the Marconi system I look back upon this meeting with considerable interest and satisfaction. Since then, I have met Chevalier Marconi on various occasions, and he has always struck me as a man of a great personal character and solid determination. One thing which I remember to have heard him say was that "My father was an Italian and my mother an Irishwoman, but I call myself an Englishman"; and I am sure he is one of whom we are all proud. My association with politics began with my early years at home, when I watched my father, carrying the Union Jack, marching at the head of the voters in our village to the polling booth. Although father was not in any way a public man, he knew what progress meant and was always on that side. I do not remember any political influence being exercised upon me in my young days, and appeared naturally to drift into the ranks of Liberalism, a drifting which I have never regretted. Being an active student of parliamentary events, shortly after coming to London, I obtained admission to the Strangers' Gallery at the House of Commons, and soon felt a keen interest in politics and often afterwards visited the House. I have many times walked to Islington from the Houses of Parliament at two o'clock in the morning after having listened to some interesting debate. I have heard Gladstone, Disraeli, and most of the party leaders in both Houses. I was in the Gallery of the House of Commons when W.E. Forster was carrying through the Elementary Education Act and the Vote by Ballot Bill. These were opposed, for the Conservative Party, by the then Sir Stafford Northcote, and, although my mind was quite made up as to their desirability, when hearing the eloquence and arguments from the other side, without a strong opinion one might have been easily carried over to the Opposition. In 1888 I greatly enjoyed a visit to the House, on the occasion when Mr. Ritchie, as he then was, brought in the Bill to create the London County Council. Mr. Gladstone sat on the Opposition Bench with Sir James Stansfeld, the Member for Halifax and the President of the Local Government Board in the previous Liberal Administration. As Mr. Ritchie unfolded his scheme, both Mr. Gladstone and Sir James Stansfeld were busy taking notes. When the main details of the Bill had been explained, they both ceased, being apparently satisfied with the scope of the Bill. As soon as Mr. Ritchie sat down, Mr. Gladstone rose. In a short and eloquent speech, he complimented the hon. gentleman on his proposed Bill and said that although he might suggest some amendments in Committee, they, as a party, quite approved of the principles of the Bill. Owing to Mr. Gladstone's statement, what was expected to be a hot party debate ended in a satisfactory agreement. Even after such interesting proceedings as these, I have always felt that the anticipation of a debate in Parliament is greater than the pleasure realized. This Bill was eventually passed, and among the candidates for membership of the new London County Council was Lord Rosebery, who stood for the City of London. I had the pleasure of hearing him address several meetings, and, although from a public point of view he was a comparatively young man, he spoke with great thought and feeling, always carrying his audience with him. He was of course returned, and was elected the first Chairman of this important Council. Notwithstanding that nearly all my life I have been more or less associated with politics, and for over forty years have been upon the register of voters, I have never voted on the winning side except on the occasion when Mr. A.J. Balfour stood for the City of London. I still hope I may do so before I die. It was in the year 1885, after the passing of the Redistribution Bill, that I became more closely associated with politics. By this Redistribution Act, Middlesex (for many years it had been represented by two members) was divided into seven constituencies. I joined the Liberal Association in Hornsey, one of the new divisions, and the one in which I then lived, and from that time onwards took an active part in their proceedings. On the eve of the first elections in these divisions, we had a big send-off meeting of the Middlesex candidates at the Holloway Hall, at which the great Liberal veteran Mr. Samuel Morley presided. Many leading politicians were present, including Sir Charles Dilke, Mr. W.S. Caine, Mr. Alfred Milner (now Viscount Milner), who stood for the Harrow Division, Mr. S.D. Waddy, and others. Great enthusiasm prevailed, but the success at the polling booth was not as great as we anticipated, and the Hornsey Division returned a Conservative, which it continued to do until a fresh division of Middlesex took place under the Act of 1918. Mr. Carvel Williams, the champion for Disestablishment of the Church, was our president; he was a most able and eloquent speaker, full of work and energy and equal to any emergency, but although we had occasionally such speakers as Mr. Asquith, Mr. Lloyd George, and other leading politicians of that day, success at the poll was never obtained. I was for many years chairman of the Council, and that brought me in touch with many men of light and leading. I was, however, compelled to give it up, as so many other duties had a more special call upon my time. In 1904 I was induced to join the non-political party which was standing for the London County Council Division of Stoke Newington, and was returned. And here let me state that I have a great objection to party feeling in local affairs. It is quite bad enough when carried to extremes in parliamentary contests, but local affairs should be dealt with entirely from the local point of view of what is best and from none other. Having made many new friends and being elected to the Library Committee, I found myself in my element amongst books. Before the Free Library was started at Stoke Newington, with my good friend Mr. A.W. Mackenzie, I originated a private Free Library in the Finsbury Park District, and although this library was not very large it was very serviceable. It was carried on by voluntary aid and contributions, and, in accordance with the Act passed in 1892, afterwards taken over by the Council of Stoke Newington. When this Free Library was opened, thanks to the Carnegie Trust, I had the honour of seeing my name engraved with others on a stone tablet as a record of those who were associated with the founding of it. My relations with Stoke Newington were always of the most pleasant character, as there were many book lovers on the Committee, among them being Mr. Wynne Baxter and Mr. Charles Welsh, the noted City Librarian. It was during my membership of the Stoke Newington Council that I received tickets of invitation to the inauguration of the L.C.C. Passenger Steamboat Service on the Thames, which had been constructed at an outlay of nearly £300,000. Our present King, with some of the young Princes, headed the fleet of steamers which went from Temple Pier to Greenwich and back. Altogether it was a most pleasant trip, but events followed which brought this venture to an end, a decision from many points of view much to be regretted. It occurs to me, however, that if more attention were given to the banks of the Thames by building an Embankment on the south side similar to that on the north side, there is no reason why it should not eventually become in every way as attractive as the rivers which flow through so many of the Continental cities. About this time I became a member of the New Vagabond Club, and enjoyed for many years the various dinners given to some of the leading men of the time. These were usually held at the Hotel Cecil, and I have known over 500 ladies and gentlemen to be present on some of the important occasions. The Club was very cosmopolitan: Bishops, Members of Parliament, the theatrical profession, authors--in fact, anyone who was then in the public eye was certain to receive an invitation to some of the dinners. When this club became incorporated with the old Playgoers' Club, many, like myself, felt that these Sunday festivities did not quite fall in with their ordinary way of spending the day of rest, and I was compelled to retire from it. Another association of which I am particularly proud to be one of the vice-presidents, is the Booksellers' Provident Institution, and the Booksellers' Provident Retreat; the former I joined in 1869, and for over fifty years have been an active member on its committees. This great institution was inaugurated on February 15, 1837, at Stationers' Hall, and during the greater part of its existence it has had for its president some one representing either the house of Longman or Murray. It is an institution of which every member is proud, and should be more appreciated in the trade than it is, for it has done, and is still doing, work of great value to its necessitous members. The opening ceremony of the Booksellers' Retreat took place in 1846. The great novelist Lord Lytton presided, and a sum of £800 was collected. At this Retreat there are seven pleasantly situated houses occupied either by members or their widows, and the occupants of these houses, owing to the funds at the disposal of the Committee, have their lives not only extended but made thoroughly happy and comfortable. In 1872 there was a great effort made by many of the London Booksellers' Assistants to found an institution which would be always open to its members for educational and social purposes. The proposal met with support, and much discussion upon details took place; but the only decision arrived at was that it should be called the Booksellers' Literary Institution. After many meetings and discussions it was given up and the committee dissolved. It was a noble object, and I sincerely hope that in the future some such organization will come into existence, for it is badly wanted both for the assistants and the trade generally. In 1898 I had the honour of being elected a member of the Worshipful Company of Stationers, which is so associated, especially in the past, with literature and books. I am sure every one who takes the opportunity of going through the Hall will feel proud of this almost sacred building. It has a history connected with the makers and distributors of literature which is an honour not only to the trade but to the nation; I sincerely hope that the policy now being advocated by the City Livery Club, of which I am also a member, that of more closely associating the various Livery Companies with the trade or craft by which they are designated, will be successful. If this can be done, it will be better for the various City Guilds, as well as the particular trades after which the Guilds are named. In 1897 the Prince of Wales, afterwards King Edward VII, inaugurated the Hospital Fund which still bears his name, to commemorate the sixtieth year of Queen Victoria's reign. One of the means adopted to assist in raising funds was the issue of a series of stamps which varied in price. This series met with great success, and the public issue of the stamps was entrusted to Simpkin, Marshall & Co. After it had run its course and added considerably to the Hospital funds, it was decided by the authorities that the issue should be discontinued, and that the plates from which the stamps had been printed should be destroyed. A special day was fixed for this purpose, and our present King and Queen, then the Prince and Princess of Wales, kindly consented to undertake this task. The destruction of the plates took place at the Bank of England in a small room, and another Director of our Company and myself were selected to see the operation completed. It was a most interesting occasion, and, being in so small and informal a place, the talk between the half-dozen or so witnesses and the Royal destroyers was very pleasant. With a strong file which was handed to her, the Princess of Wales, in a most business-like way, rubbed the face of the metal plates of the stamps and thereby made it impossible for any more to be printed. Though it all happened in a very short space of time, it was a delightful as well as an historic gathering. While speaking of Royalty, I am reminded of an occasion when Edward VII, then Prince of Wales, opened the Free Library at Lambeth under the Chairmanship of Mr. Tate, who contributed largely to the Library funds. The Prince made an excellent speech, short and to the point, although his articulation was not very clear. This, I suppose, arose through the many languages which it was necessary for him to master, and it struck me at the time that his accent was more like that of a foreigner who had learned English than an Englishman's. On the issuing of the eleventh edition of the "Encyclopædia Britannica," I was asked by the editor to write two articles on Bookselling and Publishing, with biographical notices of British and American publishers' houses. I did this with much pleasure, and afterwards received an invitation to a dinner at the Hotel Cecil to celebrate the Encyclopædia's completion and publication. Among some 600 guests who were present, there were representatives of great distinction from every department of learning, such as the Speaker of the House of Commons, Mr. Balfour, Sir W. Harcourt, Lord Brassey, Lord Bryce and Viscount Wolseley. These names are sufficiently representative of the guests, although it would be difficult to give a complete list of them. Altogether, it was a wonderful gathering, and my association with it was most gratifying to me. CHAPTER VI The Bookselling Trade and Underselling The published price of a book being publicly advertised, there is probably no other trade which gives the same opportunity of attracting the public by underselling as that of Bookselling, and evils of a greater or less degree in this direction have been practised since the days of Caxton. In the early days of the nineteenth century serious attention was directed to underselling, and an association formed entitled "The Associated Booksellers." This was formed in 1812, but the notorious Lackington carried underselling, and what he termed "remainders," to such an extreme that the very existence of the Bookselling trade was seriously threatened. This Association, however, lacked sufficient strength to take the necessary steps to stop the underselling mania, and it was not until 1850 that another Booksellers' Association was formed which nobly fought a most difficult and trying battle. The Association failed, owing to the decision in 1852 by Lord Campbell, Mr. Grote, and Dean Milman that the question of a bookseller having "paid the purchase money shall not resell it under a certain price, derogated from the rights of ownership which, as purchaser, he had acquired." This decision had the effect of dissolving the Association. Some years after attention was again directed to the evil of underselling, which it has taken nearly a century to bring to an end, for it is hoped that by the adoption of publishing on the net book system and the Publishers' and Booksellers' Associations, discounts to the public will be entirely abolished. On looking through the volume for 1864 of that consistently intelligent trade journal, "The Bookseller," I find the editor saying that "The opening of the new season appears to be a very appropriate time for a few remarks upon the ruinous system of underselling, which seems to be the rule rather than the exception, not only in London, but in most provincial cities. How far it will proceed and what may be the extent of the damage it may do, none can predict. We, however, believe underselling to be wholly unnecessary and that it may be checked, if not altogether stopped, if publishers and booksellers will come to an understanding on the subject." The article goes on to point out how by publishers, if necessary, reducing their selling prices, they might do away with the discount allowed to the public, or, in other words, encourage the adoption of a net system. It is pleasant to see a letter on this point issued the same year, and signed by A. Macmillan. When about to publish their celebrated Globe edition of Shakespeare's works at 3_s._ 6_d._, after speaking of the number of pages, the quality of the paper, the printing and the binding, Mr. Macmillan goes on to say, "Why should the trade throw away their profits on a book that needs no further cheapening to put it within the reach of all. I have neither the will nor the power to dictate to the trade what they shall sell the books for after they buy them from us, but I would be glad and grateful if they would try the experiment on this new book whether the underselling which has crept in of late years, does good really to anybody." It is most gratifying that the present head of that firm should have done so much to bring to an end the unjust system of discounts. It was stated that nearly 80,000 copies of the Globe Shakespeare were sold within six months of its publication. In 1867, after many years of unrest, matters were again brought under discussion through Mr. Thomas Bosworth, of Regent Street, giving excessive discounts. I have before me a leaflet issued by this bookseller entitled "Rattening in the Book Trade." In this leaflet he complains of Messrs. Hamilton, Adams & Co. having closed his account, owing to his continuing to sell to the public books at trade prices and sometimes less than that. This did not continue very long, as I find that in 1869 he had to make a composition with his creditors. In 1890 the parent of the Associated Booksellers of Great Britain and Ireland was formed, under the title of "The London Booksellers' Society," and I am proud to record that I was one of the early members of its Council. The main object of the Society was to restrict discounts to 25 per cent., and it issued a price list from 6_d._ to £2 2_s._ showing these discounts. Had it not been for the introduction of the net system, this Booksellers' Association would in all probability have followed the footsteps of its predecessors. A correspondent in "The Bookseller" for 1877 gives a very despondent account of the bookseller and the way the bookselling trade was carried on. This despondency was caused mainly by the iniquitous system of discounts which were then being given to the public and the unfair methods of business, owing to the want of harmony and business regulations. The correspondent says that "A bookseller of to-day is very often a man who might just as well be a cheese-monger or a pork-butcher for anything he knows or cares about books; and as for him being capable of guiding or advising his customers, they have sometimes no little trouble in making him understand a requirement that lies just outside the current of popular demands. The cause of this degeneracy is not far to seek: it is the undignified and unneighbourly scramble for custom, in which each man's object is to give away a larger discount in the shilling than anyone else. Unless booksellers can be found who will have the courage to stand out of this scramble and be content to serve such customers who are willing to pay a fair price for their books, it is to be feared that the race of booksellers will become extinct." Fortunately, by the introduction of the net system, this downward tendency has been stopped, and the bookselling trade is gradually taking the place it deserves in the world of letters. The Publishers' Association was established in 1896. Mainly through the influence and the exertions of Sir Frederick Macmillan, the net book scheme was officially recognized by the Publishers' Association. It has grown ever since that time and has undoubtedly been the salvation of the Bookselling trade in this country, and it is hoped that it will lead to further and better conditions for every one connected with the trade. This question of underselling is so closely associated with the general condition of the Bookselling trade that I have decided to reprint in this chapter the following article which appeared in the "Publishers' Circular" and was written by me in 1915. Though a development in some of the particulars has been obtained, there is still much to be done. As the article was reprinted and distributed by the Associated Booksellers, and I also receive so many congratulatory letters respecting it, I feel that it may probably be of service when some of the details of the trade are again under discussion. I have omitted from the article such portions of it as time has shown to be unnecessary. What I have here reprinted I hope may be found of interest. SOME NOTES ON BOOK-SELLING In using the term "bookselling," it is intended in this article to include all those businesses, exclusive of authorship, which are interested in the making, distribution, and selling of books, and while offering a few suggestions to these trade organizations, there will be no attempt to dogmatize on any particular sphere of it. As their working conditions are so continually changing, these must therefore fall in with modern requirements or give place to others which can accommodate themselves to the altered conditions. Since the origin of printing there have been differences and grievances, many of them imaginary, in connexion with the trade of bookselling. Some of these complaints are characterized as a decay of the author, the book, or the bookseller; sometimes it is the over-production of books or their cheapness, due to underselling or to outside firms being allowed to trade in them, but all these complaints either die a natural death or turn out to have little foundation, and the trade goes on in much the same way as it has done for centuries past. There is occasionally a reason for some of these criticisms, and although there have been variations in both the production and the distribution of books, yet many of the salient features remain the same as those existing in the early days of bookselling. Before suggesting a solution of some of the difficulties which we find current in the bookselling trade to-day, let us inquire into that of book production. Foremost among the real or imaginary difficulties is the question of over-production. This is, from many points of view, an important question with distributors of books, both wholesale and retail. Take the following interesting particulars, which appear somewhat out of harmony with our unsatisfactory means of distribution, but when we compare these figures with those of other countries, they seem insignificant: In the year 1913, 9,541, and in 1914, 8,863 new books were published in England. In 1913, 10,607, and in 1914, 10,175 new books were published in America. In the year 1912, 34,801 new books were published in Germany, and in 1913 no fewer than 35,078 were issued from their various presses. Nearly four times as many books were thus yearly produced in Germany as in England--but it must be admitted that many of these are of a local or ephemeral character--and over three times as many as in America. A comparison between the number of authors and their proportion to the population is no less surprising. In 1910, there were 9,000 writers of books in America; there were 8,000 in Great Britain; while in Germany there are over 31,000 of such _littérateurs_. Of course, the war has greatly changed these figures. It is computed that the total number of printed books in the world is no less than 11,638,810, and that about 8,714,000 of these have been published subsequently to the year 1800. From 1500 to 1535 the number of books produced annually averaged only 1,250. It was not until 1700 that the annual average passed 10,000, and it was not until 1887 that it reached 100,000. From 1900 to 1908, however, the world's annual output averaged 174,375. Some interesting statistics relating to the production of printed books are given in the "Bulletin de l'Institut International de Bibliographie." The complaint of over-production is almost as old as the art of printing itself, for, according to Charles Knight's "The Old Printer," it is stated that some Roman printers of the Latin Classics in 1471 petitioned the Pope to interfere on their behalf. In their petitions they stated that "they were the first who introduced this Art, with vast labour and cost, into His Holiness's territory, and encouraged by our example, other printers have done the same. If you peruse the Catalogue of the books printed by us, you will admire how and where we could produce a sufficient quantity of paper or even rags for such a number of volumes. The total of these books amount to 12,475, a prodigious heap, and intolerable by reason of those unsold. We are unable to bear the expense of housekeeping for want of buyers, of which there cannot be a more flagrant proof than that our house is full of quire books, but void of every necessary of life." From this it would appear that the question of over-production has an early origin and is continually being repeated, but I dare venture the remark that there is not now or never has been any over-production in books that are worth putting on the market, and if publishers would refuse the bribes offered by those anxious to see their names in print, and only issue such books as in their mature judgment they consider worth putting before a community of intelligent readers, there would be less outcry of over-production. This question is very far-reaching, and especially affects the sellers of books. Frequently the publishers issue books, the cost being paid by an ambitious author; but for this the public would probably never hear of him; the book is shown to the trade, no reference whatever is made to its origin, and booksellers are often led to buy and stock a book by their trust in the publisher, and find out to their cost that there is no demand whatever for the book, and it remains upon their shelves. It is a fair contention that the bookseller should be warned against such books, in which the publishers have taken no risks, neither should the booksellers be persuaded into so doing. Undoubtedly, if the trade is to prosper, there must be more discrimination in selecting stock. There are now so many influences at work to advertise a book: not only are there the ordinary media, but an author will go round to the booksellers, talking about his book, telling them it will sell in thousands, and that there has never been such a book written before. Instances have been known where the author has gone to a number of booksellers and ordered copies of his book, never calling or paying for them. The bookseller, by these means, has to put into his stock books which he is unable to sell. There should for safety be a method of allowing returns to be made of such books before the publishers make up their accounts; there would then be an inducement for a bookseller to display a book upon his counter or in his window, with a possibility of sales being made through the publicity given to the book. Many books are published for which no reasonable market exists, but as long as education continues to influence the mind there will be found persons who think their ideas are inspired, and they must give them expression in the printed book. There is to-day a larger reading public than ever, and the all-important point is how to get hold of them. On this point much has been written and said. It is of no use discussing the old methods, so much extolled, of how the bookseller formerly lived over his shop and existed with, if not by, his books, and what men of encyclopædic knowledge these ancients were. These times are gone, and the men are gone with them. We must, therefore, deal with events as they are to-day. Every one engaged in the business of bookselling would no doubt confess that he is out, _inter alia_, to try and make money and earn a living, and this is one of the points I wish to discuss. First, the men who constitute the bookselling trade are probably as intelligent and as up to date in knowledge as they were in the past. It has been said that the second-hand bookseller is the only man with a knowledge of books, but this is not so. Unfortunately, the exigence of our social life often prevents him from giving as much attention to his trade as formerly. This has been intensified by the margin of profit not being commensurate with the labour; therefore in many cases other kindred businesses have been added to that of bookselling. Undoubtedly the greatest benefaction which has ever fallen to the book trade was the introduction in January, 1900, of the net system. By this system a reasonable profit was guaranteed, and members of the book trade were brought together and the trade organized and extended in a manner which would have been impossible without some such rallying point as that offered by the net system. This has now obtained such a hold, both upon the trade and the public, that it must remain one of the axioms of the bookselling trade. A similar system was started in America in 1901, and for many years considerably helped the publishers in that country in organizing the trade, and protecting that of the bookseller in his attempt to remedy some of the evils caused by undersellers and unfair competition. Unfortunately, an adverse decision in the American Supreme Court in what is known as the "Macy case," caused the members of the Association to wind up their organization. This was done at the end of 1914. In these days of increased business pressure and competition, it appears especially unfortunate that so large and important an organization affecting the publishing trade in America should so suddenly come to an end. It is, however, hoped that the publishers will be able before long to reconsider the situation and establish in some form or other a new representative organization to take charge of and to promote the general interests of the American publishing and bookselling trades, for, undoubtedly, without some such central control, the trade of bookselling cannot thrive in the same manner as it otherwise would do. A very important point is the relation of the publishers one to the other. If there were more trade-regulations to bring into harmony many of its unwritten laws, some of the difficulties which now often arise would never occur. At present the Publishers' Association mostly consider questions outside their own business workings, and nothing in the shape of terms or personal arrangements is touched upon or discussed; therefore unnecessary competition and varying terms exist to a considerable extent. How much unpleasant feeling might be avoided if some broad but definite rules were laid down for the guidance of publishers towards each other, and also to the wholesale and retail bookselling trades. This question will be further discussed later on. A very important question is, however, now awaiting solution--that of sending out books on sale or return. Continental booksellers adopted this method of bringing books before the public many years ago, with a great amount of success and satisfaction, but of course this is a very debatable question. It appears somewhat difficult for publishers to realize how much could often be done by a bookseller in pushing the sale of a book if he were guaranteed against loss: especially is this applicable to a book by a new author. How much better it would be for author, publisher, and bookseller, if in certain cases books, such as before mentioned, could be shown in windows of retail booksellers, and that the publisher should take them back or exchange them within, say, six months from publication, if still unsold. By these means books by unknown authors would get an advertisement such as could be obtained in no other way, and it would certainly help the bookseller with a show of books which at present he is unable to obtain. It is somewhat strange that so little difficulty regarding cost or selling price has yet arisen with the issue of the modern cheap editions of books. These cheap issues are published at net prices, they yield a fair profit to those through whose hands they pass, and the public are quite satisfied. Recent history of popular literature shows that success is obtained, not by high prices, but by big sales. What is wanted is the realization of what Matthew Arnold once wrote, "that he hoped for the day when food and books shall both alike be felt as needs." In connexion with the trade of publishing, the question is, how best to help the bookseller to obtain his supply of books, as the miscellaneous character of the books published, and the increasing number of publishers, and the cost of "travelling" books in the country, make it imperative that some distributing medium should be engaged in this work. In most countries such an agency exists, but methods vary in each country; it is represented here by the wholesale agent, who supplies from his own stock or collects from the publishers everything a country bookseller may have ordered. By some publishers this agency has a poor recognition, but without such distributing houses it would be quite impossible for the ordinary retail bookseller to obtain his supplies, as the public when ordering books scarcely ever give the publisher's name, and frequently give half a mutilated title, which only those in daily intercourse with all published books could recognize, so that this part of a general system of distribution should not only be fully recognized by the publisher, but in calculating discounts and expenses this distributing method should be considered. One is inclined to ask if there is anything wrong with the trade; if so, is it with the retail bookseller, for after all it is this agency which comes in direct contact with the public. Until the introduction of the net system before mentioned, there was a war of discounts existing which would have eventually meant ruin, and it is only a reasonable conclusion that what every bookseller recognizes as a good to the trade should be further extended. Is not the time ripe for more organization, without oppression, to be adopted by the trade? We have now the organizations of both the publisher and bookseller, to which all the leading members of each of these branches of the trade belong. Why cannot, as before suggested, some rules of a broad but inclusive character be laid down and agreed upon by members of both associations, so that the differences and difficulties which so frequently arise may be easily adjusted? By these means a dignity and influence as of old would be restored to the booksellers, petty grievances would be easily removed, and the question of a living discount would be more easily discussed, and the book world (which formerly had only two interests, that of author and publisher, but now has the bookseller as a separate factor) would be placed on a firmer foundation and in the position which, by its literary association, it deserves. In recommending closer co-operation between the Publishers' and Booksellers' Associations in the internal arrangements of the bookselling trade, my object is to advocate centralization, but with a liberty which should not be abused. How often a publisher wishes to bring before the various distributing agencies of the trade some work in which he has invested intelligence and money, and which is not a machine-made book! If such co-operation can be freed from jealousies, what better medium could be found for disseminating information than a central association formed of the above-named organizations? At first there would be much give and take, but if there could be a sub-committee of each association formed which would meet and discuss questions to be submitted to the respective central councils, matters would soon run smoothly, and if the respective presidents or secretaries could be so in touch with each other that preliminary difficulties could be made plain, there is little doubt that results satisfactory to the trade would follow. That important results would follow is practically certain. Take, for instance, the present arrangements for the Annual Meetings of the Publishers' and of the Associated Booksellers. The only attraction of the former is the chairman's address, which, although often eloquent, seldom leads to either a discussion or suggestions, with a result that everything is cut and dried in the most orthodox and dry-as-dust fashion. Almost the only difference in the Booksellers' Annual Meeting is that it brings members together from all parts of the country and helps to promote social intercourse. Festive gatherings and outings are a greater attraction than the business agenda, and the business man must often have forced upon him the fact that time which is frequently taken up in dinners and receptions could be better spent in discussing business questions. It can scarcely be denied that the two trade associations are capable of far greater usefulness than they at present achieve. In looking through a recent number of the "Publishers' Weekly," I was much struck by the practical way in which the annual meetings of the book trade of America were conducted. From the report of their proceedings I find that some twelve different subjects associated with the bookselling trade were discussed, among them being the following: Undue Competition of Jobbers; Postage Extra; Self-addressed Circulars issued by Publishers in their interest rather than the Dealers; Discounts to Lending Libraries; Uniform Discounts according to quantity purchased for every dealer alike; Failure to include Juvenile books in the net class. Surely there could be found a sufficient number of members of the bookselling trade to discuss some of the above or other subjects to the advantage of the trade generally? When one reflects that the yearly output of English books is considerably less than that of America, which is about one-third that of Germany, and that one-fifth of the inhabited world is dominated by the English language, it is surely time for all the members of the bookselling trade to wake up. It is not my intention to go into the details of cost prices, but all are agreed that to make an effectual organization for the book trade, the question of profits and terms must come in, both for the publisher as well as for the wholesale and retail bookseller. There is, however, a question which has often been much discussed as to whether trade terms should be based on a flat price, or the system of odd copy and discounts be continued. There is much to be said for both systems, but the method of a sliding scale is invariably used both here and in other countries. In America and Germany, as well as in this country, sometimes the odd copy is given, and even in those countries which charge flat rates there is always an advantage in prices which correspond with numbers. This is only a reasonable concession to those who will speculate, or have built up a business in which a considerable amount of capital is locked up. There are few businesses where speculation is more precarious or where the articles of commerce so quickly deteriorate in value as that of the bookseller, and it is hoped that publishers will soon recognize that bookselling as a trade wants more help and more consideration than it receives at present. Otherwise, the small man will be pushed out, and the trade become centralized in a few big establishments, who will be able to dictate terms for distributing the books published, and a trade union of distributors may be formed which will prove a harder taskmaster than the most tyrannical trade union that has ever dictated terms to its employers. Every one, however, in the trade sincerely hopes that when the publisher and bookseller are brought more in contact with each other through their associations, these important points will be mutually considered from a practical point of view. It is often wise to see how the business of bookselling is carried on in other countries, so a glance at some of their methods should be interesting. In Germany, before the war, nearly all booksellers had an agent in Leipzig. This agent receives his client's order every day, and after dispatching them to different publishers, he collects the parcels and sends them off by post or rail. A "collector," as we know him in London, is not known there. Most firms give credit, and customers go into Leipzig once every year to the "Booksellers' House," when they pay their agent and the publishers. Firms in Berlin have a special way of dispatching their books, etc., to other firms in the country. It is a kind of private post service between the Booksellers' League in Berlin and booksellers and wholesale agents in other towns. Each member of this League pays a certain amount yearly, and has his goods sent on by the private post service. This is not a very quick method, although it is cheap. The following Consular Report upon this subject will be found interesting:-- Even in this changing age the organization of the German book trade remains in principle what it has long been. The two main principles which make the trade as flourishing as it is, are the fixed selling price and the right of the retailer to return unsold books. The first, combined with very long credits, is the solid basis of the existence of the small retail houses, and has favoured the establishment of retailers everywhere. There is in Germany one bookseller for every 5,000 inhabitants, and the consequence of retail shops being found everywhere is that the German publisher spends very little in advertising, for he sends out all his novelties on sale according to a system established with the retail trade, or special wishes of the retailers, which he learns by means of his inexpensive circulars. In no other trade is there so close an understanding cultivated as between the German bookseller and his educated customers. The retailer circulates all his new books amongst likely buyers, and they become better known than through advertisements. The retailer pays for all the books bought during the year at the Easter Fair of the following year. The discounts vary according to the class of book, from 25 per cent. on the selling price of scientific books to 40 and even 50 per cent. on juvenile literature, besides which eleven copies are sent for ten, or thirteen for a dozen. The enormous number of scientific books published in Germany, including pamphlets, can only be explained by the existence of the intelligent retailers all over the country. The legal organization of the trade is the Verein in Leipzig, consisting of 2,685 members, which lays down regulations for the members of the trade amongst themselves, and for them in their dealings with the public. Thus the maintenance of the selling price (5 per cent. being allowed for cash, periodicals excepted) is rigidly insisted on, and if the rule is broken, it is adjudged by the Verein that publishers shall not supply the offender, or that they shall give him no credit or discount. Connected with this institution is a sort of publishers' and booksellers' clearing house in Leipzig, by which the ordering by retailers and the keeping of accounts between them and the publishers are facilitated and simplified, and the processes of ordering, packing, dispatching, and paying are greatly cheapened. It appears designed to prevent a great variety of petty expenditure, and to it, coupled with the fixed selling price and the long credit, is attributed the success of the trade in Germany. Again, there is that industrious little country, Norway, which has been termed "A Bookseller's Paradise." But it must be remembered that in that country wealth is more evenly distributed than it is here. There are no paupers, and public schools are plentiful. The English, French, and German languages are taught in most schools, and the Norwegian bookseller is usually a well-educated man and a product of one of the public schools. The following facts are from a summary of an able address given by Mr. W.H. Arnold before the American Booksellers' Association, and are well worthy of the study of the publishers and the booksellers in this country:-- Bookselling in Norway is so organized as to eliminate almost all the risks to which English booksellers are exposed, to secure satisfactory results for the publishers, and to provide a fair reward for the author. Three trade organizations are in existence--The Publishers' Association, the National Association of Booksellers, and the Provincial Association of Booksellers, the qualification for membership in both the first and the last named being membership of the National Association. All booksellers must be members of the National Association. The Provincial Association includes all booksellers except those in Christiania. There is a National Board of Directors, composed of members of each association. An applicant wishing to become a bookseller addresses the National Board. A young man of eighteen may become a bookseller when he is thirty; he has twelve years' training--four years as apprentice, eight years as assistant. Besides a knowledge of books, he must give security, and if he can prove he has sufficient funds in hand, the National Directors will give their permission for his beginning business on his own account; but the Directors have it in their power to decide whether a new bookshop is wanted in the district mentioned. A town of 8,000 people would afford scope for two bookshops. Molde, familiar to English tourists, with a population of 2,200 has one thriving bookseller; Aalesund, with a population of 14,000, has three bookshops, and none of these booksellers need fear the incursion of other rivals. The subscription to the National Association is 10 krone--about 12_s._--per annum; and for the Association's weekly journal, 6_s._ per annum is charged. An annual list of publications is issued, and once in ten years a reference catalogue is issued, costing about 20_s._ All miscellaneous publications are issued in paper covers, and can be obtained in cloth, but the paper is the more popular format. The book buyer who decides that the paper volume is worth preserving, if so minded gets it bound in cloth or half leather, cloth costing 1_s._ 6_d._ and leather 2_s._ 6_d._ Retail prices are always net--there are no price cutters in Norway. Publishers do not require to call on the trade: a descriptive circular is all that is necessary. The bookseller, after reading this, settles how many copies to buy outright, and additional copies can be had, subject to return. Prices of fiction range from 2_s._ 6_d._ to 4_s._ No reduction in the price of a book is allowed until five years after publication. Payment for bought books is usually made half yearly, in January and July, and "on sale" volumes are accounted for in January, the volumes sold being paid for in March. The usual trade discount is 25 per cent., and when ten copies are bought an extra copy is included. School-books are always bought outright. The Provincial Association has a central depot in Christiania, the stock of which company is owned by the Association members. The central depot "collects," packs, and dispatches to its members in the provinces, charging a scheduled rate for this service. Subscription books are all sold through the book stores, the only books disposed of outside recognized channels being religious publications handled by pedlars. Of course, there can be objections raised to many points in this organization, but what I wish to point out is, that if an association can be of great value to the trade in a small community such as Norway, which experience shows it to be, surely by organizing and blending the different associations in our trade here, similar results may follow. Anyway, it can be safely relied upon that something definite and more workable should take the place of our present half-hearted and semi-distinct organizations which are supposed to supervise the workings of the book trade in this country. There are other questions one might consider. That of the cheap reprint is often a debatable one, some maintaining that it interferes with the sales of the more expensive editions; others that it often creates interest in a particular book, and, through its issue, inquiries are made for the author's previous books. From some points of view both these arguments have in them an element of truth, but it all depends upon the character of the book. As a rule the life of works of fiction is very short, except in special cases. The life of works of an author of, say, two or three books, would probably be about three to six months, so for books in this class a limit of twelve months should be allowed before a cheap edition is issued, and according to the popularity of the author, these times should vary up to two or three years before cheap editions of books by authors of long standing are issued, and also the better edition should be cleared from the bookseller's shelves before the cheaper edition is published. From a bookseller's point of view, there is no language too strong in condemnation of the system now much in vogue, that a 2_s._ edition of a 6_s._ novel may be issued, and both editions kept in circulation at the same time. Editions selling at various prices are often sold by the author to different publishers, and each price is supposed to appeal to a different public. Can a bookseller be expected to keep a stock of all these editions? If so, his stock of cheap reprints would demand a special warehouse. The most reasonable course to pursue in all cheap issues is first to see if there is a public to which a cheap edition would appeal, settle a moderate price at which it should be published, allowing a fair profit to the trade, and after a sufficient time has been given for the original edition to have a good run, there may be issued the cheap edition, which, while appealing to a fresh public, will be remunerative to the author and publisher, and, let us hope, a help to civilization and the betterment of mankind. Much the same argument applies to the speculative religious work. There would not, of course, be so many different editions, but if the book in its special issue is of a distinctly argumentative character, and appeals to a thoughtful and intelligent public, a cheap edition is desirable, not only because it will sell, but because it will make people think, and truth is generally brought to the surface and put into operation by a public who thinks. I am, therefore, convinced that when due time and consideration have been given to a book, a cheap edition is often not only advisable, but necessary. Another question is, "Should a book be remaindered, and if so, under what conditions?" This is a very important one, and I am convinced that no definite rule can be laid down which would be applicable to all classes of remainders. There are books remaindered which will sell quickly when brought to the notice of a particular class of readers, and others which are only fit for the hawker's barrow or to be pulped as waste. I have known many books which have been remaindered and have thus had attention drawn to them; occasionally they have been quickly bought up, and often resold at their full published price. To instance only one, the first edition of Fitzgerald's "Omar Khayyám" was sold from a fourpenny box, and copies of this edition afterwards fetched £25. By this means a reputation was established and a position for this book secured. I maintain that discretion should be shown in this as well as in other departments of our trade. There are books which are only fit to become fuel for the fire, while others, either through over-printing or want of pushful advertising, have reached a very limited public, and through the book being reduced in price it has reached an eager public delighted to get a book of such value at a price suited to their limited means. Although bookselling is a business, and a most interesting one, yet it does not exist only for those who carry it on. If there were no bookseller's shops some means would have to be found for disseminating that which goes to making the intelligence of a nation. "Show me the literature of a nation, and I will tell you the character of the people," said a great man, and I am quite convinced that if limits were placed upon the distribution of our books for the benefit of author or bookseller, the Government or the people would soon find some means by which their intellectual wants were supplied. My firm conviction is that no book should be destroyed which appeals to the intellect or which goes to the formation of character. When the time comes in the life of a book that it has exhausted the sphere for which it was intended, let it be offered as a remainder, and I am sure that it will percolate through the various strata of society until it finds its level of usefulness. This may be in the library of the collector or in the more useful sphere of the homes of the working classes, but a book of any literary value should never be destroyed. In summarizing the various suggestions made in this paper, I would suggest that the most serious consideration be afforded to the following important propositions, so that more unity and stability may be given to the position of the author, publisher, and the various factors in book-distributing and bookselling. Firstly, in regard to the author, my contention would be that the first book by an author, however good from a publisher's point of view it may be, should be either sent on sale or made returnable, say within six months. If the book has any literary merit it will be found out by that time, and the copies sent but will be sold. If not, they should be returned, so that the book distributor does not have to share a loss for which the publisher alone is responsible. The author should discourage as much as possible the auction-like action of the literary agent who tries to sell manuscripts to the highest bidder, thus lowering the tone of the relationship between the author and the publisher. And I say with all seriousness that should an author have satisfactory arrangements with a publisher he should stick to him, as I am sure it is best for both parties that a publisher should be able to put all the works of an author in his lists, and not only those issued by himself. By this arrangement a publisher will continue to interest himself in all the books by an author, and by advertising them will materially assist in continuous sales. Secondly, the publisher should discriminate between books in which he is financially interested, and those which he is publishing to please the ambition of a person who wishes to see his or her name in print. He should also fix his terms and stand by them to both the wholesale and retail trader. These are now fairly carried out by some of the older-established publishers, but in some of their cheaper issues they appear to be unable to discriminate between what is a wholesale order and a wholesale trader. Thirdly, the question of competition and underselling is still of the utmost importance, and I fear will never be settled until there is united action by a joint committee consisting of representatives of both the Publishers' and Booksellers' Associations, and all books are published at a fixed net price. The great objection to this arrangement is mainly the issue of juvenile and school-books. A margin frequently is demanded, so that a considerable discount can be given to the schoolmasters and mistresses or the governing bodies of our various educational authorities. It is, however, a fair question to ask, "Why should part of the legitimate profit of the bookseller be taken by the school representatives?" It is to be hoped that by association and unity these unsatisfactory anomalies will be swept away. One of the first subjects these joint associations would have to consider would be the minimum amount of profit which should be given to the retail bookseller. This should be, at least, 25 per cent. off the net selling price, and a further discount to _bona fide_ wholesale and export booksellers. If all books were made net, and some such discounts as those mentioned were given, much of the present discontent would be removed, and, with a living profit assured, there would be a great inducement for many of the smaller men in the country to interest themselves in the trade, and thus bring about a renewal of an industry which should be beneficial both to the industrious bookseller as well as the intellectual community. CHAPTER VII Term and Sale Catalogues In the early seventies, while living at Holloway, it was my good fortune to meet Mr. Edward Arber, who also dwelt in that district. At that time he was making the transcript of the Registers at Stationers' Hall, and also publishing many reprints from Old English literature. It is to the many interesting conversations which I had with him while walking to Stationers' Hall Court, as we both at that time did, that I became more interested in some of the ways of the booksellers of previous generations, and in the introduction and use of the Booksellers' Catalogues. From the origin of printing in England in 1472 until 1526, it is quite a question whether any books which can be considered English literature were produced and printed in this country. The books sold here were mostly foreign productions, and, as numbers of them had an ultra-Romish tendency, it was a sure passport to a cruel death to possess a copy of many of the books of the period. Even these were produced in small octavo size, so that they could be carried in the owner's pocket without discovery. The earliest register of books published was that by the Company of Stationers of London which began in 1554. This record was carried on until 1640, and it is from these catalogues, of which my friend Mr. Arber devoted the best part of twenty years in producing a transcript, in five folio volumes, that any bibliographer can now trace the authors and date of publication of much of the literature of that period. Following on from the before-mentioned period, there were various classified catalogues issued by different publishers, but in 1662-3 there was published a catalogue of books registered at Stationers' Hall from the 25th of December 1662 to the 25th of December 1663. This was the first attempt at the yearly issue of a complete list of books published, and, it is supposed, was brought to an end by the Plague and the Great Fire of London, which we know from "Pepys's Diary" and other records caused the destruction of an immense number of books to the value of some £200,000. The next important series of Catalogues were "The Term Catalogues of Books printed in England." These were begun in November 1668 and ended in June 1709. Their title was evidently taken from a legal point of view, as they were divided into periods of Michaelmas Term, Hilary Term, Easter Term and the Trinity Term. The catalogues were very carefully reproduced in three volumes by Mr. Arber, and often gives me much material for speculative thought and reflection. In an introductory preface to these Term Catalogues, Mr. Arber writes: "There is something perfectly God-like in a wide survey for a given period of the entire literature of a great nation. It is like Moses viewing from Mount Pisgah the whole of the land of promise, and will help us to a better understanding of and a greater delight in the ages of the Restoration of William and Mary and of Queen Anne." These catalogues were intended to be an annual list of the books entered at Stationers' Hall, and no London stationer could lawfully publish a book until he had been made free of this Company. In looking through the volumes of catalogues above referred to, I have been greatly interested in the titles of some of these old books. What food for thought must there have been in some of the following: "Sober Singularity, or an Antidote against Infection by the example of a Multitude"; "The Arts of Grandeur and Submission, a discourse concerning the behaviour of great men towards their inferiors"; "A Mirror or a Looking-glass for Saints and Sinners"; "The Ladies Blush"; "The Citizen turn'd Gentleman"; "Two Bulls roaring out Excommunication" (the first by Pope Paul III against Henry VIII; the other by Pope Pius V against Queen Elizabeth); "The Worth of a Penny; with the causes of the scarcity and the misery of the want thereof, in these hard and mercyless times"; "A Mirror that Flattereth not"; "A new Map of the Seat of the War in Germany so designed that you may presently know whether name of any place be in the map or not, and to see by inspection the distance of it from any other place without measuring by compasses"; "A Catholic Pill to purge Popery"; "England's Glory, or the great improvement of trade in general by a Royal Bank or Office of Credit to be erected in London, that they may give out bills of credit to a vast extent that all Europe will accept of rather than money." By the title it is evident that the finances of this country were as important to the world then as they are to-day. This list could be increased to fill a volume of these quaint and interesting titles. It also contained a list of the publications of many books, which are popular to-day by great authors such as John Bunyan, R. Baxter, Milton, Shakespeare, and others. One could not help noticing the names of some publishers which are well known in the book trade to-day, such as A. & J. Churchill, Collins, J. Moxon, Richard Bentley, although of course they are not the successors to those of the Term Catalogue period. The Catalogue also states that in 1702 the "Daily Courant" was started, being the first daily newspaper to be published in London. I find also in these volumes what I think is the first notice of the odd copy being given. The advertisement runs as follows: "Proposals are now published for printing all the practical works of the late Rev. Mr. Robert Baxter in four volumes and in folio, many of which he wrote at the desire of Archbishop Ussher. To contain one thousand sheets of a large and very good paper, the price to subscribers four pounds, ten shillings in quires, the seventh book gratis, which reduces it to £3 12_s._ 2_d._ The proposals at large may be had of the Undertakers, Thomas Parkinson and others." Ever since this period, the giving of the odd copy has been frequently discussed, but it appears quite possible that by the introduction of the net system it has received a very serious stoppage which may lead to its final abolition. The earliest book auction sale recorded took place at Warwick Court, Warwick Lane, in 1676, and in the following ten years only seventy-three auction sales of books are recorded as having been held. These auctions usually began at nine in the morning, and biddings might advance at a penny per time. The sales, however, differed from the sales of a later period. Formerly at the sales I attended the lots of books fell to the highest bidder, but although an auctioneer was usually present, he could only sell by a scale according to numbers, which was arranged by the publisher for whom the auctioneer acted. These delightful old catalogues are a continual source of inspiration to all booksellers, even if it is only the author or title of a book in which he is interested. It is, however, the sale catalogues of the eighteenth and the greater part of the nineteenth century which interest me most. It was a period which may be called the Golden Age of bookselling. The sale catalogues of this later time unfortunately came to an end in 1890, with that of Richard Bentley & Son, whose business was afterwards taken over by Messrs. Macmillan & Co. At the end of this catalogue, dated October 21, 1890, there was reprinted from "The Bookseller" an article on "Trade Sale Dinners," to which I contributed some of the information, and I am indebted to the courteous head of Messrs. Whitaker & Co. for allowing me to reproduce it in this chapter. It is as follows: "The very ancient institution, peculiar to booksellers, of dining together on the occasion of a trade sale, is almost extinct and is, we very much regret to think, likely to become entirely so in the near future. "The fashion of dining together on the occasion of a sale is a very old one. An interesting collection of sale catalogues in the possession of Mr. William Reader contains specimens dating back to 1704. They consist of the catalogues sent in the ordinary course of business to Osborne and his successor, the first of the Longmans. It is evident from these catalogues that sale dinners were a well-established custom of the trade as long ago as the beginning of the eighteenth century; and, as it must have required considerable time for the practice to have developed into a custom, their first beginnings may possibly have been as far back as 'the spacious times of great Elizabeth,' when bookselling first took shape as a regular trade. "The first catalogue in Mr. Reader's collection is that of the stock of Mrs. Elizabeth Harris, deceased, which is to be sold at 'The Bear, in Avey Mary Lane,' on the 11th December, 1704, 'beginning at 9 in the morning, when the whole company shall be entertained with a breakfast, and at noon with a good dinner and a glass of wine, and then proceed with the sale in order to finish that evening.' The sale of the stock of the late John Nicholson took place in 1718 at the Queen's Head Tavern in Paternoster Row, and the catalogue bears marginal notes in Osborne's handwriting, the names of Curil and Tonson appearing amongst the buyers. Nicholson's interest in certain share books was also disposed of, including Robert Clavel's shares, which he had formerly acquired. (Robert Clavel was a bookseller who flourished during the latter half of the previous century. He carried on business at the Peacock, in St. Paul's Churchyard, and in 1673 issued the well-known 'Catalogue of all the Books Printed in England since the Dreadful Fire of London in 1666 to the end of Michaelmas Term, 1672.') Nicholson's stock and shares appeared to have realized altogether £2,533, a very respectable sum for those days. "It is remarkable that these sale catalogues were printed in almost exactly the same form as those of our own day. Nearly all are in folio, with broad margins for annotations, and they are addressed to 'A select number of Booksellers of London and Westminster,' in the identical terms still current. Only those who were invited by having a catalogue sent them were expected to attend the sale, and the invitations were restricted to booksellers of established position. 'No stallmen admitted' is the significant notice printed at the head of one of the catalogues. "It was not always a dinner that was given; sometimes it was a supper at which the buyers were entertained, as at the sale of Edward Valentine's stock in 1725, on the margin of which catalogue we first meet with the name of Longman among the buyers. In any case, however, whether the stock sold was that of an individual bookseller or a miscellaneous assortment from several contributors, it was the invariable custom to entertain those who came with a substantial repast 'and a glass of good wine.' At Thomas Osborne's sale in 1743, the catalogue even recites the delicacies which were provided, 'consisting of turkies and chines, hams and chickens, apple-pies, etc., and a glass of very good wine.' "Thirteen years later, in 1756, the sale took place of part of the stock of the late Thomas Longman, Osborne's successor and founder of the great Paternoster Row house. The copyrights and shares of Jacob and Richard Tonson were sold in August, 1767, and we notice the names of Dilly, Rivington, and Newbery amongst the buyers. Many of the copyrights were offered in twentieths, for the convenience of bidders. At that time, and long afterward, the risk and expense of publishing a book were jointly borne by a group of booksellers, who met periodically to agree upon the number to be printed, and to audit accounts, and these shares constantly appear in the sale catalogues of the period. "The trade sales were always held at some selected tavern or coffee-house; until 1754, they took place at the Queen's Head Tavern in Paternoster Row, and up to that time it is a rare exception to find them held elsewhere. But in 1755 they were removed to the Queen's Arms in St. Paul's Churchyard, in consequence, as a note on a catalogue of that date states, of the Queen's Head Tavern being converted to another use. For many years subsequently the Queen's Arms continued in favour, and sales were held there as late as 1813; but from about 1790 the London Coffee House on Ludgate Hill seems to have had the preference. The Horn Tavern, Doctors' Commons, was sometimes selected, and less frequently the Globe Tavern, in Fleet Street, where as long ago as 1768, a sale was held. The Chapter Coffee House in Paternoster Row was sometimes used, but not often, although the share-meetings continued to take place there until a very recent date. The London Coffee House gradually obtained a monopoly of the trade sales, until they were finally transferred to the Albion Tavern in Aldersgate Street. "During a period of nearly a hundred and ninety years the sales appear to have been almost exclusively held at five houses, which, as time went on, succeeded each other in favour. The transfer to the Albion was gradual, but in 1831 the greater number were already held there, and in recent years seldom took place elsewhere, though occasionally one was held as far west as the Freemasons' Tavern in Great Queen Street. "Within the present generation, the houses having annual sale dinners numbered about fourteen--Bentley, Bickers, Bohn, Chatto & Windus, Longmans, Macmillan, Murray, Quaritch, Routledge, Seeley and Burnside, Tegg, Ward and Lock, Warne, and Whittaker; and of these only two now survive. Messrs. Longmans' last sale dinner took place on November 5, 1872, and Mr. Murray's last dinner on November 4, 1887. "It is curious that the form of trade sale catalogues should have remained so long unchanged. The old-fashioned yellow-wove post folios of Murray are well remembered. Those of Bentley are somewhat different. Their catalogues were printed in red and black for some years, but since 1885 in blue and brown; and, with a single exception, in 1880, their dinners always took place at the Albion." It was in connexion with the firm with which I have been for so many years associated, that I happened, quite accidentally, some thirty years ago, to come across a parcel of catalogues which were placed with a heap of papers to be sent to the paper mills for destruction. My interest in them was such that as they were considered only waste paper, I took the bundle home, and they have since been to me an endless source of pleasure and instruction. Some of these catalogues are dated 1797, but from the early part of the nineteenth century, judging from the catalogues, books and booksellers had a very prosperous period. At this time, the following publishers and booksellers had a large number of titles in their catalogues, and in many instances they were very important publications. Among them are Sir Richard Phillips (Lord Mayor of London), Darton & Harvey (10 Crosby Square), Joseph Johnson, J. Walker, F. & C. Rivington, Murray & Highley (the predecessors of the celebrated house of John Murray), Longman, Hurst Rees & Orme (who at this period had a very miscellaneous catalogue of books, including plays), Wilson & Spence of York, Henry Mozley of Gainsborough, Cadell & Davies, J. Stockdale of Piccadilly, Scotcherd & Letterman, W. Miller, C. Law, Constable, Vernor & Hood, G. & J. Robinson, and R. Baldwin. Most of these catalogues contain books which had been issued by a combination of bookseller publishers; the shares in the publication of a particular book were divided up by those interested in the book; and the profits were divided between those who contributed to its publication. A catalogue, dated April 1805, of Joseph Maurnan, agent to the University of Cambridge, besides enumerating Bibles of various sizes, from folio to twelves and twenty-fours, and Common Prayers of a like character (these were sold 5 for 4, 9 for 7, 12 for 10, and other numbers with a similar reduction), also contained such books as "Lambe on Constitutional Diseases"; Ruddiman's "Rudiments," new edition; Ruffhead's "Statutes," 18 vols., £38; New Geographical Game upon cards in a box, 7_s._ 6_d._; also a collection of Plays and Farces. Another catalogue, dated June 1805, shows that at this period women held a position amongst the booksellers. This catalogue was issued by Elizabeth Mathews, 18 Strand, and the terms of the sale were four months' credit for £10; four and eight months' for £20; four, eight, and twelve months' for £50; four, eight, twelve, and sixteen for £100: money was evidently not of the same value then as now. Some of the most important books in this catalogue were "Annual Register," 33 vols.; Buffon's "Natural History," 15 vols.; Sheraton's "Cabinet Maker's Drawing Book," 18_s._; "Encyclopædia Britannica," 20 vols. Another of the same period also contained many important works such as "Johnson's Dictionary," in 4 vols., Mavor's "Voyages and Travels," 25 vols., Radcliffe's "Mysteries of Udolpho," 4 vols.; "Pinder's Works," 5 vols.; Pope's "Homer," 5 vols. "Shakespeare's Works," in 21 vols., and with four different editions in 10 vols. and two in 9 vols., are all in this catalogue. From this period onward the same characteristics appear in catalogues, but by degrees, when publishers only sold the books they published, the constitution of the catalogue and the sales greatly changed and the business done was more ordinary and commonplace. I have spent many most enjoyable occasions when attending these sales, and also met there many distinguished people connected both with the trade and also with the making of literature. As a few samples of the characteristics and the business done at some of the sale dinners when the custom was drawing to a close, I may mention that at Murray's sale, in 1885, the completing volume of the "Speaker's Commentary" was among the works offered, and some 2,500 copies were sold within the first ten minutes; of that great traveller Du Chaillu's "Land of the Midnight Sun," in 2 vols., about 1,800 copies were sold. The educational works of Dr. Smith were then in great demand, and there were disposed of at this sale some 7,500 copies of his "English Course," and of the Latin 16,000, while of "Little Arthur's History of England," 12,500 copies were sold. At another sale, when Bishop Wilberforce's Life was the leading book offered, the principal sales were as follows: 1,000 Mudie's Library, 900 Simpkin, Marshall & Co., 450 Hamilton & Co., 250 Smith & Son, 100 W. Kent, and 100 Hatchard's, whilst 22,500 of Smith's Latin Course were quickly purchased. Times and the methods of education have greatly changed, but there are two things respecting these sales which strike me very forcibly. These are the comparatively small sales to-day of the above-mentioned educational works, also whether the publisher has been wise to stop these trade sales. They undoubtedly not only brought publishers and booksellers together, but offered an inducement to the booksellers which does not exist to the same extent to-day to make up stock orders and interest themselves in books. Personally, as I have suggested in other chapters, I should be delighted to see some organized association brought into existence of which all those interested in the making and selling of books could become members, so that representatives of the different departments of the trade might meet together and talk over or discuss questions connected with it. This I am sure would lead to a greater and more satisfactory prosperity in all departments of the publishers' and booksellers' trade than has ever yet been attained. CHAPTER VIII Limited Editions and the Pleasures of Collecting It would be quite impossible within the limits of a short chapter to deal with such a great subject as the above title represents. The subject, however, is fascinating not only to the book collector but to those in the trade, both new and second-hand, through whose hands the books pass. Until the introduction of printing, what may be termed books or literature were all limited editions, as in olden times it was only by the industry of the scribes that other copies could be produced. Privately printed originally meant printed in a university or private residence and not in the offices of an ordinary printer. Now, however, privately printed and limited editions have each much the same meaning, as they are both practically limited in the numbers printed. I must confess that I have a profound sympathy with all collectors of this particular class of book-producing, for it is with great pride that one takes down from the shelves a volume of this class of literature and reads how many copies of it were printed, and any history that may be connected with it. This attraction is from my point of view as far apart as the poles from that of collecting works produced before the origin of printing or even those in the centuries afterwards, where frequently the mistakes in printing make the value of the book. Such, for instance, as that of the Bible where the word "not" is left out in one of the commandments, or where a chance misprint or mistake is noted in some of Shakespeare's or other Elizabethan plays. A long list could easily be made of the small things that render some of these ancient volumes valuable. To-day, these limited editions are produced in the most careful, complete, and perfect manner possible. From a real book-lover's point of view, the beauty of the type, the excellency of the paper and the artistic merit of its binding, coupled with the literary value of the book itself, make a volume which one is proud to possess and have upon one's shelves. For some years past there has been a considerable demand for the limited issue of well-illustrated books numbered and signed by such artists as Rackham, Dulac, and others; these are widely sought after and collected; so also are those works issued by private presses of which the past fifty years has seen some splendid developments. Take, for instance, the Ashenden Press, with its beautiful edition of Dante; the Kelmscott Press, under the guidance of William Morris, which issued many of his own books (the wood-blocks of his works are now in the keeping of the British Museum, with whom they were deposited on the understanding that no one is to be at liberty to print from them for a hundred years); the Vale Press, which limited its editions to 200 copies; the Cardoc Press; the Eragny Press; the Essex House Press; the Dove Press, which finished its course in 1917 by the type being "cast" into the Thames and "distributed" at the bottom of the river; and Mr. Daniel's Press at Oxford. Although these various presses appeal to the collector, first editions and rare books have a greater number of collectors, whose lives are frequently passed in hunting after and trying to discover and secure lost old volumes. This pleasurable following to-day has not the advantages that existed in the middle of the past century, as not only are there now more seekers after these treasures of the past, but America has so many collectors of old books that the demand is greater and the prices higher. These drawbacks will greatly interfere with both the business and the enjoyment of future collectors. The chances, too, of the old-book collector are not nearly so great as formerly, for the changes which have taken place, particularly in London, have certainly swept away many of their favourite haunts. It is to many a very great pleasure to look back in memory upon old Holywell Street, with its scores of book-hunters turning over the boxes and seeking for treasures. Mr. W.E. Gladstone and many dignitaries of the Church could often be seen there. Fleet Street, the Strand, Holborn, and many of the by-streets between Oxford Street and Trafalgar Square, were great thoroughfares for the book-hunter; and although the barrows of Farringdon Street are still in existence, either the bookstall man now knows his business better than his predecessor or the gems are sold before he places these precious books on his barrow. Many times I have turned over the stock of old books on these Farringdon Street barrows, but have never yet been able to find anything of value, although others have been more fortunate. We have now no such opportunities as those of Charles Lamb; and I cannot say if we would avail ourselves of them even if we had. Lamb writes (March 25, 1829):-- "I have just come from town where I have been to get my bit of quarterly pension. I have brought home from stalls in Barbican the old 'Pilgrims Progress' with the prints Vanity Fair, etc., now scarce, four shillings, cheap. And also one of whom I have oft heard and had dreams, but never saw it in the flesh--that is in sheep-skin--'The whole Theological works of Thomas Aquinas.' My arms ached with lugging it a mile to the stage, but the burden was a pleasure." All lovers of books must at some time feel the fascination of the second-hand bookseller's shop, and especially when it has a "Tuppenny Box" attached to it. At such shops, you may examine every book in the place, read a little, look at the pictures and the binding, have a gossip with the intelligent bookseller, and never be asked to spend a penny. The keeper of such books usually knows his business and the origin and history of much of his stock, and is able to tell some good bookish stories in keeping with his profession. A true lover of books thinks little of their monetary value but treasures a volume because of its contents, or perhaps for some association or memory connected with the author. One cannot get away from the feeling, when surrounded by old books, that there is probably some unsuspected treasure hidden among the volumes handled with so much pleasure. What a thrill would pass through you if you discovered one of Shakespeare's original plays or some other of the many precious dramas of the Elizabethan age. Or a first edition of Scott, Lamb, Burns, Blake, or even one of Dr. Watts' Divine Songs containing "Let dogs delight to bark and bite," a copy of which was sold for £155. It is said that the bibliomaniac fever generally begins at the bookstall. Of all kinds of human weakness, the craze for buying and collecting old books is the most excusable. In the early phases of this complaint, the book-lover is content to purchase only books which he reads; next, he buys books which he means to read, and, as his stores accumulate, hopes to read; by and by he takes home books in beautiful bindings, or artistic illustrations, or of an early date, and sometimes printed in a language which he cannot read. Once a lover, always a lover, is a true saying, particularly when applied to a lover of books. As old age draws near, the lover of books finds a solace and joy in the companionship of his silent friends, which not only increases as the years pass on but undoubtedly helps to maintain his interest in life. He may retire from active business at any time, and still in his retirement be as happy and contented as at any period of his more strenuous days. In my own case many of these ideals have been realized. Numberless volumes have been written on the pleasures of book-hunting and its results. Some glory in their collection of books upon certain subjects, such as Angling and all other kinds of sport; some have libraries on Philosophy, History, Biography, Architecture, and other branches of intellectual study; others collect fiction and first editions of celebrated authors, many of which have only a fleeting value. In whatever way we regard book-collecting, there can be no doubt that if carried through from an intellectual point of view, there are few things in life which are so rich in quiet satisfaction or which give such gratifying results to both mind and body. It has been well said by Mr. J.A. Langford in his interesting volume entitled "The Praise of Books": "A wise man will select his books, for he would not wish to class them all under the sacred name of friends. Some can be accepted only as acquaintances. The best books of all kinds are taken to the heart and cherished as his most precious possession. Others to be chatted with for a time, to spend a few pleasant hours with, and laid aside, but not forgotten." Such are some of the pleasures and the profits to be derived from collecting, be it first editions, scarce books, or limited editions. CHAPTER IX The Whitefriars Club Of all the institutions with which I have been associated, not one has given me so much pleasure, or of which I feel so proud in belonging to, as The Whitefriars Club. This Club was founded in 1865, and is a survival of the old Bohemian life of London; it knows no sect or politics, and its ambition is to create true fellowship amongst its members. The Club has a room and meets at Anderton's Hotel in that highway of letters, Fleet Street. During the autumn and winter months it has always been their custom to hold meetings each Friday to hear an address from some distinguished publicist upon a subject of common interest and importance. After the introductory speech by the guest of the evening, the subject is open to discussion, and each member is invited to express his views and convictions as freely as possible. While listening to these speeches, I have often wished that reporters had been allowed to be present, as I am sure those connected with newspapers would have found these debates of more interest than those taking place in a building of a greater national importance. During the temporary retirement of our present excellent secretary, Mr. W.N. Shansfield, I had the honour and pleasure of acting as the Club's secretary for three years. At the end of my term of office, I was delighted to receive a beautiful pair of candelabra as a present from the Club, the greatly revered Lord Roberts being the guest of the evening on this occasion. I can safely say that this presentation was one of the most interesting events in my life, as after it had been made, Lord Roberts rose from his seat, came round to me, shook hands, and uttered some pleasant words of congratulation. To me the occasion was a memorable one. There are, however, so many interesting associations connected with this Club that I must go back to 1901, the year of my becoming a member. At the time of my joining the Hon. Secretary was Sir Arthur Spurgeon, who has always been most loyal and helpful to members of the Club, and to whom every one is deeply indebted for the interest and support he has given to it. He it was who helped to develop the Club and made it one of the great centres of journalistic and literary London. The Club can never have a better or more thorough and efficient officer than the present secretary, my good friend, Mr. W.N. Shansfield. He is always at his post, and by his many amiable qualities greatly stimulates and carries on the friendly intercourse at which the Club aims. Every member of the Club is entitled to the distinction of being a Friar, and the one who presides at our festivities is for the evening the Prior, so that discipline and order among the Brotherhood is a foregone conclusion. The following toast is always given at each meeting by the Prior and is heartily responded to by the Friars and guests present: "Friars and Guests,--By this wine we commemorate the White Friars of old, fortified with spirit--the spirit of admiration for their services to charity and good learning--and sweetened by sympathy for those who, broken by fortune, dwell in Alsatia. It is left for me, as Prior of the day, to add the cordial--a cordial welcome to the guests of the Brotherhood assembled at our board. Gentlemen, I bid a hearty welcome to you all, and invite you to join with the Brothers of a gracious order in drinking to the prosperity of the Whitefriars Club." Among the Priors who have presided at our gatherings memory calls up many who were leaders in the world of Literature and Journalism, such as William Senior, Richard Whiteing, G. Manville Fenn, Sir F. Carruthers Gould, Sir J. Foster Fraser, Sir Arthur Spurgeon, Sir Anthony Hope, G.B. Burgin (who also edits "The Whitefriars Journal"), Edward Clodd, Clement K. Shorter, Sir W. Robertson Nicoll and Sir William Treloar, who have all distinguished themselves by their aptitude and eloquence. It would be a breach of the rules of our Order to give any account of the various nobles and gentlemen who have honoured the Club by their presence. Sufficient to say that, be the invited guest ever so exalted, the Club's invitation is seldom declined. Many times I have heard from a guest what a delightful evening he has spent and the enjoyment he has experienced in the good fellowship which dominates the members and the proceedings of the Club. On two occasions during the year, we have what is termed "Ladies' Nights." This may appear strange to those who think that the monastic order is carried out in its entirety, but I am sure the evening is always as enjoyable to the ladies as it is to the Friars. On these occasions, we have the toast of "Mere Man," proposed by a lady, and, as a set off, the toast of "Sov'ram Woman," of course proposed by a Friar; and each is equally appreciated. A volume which would be of great interest to the public generally, might easily be compiled of extracts from the Journals of the Club, but as it is understood by the members that no reporters are present at our meetings, and that the proceedings are for the members only and that no publicity is given to them, I must not depart from this order of secrecy. One of my early associations with the Club was on the visit of Mark Twain to this country. He was invited to accompany some of the members to Lambeth Palace, to hear an address from the Librarian upon the many beautiful MSS. which the Library contained. This was most interesting, as was also the visit to the Lollards' Tower, with its many religious associations. After our visit to the Palace we were invited to take tea, if I remember rightly, at the Authors' Club. Here a number of notable authors and others were assembled to welcome the American guest, among them being Dr. Stubbs, Bishop of Oxford, and Canon Barnett. I was one of a group who were narrating some of their interesting experiences, when the Rev. Canon told a story which greatly amused his hearers and especially the members of our Club. The story caused shouts of laughter and the Bishop held up his hands in apparent surprise, and made some remark respecting it. I happened to suggest that the rev. gentleman should be called to order by the Bishop, but he again held up his hands and said, "Not in my Diocese," a retort which caused more laughter than the story. There is one association in connexion with the Whitefriars Club which I shall not be breaking their rules by mentioning. This is our "Summer Outing" in June or July, to which ladies were always invited. One of these "Outings"--and certainly to me the one in which I found my greatest anticipations realized--was that made to the home of our great novelist, George Meredith, in 1902. I give, therefore, the following sketch from notes made by myself and a small extract from the Club's Journal. * * * * * It was on a cloudy, windy, but exhilarating day that a company of "Whitefriars" started on a pilgrimage to Burford Bridge and Box Hill to visit one of England's greatest novelists, George Meredith. The railway journey proved far too short, as we spent the time in discussing with some of our gifted fellow-travellers questions social and political, one topic being "Would England become peopled by an effeminate race should it cease to foster a jingo or warlike spirit." Needless to say, no final discussion upon this stupendous subject was reached before arriving at our destination. At Burford Bridge a capital lunch had been provided, after which the Prior for the day, Mr. Robert Leighton, proposed the health of Friar George Meredith. Other toasts were proposed or responded to by Madam Sarah Grand, Mr. T.P. O'Connor, M.P., and Friar Sir Arthur Spurgeon. After luncheon, a short walk over one of Surrey's most beautiful hills brought us to the haven of our desires. Here, nestled under the shade of hill and foliage, stood Flint Cottage, the charming but unpretentious residence of Friar George Meredith. Above the house stands the Châlet, the workshop of the great novelist, eloquent in its stillness and solitude. In this Châlet many of his masterpieces have been written. Every one at some period in their lives has probably experienced that extreme tension of feelings when they are about to realize that which a vivid imagination has created and built up until it has become a veritable brain picture. We entered the grounds surrounding Flint Cottage, passing in single file along the paths of a well-kept garden to a rustic seat in a small meadow-like enclosure where the great novelist sat. With a hearty shake of the hand as each visitor was introduced and a cheery word of greeting to many an old friend, we passed before our host, then stood about in groups or sat buoyantly expectant of what was to follow. While waiting for the sound of a voice that will never be forgotten, time was given to reflect upon our first impression of the man whose name is honoured wherever English literature is known or read. To the mind which admires all that is great in the world of reality or imagination, it almost savours of sacrilege to attempt to describe or analyse that which one looks up to and venerates. It is therefore with the greatest humility that reference is here made to that lofty embodied intelligence which until then had been known only through the medium of George Meredith's writings. Judging from appearances, the world-renowned novelist was quite an ordinary-looking man of between sixty and seventy years of age. He was dressed in a dark blue holiday suit, with a red tie, and held a grey wideawake hat in his hand. His white but luxuriant hair partly covered a high and noble forehead, which indexed a striking and characteristic personality. All these details, however, were the outside man. It was when he began to talk that our attention became riveted, for in the deep resonant flexibility of his voice one became almost electrified. Its penetration, as it conveyed the measured periods of the speaker, immediately attracted attention, and a hush of expectancy stole over the listening company. Early in the proceedings, Prior Robert Leighton read the following address: "Friar George Meredith,--We, members of the Whitefriars Club and our friends, are gratefully conscious of the honour you accord to us in permitting us a second time to call upon you here at your home. Be assured we come to you to-day not with any feeling approaching vulgar curiosity to invade and peep within the sanctities of your chosen seclusion. We come with the reverence of pilgrims journeying to a hallowed shrine; content if you do but allow us to enter at your gates to offer you our respectful homage, to take your hand and listen for some moments to the living voice of one to whom we individually and the world in general owe so much. "The work that you have done has become a part of English life and of our own personal lives. It represents the highest blossom of the tree of civilization, and it has come to mean so much that to-day no man or woman can attain to a maturity of culture without having absorbed your teaching and your spirit. You have taught us to appreciate everything that is good in life, enhancing its sparkle and flavour. You have sharpened our wits, polished our manners, advanced our happiness by widening our comprehension. You have given us a new perception of the social structure, and especially have you given us a key to the maze and mystery of women's souls. "You yourself, sir, in your splendid solitude, can hardly apprehend what the name of George Meredith means to the best intelligences of your era. It is a name honoured and venerated above all titles, signifying to us, your disciples, the sum of all your imaginative genius and your noble example have conferred. We, men and women alike, who are privileged to see you to-day, are sensible of the added understanding which comes of personal association with you, and we shall remember the privilege as one of the most cherished benefits of our lives." Friar George Meredith said: "I cannot rise, but I wish to speak and say: Ladies and Gentlemen, after a shower of honey from the busiest bees of the bees around me, my wings are clogged, and I cannot fly. I have no words to thank you. But look at the tops of those trees: from that short height the measure of us is seen to be pretty equal. Each does his work in his own way. I find so many people in different walks that can do what I cannot do. Respect is a very great thing, but I think we are in the habit of falling into a kind of delirium in regard to men who after seventy years or more have made a name. We take them as brandy--(laughter)--it is better to make a kind of dilution, and therefore I mix a considerable amount of water with your compliments. (Laughter.) However, I thank you heartily for coming to see me. If I had the eloquence of that true Irishman, Mr. T.P. O'Connor, I should be making an impression now--(laughter)--but I am only half Irish--half Irish and half Welsh--I halt therefore rather on one leg. The Welsh are admirable singers, but bad dancers. Mr. O'Connor would say not only the words most appropriate, but his language would flow on, and you would not be able to stop him. (Laughter.) I have not that gift, I can only thank you for your kindness. (Loud applause.)" Some of the visitors left their host to visit the Châlet, which, judging from its dusty appearance, now rarely received a visit from its master. This literary workshop consists of two rooms, one for work and the other for rest and refreshment. The former contained a well-selected library of English and foreign books, all exhibiting the appearance of having been well used. Brockhaus's Great Lexicon was a prominent feature in the library, which also contained first editions of several of Meredith's own books and various autograph presentation works from some of his literary friends. On the writing table there were many well-used quill pens and scraps of MS., which to the relic hunter were objects of great temptation, but reverence forbad sacrilege. Through fear of our tiring a body which Nature has made far too weak for such a mind, the pilgrimage had to be brought to an early close, so with minds stimulated and trying to hold some of the wise thoughts and expressions which had fallen from the great novelist's lips, we returned to our hotel. After the tea provided by our always practical secretary, a few short and thoughtful speeches were delivered by the Prior, Sir William Treloar and the Rev. W.J. Dawson; then, with cordial farewells and those pleasing amenities which help so much in making such outings as these doubly enjoyable, we journeyed back to the station and to town. So ended what to others beside myself will always be remembered as one of the red-letter days of our lives. Another delightful outing was to Colchester and Constable's country. There, we were not entertained with "Oysters and Erings Roots," but with the historical memorials for which this town and district are famous. After going over the Abbey, the Town Hall, and admiring the four bronze Ravens which are supposed to be relics of the tenth century, we drove through the Constable country, visiting "The Vale of Dedham," passing the Elizabethan Grammar School where John Constable was educated, "Willy Lotts House" and "Flatford Mill." During another summer, our journey was to the Dickens country. After alighting at Sole Street station and visiting the Leather Bottle, with its numerous Dickens relics, and Cobham Church, we drove to Rochester and lunched at the celebrated Bull Hotel, so humorously associated with Mr. Winkle. Later on in the day we visited the Cathedral and Dean Hole's delightful garden of roses. The House of the Seven Poor Travellers fascinated us greatly, as here we were shown Dickens' signature when he spent the night getting material for his Christmas story of the "Seven Poor Travellers." We also inspected the outbuildings in which he and the other travellers slept. Among other journeys of very great interest, was one by train to Oxford and from thence by boat up the Thames to Goring: the scenery through which we passed is well known for its bewildering beauty. Most interesting to me, as I happened to be at the time the Hon. Secretary, was our pilgrimage to Hatfield House. Upon arriving at Hatfield House and being received with a kindly shake of the hand by the Countess of Salisbury, she showed us through the rooms in which are located many wonderful historical treasures. More especially to be admired was the collection of arms, many of which had been captured from the Spanish Armada. The great library and the wonderful pictures by Holbein, Van Dyck, Reynolds, and others, fascinated us all, but perhaps the most interesting were the various relics connected with Queen Elizabeth: the oak-tree under which she was seated when the news came of Queen Mary's death and of her own accession to the throne; the cradle once occupied by Elizabeth; and a pair of her silk stockings, and a garden bonnet which she wore when walking in the surrounding woods. On leaving Hatfield House we drove over to St. Albans, where we visited the old and delightful Cathedral, rich in its historical associations, and, after an enjoyable dinner at one of the hotels, returned home with minds full of the events which have helped to make the greatness of England. I might mention other delightful "outings" and events, but those which I have given show the many fascinating episodes associated with the Whitefriars Club. INDEX Agricultural Hall, 47 Alexandra Palace, 41 "Alice in Wonderland," 75 "A.L.O.E.," 76 Amberley School (Glos.), 14 _et seq._ American Copyright, 92 "Annual Register," 184 Appleton & Co., 93 Arber, Edward, 169 _et seq._ "Argosy, The," 74 Arnold, E., 86 Arnold, Matthew, 153 Arnold, Mr. W.H., 160 "Arthur Bonnicastle," 92 Ashenden Press, 190 Asquith, Right Hon. H.H., 128 Astley's Theatre, 39, 40 "Aunt Judy's Magazine," 74 Authors' Club, 204 Ave Maria Lane, 57, 178 Baldwin, Cradock & Joy, 115, 183 Balfour, Lord, 126, 137 Ballantyne, R.M., 76 Baring-Gould, Rev. S., 76 Barnett, Canon, 204 Baxter, Richard, his "Saints Rest," 67, 174-5 Baxter, Mr. Wynne, 130 Baynes' "Lyra Anglicana," 58 Beaconsfield, Lord, 120, 124 Beale's "Sixpenny Library," 73 Beecher, Henry Ward, 58 "Belgravia," 74 Bellew, Rev. J.C.M., 44 Bennett, A.W., 83 Bennett, J., 83 Bentley & Son R., 84, 174, 177, 181 Bentley's "Standard Library," 73 Bible: Caxton Celebration Edition, 96 Bible: Revised Version, 93 Biblical Cabinet, The, 66 Bickers, Messrs., 181 Bickersteth, Rev. Edward, 65-6 Bickersteth, Rev. Robert, 66 Blackmore, R.D., 91 Blackwood & Sons, William, 77 Blake, William, 194 Blondin, 41 Bohn's "Libraries," 73, 181 Bonar, Rev. Horatius, 64 Book Auction Sales, 175 _et seq._ Booksellers' Association, 110, 138 _et seq._ Booksellers' Provident Institution, 131 _et seq._ Booksellers' Provident Retreat, 131 _et seq._ Booksellers' Society, London, 142 "Bookseller, The," 140, 143 Booth, L., 84 Boston's "Crook in the Lot," 67 Bosworth, Thomas, 141 Bradbury, Evans & Co., 83 Braddon, Miss, 76, 83, 84, 92 Brassey, Lord, 137 Brewer, E.C., "Guide to Knowledge," 71 Bright, John, 45 "British Almanac and Companion," 84 "Broadway, The," 74 Brook, Mrs. Carey, 76 Brockhaus, F., his "Great Lexicon," 213 Brontë, Charlotte, 91 Browning, Mrs. E.B. 88 Browning, Robert, 88 Bryce, Lord, 137 Bucknell, Mr., 19, 20 Buffon, George, his "Natural History," 184 Bunyan, John, 174 Burgin, G.B., 202 Burns, Robert, 194 Butter's "Spelling Book," 72 Byron, Lord, 88 Cadell & Davies, 182 Caine, Mr. W.S., 127 Caine, Sir T. Hall, 85 Cambridge University Press, 87, 94 Campbell, Lord, 139 Camps' Library, The, 104 Caradoc Press, 191 Carnegie Trust, 129 Carpenter, Bishop, 67 Cassell & Co., 84 Catalogues of Books, The term, 171 _et seq._ Caxton Celebration, 97 Caxton, William, 100, 138 Chatto & Windus, 83, 86, 89, 181 "Child's Guide to Knowledge, The," 71 Christian Biography, The Library of, 66 Christian Classics, Pickering's, 67 Christian's Fireside Library, The, 66 Churchill, A. & J., 174 City Temple, 44 Clark, Mr. John, 19, 26, 28-9 Clark, Mrs., 26 Clavel, Robert, 178 Clodd, Edward, 202 Colburn, H., 83 Colenso, Bishop, 71 Collins & Son, W., 85, 174 Collins, Wilkie, 91 Constable & Co., 86, 183 Constable, John, R.A., 214 Cooper, Sidney, 75 Copyright, 92 Cornwell's "Geography," 71 "Cottage Library," 73 Cowper, William, 73, 115 Craik, Mrs. (Miss Muloch), 16, 92 Creed Lane, 57 Cremorne Gardens, 41 Crockett, S.R., 91 Crosby, Benjamin, 113-4 Crosby, Lockwood & Co., 114 Crystal Palace, 41 Cummings, Dr., 25, 26, 58 "Daily Courant," 174 Dale, Rev. R.W., 45 Dalziel, The Brothers, 75 Daniel's Press, Canon, 191 Dante, 190 Darton & Harvey, 39, 182 Darwin, Charles, his "Origin of Species," 90 Dawson, George, 26 Dawson, Rev. J.W., 213 Day & Sons, W., 83 Dent, J.M., 86 Derby, The, 48-9 Dickens, Charles, 50, 76, 91, 214-5 Dilke, Sir Charles, 127 Doré, Gustave, 74 Dove Press, 191 Doyle, Richard, 75 Drury Lane Theatre, 33 Du Chaillu, Paul, his "Land of the Midnight Sun," 186 Duckwork & Co., 86 Dulac, Edmund, 190 Early Closing Association, 119, 120 Edward VII, 49, 134, 136 Elementary Education Act, 79 Eliot, George, 76 "Encyclopædia Britannica," 106, 136, 184 "Enquire Within," 83 Eragny Press, 191 Erckmann-Chatrian, 80 "Essays and Reviews," 69, 90 Essex House Press, 191 "Everyman's Library," 86 Family Prayers, 70 Farringdon Street, 192 _et seq._ Faulkner & Co., C.W., 119 Fenn, G. Manville, 202 Figuier, 80 Finsbury Park, 42 Fisher, Mr. Paul Hawkins, 21 Forster, Rt. Hon. W.E., 79, 124 "Fortnightly Review, The," 74, 106 Foster, Birket, 74 Fraser, Sir J. Foster, 202 Free Libraries, 105, 129 Frowde, H., 87 Gatty, Mrs., 76 George V, 130, 135 George, Right Hon. D. Lloyd, 128 Gilbert and Sullivan, 26 Gilbert, Sir John, 75 Gladstone, Right Hon. W.E., 63, 69, 97; 124-5, 192 "Good Words," 74 Gore, Canon, 69 Gould, Sir F.C. Carruthers, 202 Gouldburn, Dean, 63 Grace's Court, 57 Grand, Madam Sarah, 206 Grant, James, 76 Greenaway, Kate, 75 Griffin, C., 84 Griffith & Farran, 83 Griffiths, William, 80 Groombridge & Co., 83 Grossmith, George, 26 Grote, George, 139 Guthrie, Dr., 58 Hall, Rev. Newman, 64 Hamilton, Rev. James, 64 Hamilton Adams & Co., 142, 186 Hampton Court, 50 Hampton, Dame Alice, 12 Hannay's Almanac, 56-7 Harcourt, Sir William, 137 Hardwick, 84 Hardy, Thomas, 84, 91 Harris, Mrs. Elizabeth, 178 Harrup, G., 86 Harte, Bret., 83 Hatchards, 186 Hatfield House, 215, 216 Havergal, Francis Ridley, 65 Hawker's "Daily Portion," 70 Hearn, Tom, 46 Heenan, J.C., 22, 23, 38 Heinemann, W., 85 Helmore, Mr., 24 Helmore, Rev. T., 24 Her Majesty's Theatre, 37-8 Highbury Barn, 41 Highbury Congregational Church, 45 Hodder & Stoughton, 86 Holywell Street, 192 "Home and Colonial Library," 73 Hope, Sir Anthony, 202 Horsman, Edward, M.P., 22 Hospital Fund, King Edward's, 134 _et seq._ Hotten, J. Camden, 83, 89 Houghton, A.B., 75 Houlston & Wright, 83 Howitt, William and Mary, 76 Hughes, Arthur, 75 Hugo, Victor, 80 Humphreys, Noel, 75 Hunt, W., 83 Hurst & Blackett, 73 Hutchinson & Co., 86 Huxley, Professor, 44, 45, 90 Iddesleigh, Lord, 122 Ivy Lane, 57 Janes, Rev. John Angell, 64 Jay, Rev. W., 64 Jenkins, H., 86 Johnson's "Dictionary," 184 Johnson, Joseph, 115, 182 Keats, John, 88 Keble, John, 69 Keith, Dr., 99 Kelmscott Press, 190 Ken, Bishop, his "Divine Love," 67 Kent & Co., W., 81, 186 Kingsley, Charles, 76, 91 Kit's Coty House (Kent), 50 Knight, Charles, 84, 147 Lady's Closet Library, The, 66 Lamb, Charles, 193-4 Lambe's "Constitutional Diseases," 18 Lambeth Place, 204 Lane, John, 86 Langford, J.A., "The Praise of Books," 197 Lardner, Nathaniel 66 Lardner's "Scientific library," 73 Laurie, T. Werner, 86 Law, C., 183 Law, William, his "Serious Call," 67 Layton, C., 93 Leighton, Robert, 206, 209 Leighton, T., 75 Lever, Charles, 91 Lewes, G.H., 74 Library of Puritan Divines, 67 Liddon, Canon, 44 "Line upon Line," 72 London County Council, 126, 128, 130 "London Society," 74 Longfellow, H.W., 73, 88 Longmans, Green & Co., 77, 83, 177, 179, 181-2 Lyall, Edna, 92, 93, 94 Lytton, Lord, 91 Macduff, Rev. J.R., 62-3 McGregor, John, 120 Mackay, Mr. Charles, 19 MacKenzie, Mr. A.W., 129 Mackintosh, W., 83 Macmillan & Co., 84, 140-1, 177, 181 Macmillan, Sir Frederick, 144 Magazines, 73 Magee, Archbishop 67 Marconi, Chevalier, 121 _et seq._ Marriott, Miss, 32 Marsh, Miss, 64 "Mary Powell," 76 Mary, Queen, 135 Masters, J., 83 Mathews, Elizabeth, 184 Maurnan, Joseph, 183 Mavor, William F., his "Voyages and Travels," 184 Maxwell, John, 83 Melrose, A., 86 Menken, Adah Isaacs, 38 Meredith, George, 84, 91, 205 _et seq._ Merriman, H.S., 91 Methuen & Co., 85 Miles, Messrs. John, Frederick and William, 55, 115 Miles, John, 80, 115 Milford, Humphrey, 87 Millais, Sir J.E., 75 Miller, Hugh, 76 Miller, W., 183 Milman, Dean, 139 Milner, Joseph, 66 Milner, Lord, 127 Milton, John, 88, 174 Minchinhampton Common, 12 Montgomery, James, 66 Moore, George, 86 Moore, Thomas, 73 Morley, Lord, 127 Morris, Lewis, 88 Morris, W., 88, 190 Moxon, E, 27, 83, 88, 89, 174 Mozley, Henry, 182 Mozley, J. & C., 84 Mudie's Library, 186 Muloch, Miss. _See_ Mrs. Craik. Murray & Highley, 182 Murray, John, 84, 181-2 Nash, Eveleigh, 86 Nelson & Son, T., 77, 84 Newbery, John, 83 Newby, J.C., 83 Newgate, 36 Newgate Market, 77 Newman, Cardinal, 69 New Vagabond Club, 131 Nicholl, Sir W. Robertson, 202 Nicholson, John, 178 Nimmo, J.C., 83 "Nineteenth Century, The," 106 Northcote, Sir Stafford. _See_ Iddesleigh. Nunn, James, 114 O'Connor, T.P., M.P., 206, 212 Old Bailey, 31-2 Old Moore's Almanac, 55 Oliphant, Mrs., 92 Osborne, Thomas, 177 _et seq._ Oxenden, Ashton (Bp. of Montreal), 58, 63-4 Oxford Bible Warehouse, 77 Oxford University Press, 77, 87, 93 Paley, William, his "Evidences," 67 Parker, Dr., 43-4 Parkinson, Thomas, 175 "Parlour Library," 73 Paternoster Row, 57, 77, 178 _et seq._ Paternoster Square, 77 Patti, Carlotta, 40 "Peep of Day", 72 "Penny Cyclopædia, The," 84 "Pepys's Diary," 171 Perks, Sir Robert, 121 Phelps, Samuel, 33 Phillips, Sir Richard, 182 "Pickering's Christian Classics," 67 Pinder, Peter, 184 Pinnock's "Catechisms," 71 Pinwell, G.J., 75 Playgoers' Club, 131 Pope, Alexander, 185 "Practical Christian's Library," 67 Priestley, Joseph, 115 Publishers Association, 110, 144 _et seq._ "Publishers' Circular," 145 Pusey, Dr., 69 Quaritch, Bernard, 181 Rackham, Arthur, 190 Radcliffe, Ann, her "Mysteries of Udolpho," 184 "Railway Library," 73 Reade, Charles, 91 Reader, Mr. William, 177 Reeves, Sims, 40 Reid, Captain Mayne, 76 Ritchie, Lord, 124-5 Rivington & Co., 83, 179, 182 Roberts, Lord, 200-1 Robinson, G. & J., 114, 183 Rochester Cathedral, 50, 215 Rosebery, Lord, 126 Rose Cottage (Mrs. Craik's residence), 16 Routledge & Sons, George, 181 Ruddiman, Thomas,his "Rudiments," 183 Ruffhead, Owen, his "Statutes," 18 "Run and Read Library," 73 Russell, Lord John, 22 Ryle, Rev. J.C., 76 Sacred Family Library, 67 Sadlers Wells Theatre, 32-3 St. Albans, 216-7 St. George's Chapel, 51 St. Paul's Cathedral, 41, 44, 57 Santley, Kate, 40 Saunders & Ottley, 83 Sayers, Tom, 22-3 Scotcherd & Letterman, 183 Scott, Sir W., 76, 194 Scrope, G. Poulet, M.P., 22 Seeley & Burnside, 181 Seeley, Sir J.R., his "Ecce Homo," 69 Select Library of Fiction, 73 Selous, 75 Selwyn & Blount, 86 Senior, William, 202 Sewell, Mrs., 76, 92 Shakespeare, 174, 185, 189, 194 Shakespeare, Cassell's edition of, 33-4 Shakespeare, Globe edition of, 140-1 Shakespeare, his "Hamlet," 32 _et seq._ Shaylor, Joseph, his contributions and publications, 106-7 Shansfield, Mr. W.N., 199, 200 Shelley, P.B., 88 Sheraton, Thomas, his "Cabinet Makers' Drawing Book," 184 Shorter, Clement K., 202 Sidgwick & Jackson, 86 Simpkin, Marshall & Co., 52 _et seq._, 80, 81, 112 _et seq._, 186 Smiles, Samuel, 76 Smith & Son, W.H., 186 Smith, Dr. Pye, 66 Smith, Dr. William, his "Educational Works," 71, 186 Smith, Elder & Co., 84 Smith, J. Russell, 83 Smith, Sir Christopher, 121 Smithfield, 35, 36, 46 Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 72 Southey, Robert, 66 Spencer, Herbert, 90 "Spiritual Library, The," 67 Spurgeon, Rev. C.H., 43, 64 Spurgeon, Sir Arthur, 200, 202, 206 Stalker, Mr., 114 "Statesman's Year Book, The," 72 Stationers' Hall, 56, 94, 169 _et seq._ Stationers' Hall Court, 45, 53 _et seq._, 81, 82, 116 _et seq._ Stationers, Worshipful Company of, 133 Stockdale, J., 182 Stoke Newington, 128 _et seq._ Strahan, A., 84, 88 Stroud Valley (Glos.), 11 _et seq._ Stubbs, Dr., Bp. of Oxford, 204 "Sunday Magazine, The," 73 Suttaby, R. & A., 84 Sutton's "Learning to Live," etc., 67 Swinburne, A.C., 83, 88, 89 Tait, Dr., Abp. of Canterbury, 51 Tate, Mr. Henry, 136 Taylor, Jeremy, "Holy Living and Dying," 67 Tegg, W., 84, 181 Tenniel, Sir John, 74 Tennyson, Lord, 27, 83, 88 Thackeray, W.M., 76, 91 Thumb, General Tom, 41 Timbs, John, 76 Tinsley Brothers, 84 "Tinsley's Magazine," 74 Tonson, Jacob and Richard, 179 Tractarian Movement, The, 69 "Travellers' Library," 73 Treloar, Sir William, 202, 213 Trollope, Anthony, 74, 76, 91, 120 Trübner, N., 84 Tupper, Martin, 27, 73, 88 Twain, Mark, 83, 203 University Extension, 121 Unwin, T. Fisher, 86 Ussher, Archbishop, 175 Vale Press, 191 Valentine, Edward, 179 Vaughan, Dr., 58 Verne, Jules, 80 Vernor & Hood, 183 Victoria, Queen, 30, 134 Virtue & Co., 84 Vizetelly, Henry, 85 Vyse's "Spelling Book," 72 Waddy, Mr. S.D., 127 Walker, John, 182 Walpole, Right Hon. Spencer, 34-5 Walton & Maberley, 83 Walton, Lawson, 121 Ward, Artemus, 76, 83 Ward Lock & Co., 181 Warne & Co., Frederick, 181 Warren, Minnie, 41 Warwick Court, 175 Warwick Lane, 36-7 Watson, Bishop, and his "Apology," 67 Watts, Dr., 175 Weale's "Series," 71 Weaver, Richard, 58 Webb, Mrs., 76 Welsh, Mr. Charles, 130 Whitaker's Almanac, 56 Whitefriars Club, 198 _et seq._ Whiteing, Richard, 202 Whitfield, George, 12 Whittaker & Co., 81, 177, 181 Wilberforce, Bishop, his "Life," 186 Williams & Co., Henry, 119 Williams, Mr. Carvel, 128 Wilson, Bishop, his "Sacra Privata," 70 Wilson & Spence, 182 Wilson's "Catechisms," 71 Winslow, Dr., 58 Wolseley, Lord, 137 Wood, Mrs. Henry, 92 Woodchester (Glos.), 17 Y.M.C.A., books sent to the troops by, 104 Yonge, Miss C.M., 76, 92 
6365	----	RICHARD DARE'S VENTURE OR STRIKING OUT FOR HIMSELF BY EDWARD STRATEMEYER Author of Oliver Bright's Search, To Alaska For Gold, The Last Cruise Of The Spitfire, Shorthand Tom, Etc. PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION. "Richard Dare's Venture," although a complete story in itself, forms the initial volume of the "Bound to Succeed" Series, a line of books written primarily for boys, but which it would seem not only girls but also persons of mature age have taken up with more or less interest. The story relates the adventures of a country youth who comes to New York to seek his fortune, just as many country lads have done in the past and many are likely to do in the future. Richard feels that there is nothing for him to do in the sleepy village in which he resides, and that he must "strike out for himself," and he does so, with no cash capital to speak of, but with plenty of true American backbone, and with the firm conviction that if he does his duty as he finds it, and watches his chances, he will be sure to make a place for himself. Richard finds life in the metropolis no bed of roses, and when he at length gains a footing he is confronted by many a snare and pitfall. But, thanks to the Christian teachings of the best of mothers, and his natural uprightness of character, he escapes these evils, and gives a practical teaching of the Biblical admonition of "returning evil with good." When the first edition of this work was placed on the market several years ago, the author had hoped that it would receive some notice; but he was hardly prepared for the warm reception which readers and critics alike all over the country accorded it. For this enthusiasm he is profoundly grateful. The street scenes in New York have been particularly commended; the author would add that these are not fictitious, but are taken from life. EDWARD STRATEMEYER. NEWARK, N.J., March 1, 1899. CONTENTS I. A Serious Accident II. Bitter Moments III. Preparing to Start IV. On the Train V. The Smash-up VI. Under Suspicion VII. The End of the Journey VIII. The "Watch Below" IX. Locked Out X. The First Night in New York XI. Robbed XII. On the Search XIII. Richard Calls on Mr. Joyce XIV. Work Obtained XV. New Quarters XVI. Pep XVII. Getting Acquainted XVIII. A Strange Situation XIX. The Laurel Club XX. Trouble Brewing XXI. Richard in Trouble XXII. Richard Visits Mr. Joyce Again XXIII. Strange Discoveries XXIV. Pep's Home XXV. Tom Clover XXVI. A Scene in the Stock-room XXVII. A Fire and its Result XXVIII. A Lucky Resolve XXIX. Frank's Idea XXX. Mr. Martin's Clerks XXXI. Tom Clover's Statement XXXII. The Firm of Massanet and Dare CHAPTER I. A SERIOUS ACCIDENT. "It is high time, mother, that I found something to do. Father seems to be worse, and I'm afraid before long he won't be able to go to work every day. Ever since I finished schooling I've felt like a fish out of water." And stowing away the remainder of the slice of bread he was eating, Richard Dare leaned back in his chair and gazed inquiringly across the breakfast-table to where his mother stood, ready to clear away the dishes when he had finished his meal. "I'm sure you have been busy enough, Richard," responded Mrs. Dare fondly. "I am well satisfied with the way you have planted the garden; and no carpenter could have made a neater job of the front fence. You haven't wasted your time." "Oh, I don't mean that. Fixing up around the house is well enough. But I mean some regular work--some position where I could bring home my weekly wages. I know it would be a big help all around. It takes a heap of money to run a family of three girls and a growing boy." Mrs. Dare smiled sadly. "What do you know about that?" she asked. "We all have enough to eat and drink, and our own roof over our heads." "Yes, but I know that my dear mother sits up sewing sometimes long after we have gone to bed, so that our clothing may be cared for, and I know that she hasn't had a new dress in a year, though she deserves a dozen," added Richard heartily. "I haven't much use for a new dress--I go out so little," said his mother. "But what kind of work do you wish to get?" "Oh, anything that pays. I'm not particular, so long as it's honest. "I'm afraid you will find but few chances in Mossvale. Times are dull here--ever since the hat factory moved away. I guess the stores have all the help they want. You might get a place on one of the farms." "I don't think any farmer would pay much besides my board," replied the boy. "I've got another plan," he continued, with some hesitation. "And what is that?" "To try my luck in New York. There ought to be room enough for me in such a big city." "New York!" exclaimed Mrs. Dare, in astonishment. "Why, you have never been there in your whole life!" "I know it, but I've read the papers pretty well, and I wouldn't be afraid but what I could get along first rate." Mrs. Dare shook her head doubtfully. "It is almost impossible to get a footing there," she declared. "When we were first married your father struggled hard enough, both there and in Brooklyn, but somehow, he didn't seem to make it go, and so we moved here. Everything rushes in the city, and unless you have some one to speak for you no one will give you a chance." "I would take the first thing that came to hand, no matter what it paid, and then watch for something better." "It might be that you would have luck," said Mrs. Dare reflectively. "I don't like to discourage you. Still--" "You wouldn't like to see me go away and then fail, is that it?" "Yes. Failures at the start of life often influence all the after years. Suppose you have a talk with your father about this." "I thought I'd speak to you first, mother. I wanted to know if you would be willing to let me go." "If your father thinks it best, I shall be satisfied, Richard. Of course, I will miss you." "I know that, mother," returned Richard rising. "But then I could come home once in a while. The city is not so very far away." The plan of "striking out" had been in Richard Dare's mind for several months. The country school at Mossvale had closed for the season early in the spring--so as to allow the farmer boys to do their work, and Richard was satisfied that he had about learned all that Mr. Parsons, the pedagogue, was able or willing to teach, and saw no good reason for his returning in the fall. He would have liked to continue his studies, but there was only one other institute of learning in the neighborhood--a boarding academy, where the rates for tuition were high, and to this he well knew his parents could not afford to send him. Mr. Dare was by trade a house painter and decorator. When a young man he had served three years in the army, during the great rebellion, from which he had come away with a bullet in his shoulder, and a strong tendency towards chronic rheumatism. Shortly after he had married, and now, twenty years later, his family included four children, of which Richard, age sixteen, was next to the oldest. Mr. Dare was a steady, sober man, who disliked excitement, and the quiet plodding along in Mossvale just suited him. He was only a journeyman, and it is doubtful if his ambition had ever risen beyond his present station. By frugality he and his wife had saved enough to buy a half acre of land in this pretty New Jersey village, on which they had erected a neat cottage, and here apparently John Dare was content to spend the remainder of his life. But Richard Dare partook of but little of his father's retiring disposition. He was a bright, active boy, with a clear heart and brain, and he longed to get at some work where energy would be the road to success. His comprehension was rapid, and beneath an outwardly calm spirit, lurked the fire of a youth well trained to grapple with noble purposes and bring them to a successful issue. Richard's desire to go to the metropolis was a natural one. There was nothing in quiet Mossvale to entice any one with push to remain there. The entire population of the district did not number three hundred people, and the only business places were three general stores, a blacksmith shop and a cross-roads hotel. A number of years previous, Mr. Dixon Maillard, a rich man from Newark, had endeavored to boom the village by starting a hat factory there, then trying to make his employees buy houses and lots from him on the installment plan, but this scheme had fallen flat, and the factory plant was removed to a more promising locality. The Dare cottage stood some little distance from the village center. As Mrs. Dare had said, Richard had the garden in excellent condition, not only the larger portion devoted to the vegetables and small fruits, but also the front part, in which were planted a great variety of flowers in which his mother took keen delight. "Is father coming home to dinner to-day?" asked Richard, a little later on, as he entered the kitchen with a pail of water which Nancy, the oldest of his three sisters, had asked him to draw from the well. "I guess not," replied the girl. "His rheumatism hurt him so much he said he might not be able to walk from Dr. Melvin's new house." "Ma put up his dinner," put in Grace, the second oldest. "Then he won't be back," returned Richard, somewhat disappointed, for he had been calculating on broaching the subject of going to New York to his father after the midday meal. "He said his shoulder hurt him awfully last night," added Grace. "I heard him tell ma he could almost feel the bullet worrying him in the flesh." "It's mighty queer he doesn't get a pension," said Nancy. "I'm sure he deserves one. Didn't he ever apply, Dick? I read in a Philadelphia paper the other day about a man getting sixteen dollars a month allowed, and a whole lot of back pay--more than two or three thousand dollars!" "Two or three thousand dollars!" cried Grace. "Oh, Nancy, it's a fortune!" "But it's true, every word." "I believe father has tried," replied Richard. "But it seems that he must have witnesses to prove his identity, and all that--" "And can't he get them?" asked Grace, eagerly. "I believe not. All his old comrades are either dead or scattered, and he hasn't a single address." "Did he ever hunt for any of them?" "I think he wrote two or three letters, but that's all. You know how father is." "I just guess I wouldn't let it rest there!" declared Grace, diving into the bread batter with a vim. "I'd advertise in the papers, and turn the whole country upside down before I'd give up!" "Well, father looks at it as a kind of charity, anyway," explained Richard. "And he doesn't care much to accept it so long as he is able to work." "Yes, but, Dick, if he's entitled to it by law, don't you think he ought to take it?" "He has certainly lost many a day's work on account of his failing, Nancy. He ought to get something for that." "Then why don't you speak to him about it?" asked Grace. "He'll listen to you quicker than he will to any of us." "Perhaps I will. Maybe he will give me a list of those who knew him in the army, and then I can start a grand search, as you suggested. But I've got a little plan of my own to carry out first, and I want you girls to help me." "What plan?" asked Nancy; and Grace ceased her bread-making to listen to what her brother might have to say. "I'm thinking of going to New York, and I--" "New York!" both girls ejaculated. They would have been no more astonished had he said Paris or Pekin. "Why, Dick, what put that idea into your head?" continued Nancy. "Take me along if you go," added Grace. "Nobody but myself put it into my head, Nan," replied Richard, "and I won't be able to take anybody along, Grace." "Going to make your fortune?" queried the younger girl. "You'll get lost," put in the other. "Nonsense! catch Dick getting lost!" cried Grace indignantly. "Didn't he bring us all safe through Baker's woods last fall, when we were nutting?" "Baker's woods isn't New York city," replied her elder sister. "Hundreds of streets and millions of people! He'd have to keep his eyes wide open and his wits about him." "And that is just what I would do!" broke in Richard. "You don't suppose I'd stand around like a gawk, staring at people!" "But is it for fortune?" repeated Grace, freeing her hands from the dough and coming up close. "Yes, it's for fortune, if that's what you call it," said Richard bluntly. "I'm tired of Mossvale, and I'm going to strike out, that is if I can get consent. I've spoken to mother about it already, and if--" A heavy knock on the back stoop caused Richard to stop speaking. Going to the door, he was confronted by Nicholas Boswell, a young farmer who lived a short distance down the road. "Hello, Nick!" exclaimed Richard. "That you? Come in!" Nicholas Boswell was pale, and his face showed a troubled expression. For several seconds ho seemed hardly able to speak. "No, thank'ee, Dick," he said at last. "I come to tell you that--" and here his eyes roved over to Nancy and Grace, and he stopped short. "What?" asked the boy. "You ain't sick, are you?" he continued, noticing the unusual pallor on the other's countenance. "Oh, no, _I_ ain't sick," replied Boswell. "I never get sick. I was never sick in my life--'cepting when I was a babby. But I--that is--there's a man--some men wants to see you," he faltered. "To see me! Where?" "They are down the road aways. I'll show you." "What do they want?" "Come on--never mind asking questions," closing one eye and bobbing his head, as if he did not wish the girls to hear more. "All right," returned Richard, and closing the door he followed Boswell up the lane to the road. "Accidents is bad things, Dick," began the young farmer, as they drew away from the house. "But they will happen, you know--they will happen." "What do you mean?" asked the boy quickly. "Who's had an accident?" "Well, you see a man with the rheumatism ain't so sure of his footing as is one who ain't got no such affliction." "And my father?" began Richard, his heart jumping suddenly into his throat. "Your father as a painter often climbed long, limbery ladders as he hadn't oughter," continued Boswell soberly. "Is he--is he _dead_?" gasped the boy, standing stock-still. "No, oh, _no_!" exclaimed the young farmer. "But he had an awful fall, and he's pretty bad. I thought I'd tell you first, 'cause it might shock your mother." "Where is he?" "The men is bringing him up the road. Here they come now. You'd better go back, and kinder break the news to the folks. I'm terribly gritty--as gritty as any man--but I can't do that!" Richard did not hear the last words. Trembling from head to foot, he sped up the road to meet four men, carrying a rude stretcher between them and slowly approaching. CHAPTER II. BITTER MOMENTS. The serious accident that had befallen Mr. Dare was in reality a very simple one. The ladder that he had been ascending was covered with early morning dew, and when near the top his foot had slipped, and, being unable, on account of his rheumatism, to catch a quick hold, he had fallen on his side to the ground. No one had seen his fall, and he lay unconscious for full ten minutes before a fellow workman, who had been busy on the other side of the building, discovered him and summoned assistance. The five or six men that were soon gathered did what they could to bring him to consciousness, but without success. One of them ran off to hunt up the doctor, and then the others took a door that had not yet been hung in the new house, and, fastening a heavy strip at either end for handles, covered it with their coats, and placed the wounded man upon it. None of the men cared to face Mrs. Dare with such painful news, and it was only after repeated urging that Nicholas Boswell had been induced to go on ahead. "My father, my poor father!" was all Richard could say, as he gazed at the motionless form upon the litter. [Illustration: "My father, my poor father!"] "Reckon he's hurt pretty bad," said Sandy Stone, a mason, who had been the first to be called to the scene of the accident. "'Tain't outside so much as it's in. Wait till we get him home." For Richard was bending over his father, and trying his best to do something that would help the unconscious sufferer. "Did you send for the doctor?" "Yes; sent for Dr. Melvin first thing," replied one of the others, "But we don't know where he is." "I think he is over at old Mrs. Brown's," returned the boy. "I saw him walking that way a while ago." "I'll go and see," put in Nicholas Boswell. "Meanwhile you'd better go and tell your mother." "My mother! what will she say? And Nancy and Grace and baby Madge! Oh, it's dreadful!" broke out Richard. "I'm sure none of them can stand it." "I'll send my wife over soon as I can," said Sandy Stone. "She's as good as a doctor, and can quiet your mother, too. Be a brave boy, Dick, and go and tell her. It will be easier, coming from you, than it would from any of us." So Richard returned to the house. His mother was dusting in the parlor, and going straight to her he said: "Mother, the men are bringing father home. He slipped on the ladder and got hurt pretty badly. You had better get a bed ready for him, and some bandages, because he's got a cut or two on his head," and then, as the mother's breast began to heave: "Don't worry, mother; it may not be near as bad as we believe it is." It was over in a moment, and when the men arrived Mrs. Dare was as calm as any of them. In the cottage one of the bedrooms was situated upon the lower floor, and to this Mr. Dare was carried, and laid down as tenderly as these men were able to do such an unaccustomed task. He drew a deep breath when his head touched the pillow, and an instant later opened his eyes. "Where am I?" were his first words. "Home, John," replied his wife. "You had a fail, and--" "Yes, I remember. Oh, how my side hurts!" "Lie still. The doctor will soon be here. Would you like a drink?" "Yes." Mrs. Dare gave him some water, but he only drank a little, and then began to cough. "It's inside!" he gasped. "My ribs are broken, I think." Richard comforted his sisters as best he could. It was not long before Dr. Melvin arrived, and his coming inspired the little household with hope. "Is it very serious?" asked Richard, after an examination into his father's condition had been made. "I cannot tell yet. Two of his ribs are dislocated, but I dare not touch them until I find out the extent of his other internal injuries," replied the doctor. "He must keep quiet, and every ten minutes give him a tablespoonful of this mixture." But, though Dr. Melvin gave these directions, it was fully an hour before he left, and then he promised to return late in the afternoon. The whole family were gathered in the sick chamber, baby Madge, three years old, sitting on Richard's knee. Nancy and Grace had been frightened into almost absolute silence, and Mrs. Dare addressed herself to her husband, with an occasional remark to the boy as to what might further help the sufferer. "Don't trouble yourself, Jane," said Mr. Dare feebly. "You've done enough already," and then the pain caused him to faint away. When Dr. Melvin came back they all left the room but Mrs. Dare. A thorough examination was made that lasted nearly an hour. By the grave look on his face when the doctor called him, Richard knew that he was to receive no encouraging news. "Your father is worse than I expected," were the doctor's words. "He has ruptured a blood vessel, and that is bad." "Will he die, do you think?" faltered the boy. "'While there is life there is hope,'" he responded evasively, after Richard had repeated his question. "Then you are afraid it will be fatal?" cried the boy, terror-stricken. "Oh, Dr. Melvin, can't we do something?" The doctor shook his head. "I have done all I can. Such things are beyond our reach, and mere medicine does no good." "Have you told my mother and my sisters?" "I have told your mother. She expected it from the start," replied the doctor. "You had better go in now. Your father wishes to speak to you," he added. Richard entered the front chamber at once. As he did so, his mother passed out, her eyes filled with tears. "Did he tell you?" she asked. "Yes," he replied, without being able to utter another word. "Oh, Richard, I never, never thought that such a thing would happen! Where are Nan and the rest?" "In the kitchen." "I must tell them. It is hard on the poor girls." "And hard on you," said Dick. "And me, too," he added, with a sigh. The curtains of the windows had been drawn, and it was quite dark in the room. Richard approached the bed and grasped his father's hand. "Is it you, Richard?" questioned the sufferer. "Yes, father." "I'm glad you've come. I want to talk to you." "But it may hurt you to talk too much," said the boy feelingly. "Never mind. It will all be over soon," replied Mr. Dare with a heavy cough. "I suppose the doctor has told you. He said he would." The boy nodded his head. "It is God's will, and we must bow to His judgment," continued the injured man. "But I want to talk to you about what to do when I am gone." "Oh, father!" "Hush! I feel that I am sinking, even faster than Dr. Melvin thinks. Listen then to what I have to say." "I am listening." "When I'm gone, Richard, you will have to take my place. Your mother is strong, and can do much; but she is a woman, and she, as well as your sisters, will need your help." "They shall have all that I can possibly give them. I will work, and do all I can." "I know you will, Richard. You have always been a good boy. I am sorry that I cannot leave you all better off than I'm doing." "Never mind, father; we will get along." "I suppose I might have done so if I'd had the courage to strike out," continued Mr. Dare, with a sigh. "I always calculated to do something for myself, but that's all over now. But you take after your mother, the same as your sister Grace, and if you make the right start I feel you will succeed." "I shall remember what you say." "Do so. But remember also to be always sober, industrious, and considerate of those around you. Be true to yourself, and to every one with whom you have dealings. You may not get along so fast, but people will respect you more, and your success will be ten times sweeter than it would have been had you risen by pushing others down." "I shall try to deserve success, even if I don't rise very high, father." "That's right." Mr. Dare paused for a moment. "I'm sorry that I cannot leave you more of a capital upon which to start in life." "Never mind; I have a common school education and my health. What more can a boy wish?" "It is as much as I had upon which to start. But I might have left you more. I deserve a pension as a soldier." "You never pushed your claim, did you?" "Yes, once. But I never told any of you, for fear of raising false hopes. I did apply, and it was all straight, but at the last moment the Department decided that I must have another witness to prove my identity, and this I could not get." "You had one witness, then?" "Yes. A man named Crawford, who was in our regiment. He was appointed an officer on the same day I was shot; but, as he was appointed _after_ the occurrence they held that his single witnessing was not enough, and so I had to hunt for another." "And you never found the other?" "No, though I hunted high and low. Some who saw the affair must be still living, but I have not their addresses, nor do I know how to find them." "Did you ever advertise in the papers?" "Yes; I spent fifty dollars in the columns of the leading dailies, but without success." "You have all the papers in the case?" "They are in the trunk upstairs. If you can ever push the claim do so--for the others' sake as well as your own." "I will, father." "How much it will be worth I do not know, but it may be several thousands of dollars, and that, along with this house, which is free and clear, may suffice to keep the family many a year." At this juncture a violent fit of coughing seized Mr. Dare, and by the time he had recovered, his wife and the three girls entered. CHAPTER III. PREPARING TO START. Two days later the blinds of the little cottage were closed, and crape hung in solemn black upon the front door. The neighbors, and indeed the whole population of the village, came and went continually--some few with genuine grief and sympathy, and the many others to satisfy a morbid curiosity regarding the man whose life had so suddenly ended. It was a dismal enough time for the inmates. Richard did all a brave boy can do to comfort his mother and sisters, but he himself needed consolation fully as much as any of them. He had thought much of his father, and the cold form lying in the draped coffin in the parlor sent a chill through his heart that would have an effect in all after life. At last the funeral was over, and the last of the neighbors had gone away. It was nearly sunset, and the entire family had gathered in the little kitchen to partake of a cup of tea, and to talk over the situation. Mrs. Dare sat in a rocking-chair beside the table, her face plainly showing her intense grief, and near her, on a low stool, sat Richard. "Well, mother, I suppose I will have to do something very soon now," began the boy. "It won't do for me to remain idle when there is no money coming in." Mrs. Dare sighed. "I can't think of money matters yet, Richard," she replied, shaking her head sadly. "It is all so sudden, so unexpected, I cannot realize our terrible loss." "There isn't a chance for any one in Mossvale," put in Nancy. She herself had been secretly wondering what they were going to do for support. "So I told mother some time ago," responded Richard. "The few places here are all filled." "Thought you were going to try New York?" said Grace, who was serving the tea. "So I was. But--" The boy did not finish, but glanced over to where his mother sat. "I could hardly bear to have you go away," said Mrs. Dare. "It would be so lonely--your father and you both out of the house. I would rather have you home, even if we had a good deal less to live upon." "To-morrow I will go out and see what Mossvale has to offer," returned Richard. "In our circumstances it would not be right for me to waste any time." "Do as you think best," was Mrs. Dare's reply. "You are old enough to think and act for yourself." But Richard did not wait for the next day before he began his hunt. That evening he called upon Dr. Melvin to obtain some medicine for his mother, and after this portion of his errand was over he broached the subject of securing a position. "You will find it a hard matter," said the doctor kindly, "unless you wish to go on one of the farms. But they are poor pay, even if you can stand the labor, which I doubt." "I would not go on a farm unless I could find nothing else," replied the boy. "Could _you_ give me a place?" he asked. Dr. Melvin nodded his head reflectively. "I might take you in as an office assistant," he replied. "It would be a good chance to learn medicine. But there would not be much to do, and the pay would be necessarily small." "Then I couldn't afford to accept it," was Richard's prompt reply. "It is kind in you to make the offer, but I have got to earn enough to support the family." "I suppose so. Well, I wish you success. I have known you for a number of years, and if you need a recommendation I will give it to you gladly." "Thank you, doctor. I'll remember that," replied the boy, and after a few more words of conversation he left. On the following morning he called upon Mr. Barrows, the master painter for whom his father had worked. He found the old workman busy in his shed, mixing up colors for his journeymen to use. "I suppose you've come down for the money due your father," remarked Mr. Barrows after he had expressed numerous regrets over the sad accident. "Well, here it is, the week in full, and I'm mighty sorry he isn't here to receive it himself, and many another besides," and he held out the amount. "No, I didn't come for this exactly," replied the boy. "Besides there is too much here," he added, as he counted the bills. "Father did not finish out the week." "Never mind, you take it anyhow," returned Mr. Barrows briefly. "What was it you wanted?" "Work. I want to earn something to support my mother and sisters on. We can't live on nothing, and what we have saved up won't last long." "It's hard luck, Dick, so it is!" exclaimed the old painter. "Tell you what I'll do, though. I'll teach you the trade--teach you it just as good as your father knew it, and pay you a little in the bargain." "How much I don't care about the money for myself, but--" "Yes, I understand," broke in Mr. Barrows. "Well, I'll tell you. I'll take you to learn the trade for three years, and start you at two dollars a week. I wouldn't give any other boy half of that, but I know you're smart, and I feel it my duty to help you along." Richard bit his lip in disappointment. He knew that what Mr. Barrows said about the amount was true, but still he needed more, and for that reason, he had, somehow, expected a larger sum to be offered. "I'm much obliged, but I'll have to think it over before I decide," he said. "Three years is a long time to bind one's self." "Oh, they'll slip by before you know it. Besides, I'll raise your wages just as soon as you are worth it," said Mr. Barrows. "I'll see about it," was all the boy could answer. "Two dollars a week would not go far towards supporting a family of five," sighed Richard, as he walked away. "And then to be a house painter all one's life! I must strike something else." But "striking something else" was no easy matter, as the boy soon learned. A visit to the two stores, the blacksmith shop and to several people whom he thought might give him employment, brought forth no results of value. Either they had nothing for him to do, or else the pay offered was altogether too small. Richard returned home late in the afternoon. Grace met him at the end of the lane. "Any luck, Dick?" she asked eagerly. "No," he replied, and related his experience. "Never mind," returned his sister. "Maybe it isn't so bad after all. The minister is here." "Mr. Cook?" "Yes, he's in the parlor talking to mamma, and I heard them mention your name, and say something about New York." Richard's heart gave a bound. He knew that Mr. Cook, who was their old family pastor, had great influence with his mother, and that she would probably go to him for advice. "Guess I'll go in and hear what he has to say," said Richard, and a moment later he knocked on the parlor door and entered. Mr. Cook shook him cordially by the hand. "We have just been speaking about you," he said. "How have you fared in your search for employment?" The boy told him. "Mossvale is so small, there is hardly any chance," he added. "Your mother tells me that you have an idea you could do better in New York," went on the minister. "It is a big place, and nearly every one is almost too busy to notice a new-comer." "I know that. But I should watch my chances." "And there are many temptations there that never arise in such a place as this," continued Mr. Cook earnestly; "and it very often takes all the will power a person possesses to keep in the straight and narrow path." "I wouldn't do what wasn't right!" burst out Richard. "I'd starve first!" Mr. Cook looked down into the clear, outspoken face before him. "I believe it," he declared. "You have had a good training, thanks to your mother and father. Well, I have advised her to let you try your luck in the great metropolis." "Oh, Mr. Cook!" "Yes. Now don't get excited. She has thought it over, and agrees to let you go for two weeks, at least. The fare is only four dollars and a half, and board for that length of time will not be much. Of course you can't put up at an expensive hotel." "I won't put up anywhere until I find a job," declared Richard. "I only want my railroad ticket, and a dollar or two extra." "Indeed not!" put in Mrs. Dare. "I would not have you stay out doors all night, like a tramp. There are plenty of cheap lodging-houses." "And when can I go?" asked Richard eagerly. His mother gave a sad little smile. "Do you want to leave your mother so very soon?" she asked. "Oh, no, only I want to be doing something--helping you and the rest," he replied quickly. "Then you shall go bright and early next Monday morning," returned Mrs. Dare, and she turned away to hide the tears that sprang up at the thought of her only boy leaving the shelter of the quiet country home, to mingle with strangers in the great city more than a hundred miles away. As for Richard he was delighted with the prospects. At last the dream of many months was to be realized. He was to go to New York, to tread the streets of the great metropolis, to find a place for himself, and make a fortune! Little did he know or care for the many trials and disappointments in store for him. He was striking out for himself, and intended to do his level best. Would he succeed or fail? We shall see. CHAPTER IV. ON THE TRAIN. Of course there was a good deal of talking about Richard's proposed venture. The girls seemed never to tire of it, and the amount of advice that they gave their brother was enough, as the boy declared, "to help him along until eternity, and two days afterwards." "You'll want your best clothes, city folks are so particular," declared Grace. "And your shirts and collars will have to be as stiff as old Deacon Moore's, I expect." "I only want things clean and neat," replied Richard. "I'm not going there to be a dude. I'm going there to work--if I can get anything to do." Nevertheless, Grace was bound that he should look his best, and spent an extra hour over the washtub and ironing-board. It was decided that he should not be hampered with a trunk, but should take a valise instead. This Mrs. Dare packed herself, and placed in the hallway late on Saturday afternoon. Meanwhile Richard was not idle. He did not wish to leave any work around the place unfinished, and early and late he spent many hours in the house and in the garden, doing the things that were most needed. Sunday morning the whole family, including little Madge, attended the pretty white church that was the one pride of Mossvale. Richard suspected that Mr. Cook had expected him to be there, for the sermon was on the text, "Be thou strong in the faith," and advised all, especially the young, to stick to their Christian principles, despite the alluring, but harmful, enticements of the great world around them. It was a sober little crowd that gathered in the kitchen in the dusk after supper. Richard was a trifle louder in his manner than usual, but this was only an effort to cover up the evidence of his real seriousness. "You must not forget to write as soon as you arrive and find a stopping place," cautioned Mrs. Dare for at least the fifth time. "Yes, and don't forget to tell us all about what happened on the train," put in Grace. "I'm sure that in such a long ride as that you ought to have some kind of an adventure." "I trust that he does not," returned the mother. "An adventure would probably mean an accident, and we have had enough already;" and she gave a long sigh. "Don't fear but what I'll write," replied Richard. "And if anything unusual happens I'll put it down." But all evenings must come to an end, and finally, as the clock struck ten, the good-night word went its round, and they separated. No need to call Richard on the following morning. He was up and dressed at five, and impatient for the start. Every one turned in towards serving him a hot breakfast, and in addition Mrs. Dare put him up a tidy lunch in a box. There was one thing, though, that the boy was obstinate about. He would not accept all of the money that Mrs. Dare thought it her duty to make him take. The price of his ticket and five dollars was Richard's limit, and to this he stuck. "If I get real hard up I'll write for more," was his declaration. "You will need what you have saved, and I am sure I can get along without it." Mrs. Dare shook her head. But it was all to no purpose. Richard was firm, and doubly so when Grace gave him a pert look of approval. The news of the departure had spread, and at the depot the boy met several who had come to see him off--Mr. Cook and two or three boy friends, including Charley Wood, the son of a neighbor, who was not slow in giving the lion's share of his attention to Grace. "Here comes the train!" exclaimed Nancy, after a rather long wait, and a moment later, with ringing bell, the locomotive rounded the curve below, and the cars rolled into the depot. "All aboard for Rockvale, Beverly, and New York! Way train for Hurley, Allendale, Hobb's Dam, and all stations south of Bakersville Junction!" shouted the conductor. "Lively, please." There was a hurried hand-shaking, and several warm kisses. "Good-by, Richard," said Mrs. Dare. "God be with you!" And then she added in a whisper: "Don't be afraid to come home as soon as you don't like it any more." "I'll remember, mother," he replied. "Don't worry about me. It's all right. Good-by, each and everybody!" Valise in hand, he climbed up the steps and entered one of the cars. He had hardly time to reach a window seat, and wave a parting adieu, when the train moved off. He looked back as long as he could. Mother and sister were waving their handkerchiefs, Grace having brought her largest for this special occasion. But the train went swiftly on its way, and soon Mossvale and its people were left behind. "Off at last!" was Richard's mental comment. "It's sink or swim now. Good-by to Mossvale and the old life!" Yet it must in truth be confessed that there was just the suspicion of a tear in his eye and a lump in his throat as he settled back in his seat, but he hastily brushed away the one and swallowed the other, and put on as bold a front as he could. The car was only partially filled, and he had a double seat all to himself. He placed his valise beside him, and then gazed at the ever-varying panorama that rushed past. But his mind was not given to the scenes that were thus presenting themselves. His thoughts were far ahead, speculating upon what it would be best to do when his destination was reached. He knew New York was a big place, and felt tolerably certain that few, if indeed any, would care to give him the information that he knew he needed. Presently the train began to stop at various stations, and the car commenced to fill up. "This seat taken?" said a gentleman, as he stopped beside Richard. "No, sir," replied the boy, and made room for the other. "Thank you," returned the gentleman. "Rather crowded," he continued, as he sat down, and deposited a huge valise beside Richard's, which had been placed upon the floor. "I might have checked my satchel," remarked Richard, noting that the two valises rather crowded things. "So might I," was the new-comer's reply, "but I thought it would be too much trouble in New York getting it." "I'm not used to travelling," explained Richard, "and so I thought it best to have my baggage where I could lay my hands on it." The gentleman looked at him curiously. "Going to the city?" he asked. "Yes, sir." "First trip?" "Yes, sir." "You'll see a good many strange sights. Going to stay several days, I presume." "Longer than that, sir. I'm going there to try my luck." The gentleman looked surprised. "I hope you'll succeed," he said. "You will find it rather uphill work, I'm afraid. Where are you from, if I may ask?" "I come from Mossvale. My name is Richard Dare. My father died from an accident a short while ago, and, as there didn't seem to be anything in our village for me to work at, I made up my mind to try New York." The boy's open manner evidently pleased his listener. "I am glad to know you," he returned. "My name is Joyce--Timothy Joyce. I am a leather dealer--down in the Swamp. Here is my card." "The Swamp?" queried Richard, puzzled by the appellation. "Yes--at least that's what us oldtime folks call it. There used to be a swamp there years ago. I'm on Jacob Street. Maybe I can help you around a bit." "Thank you, Mr. Joyce; I'm glad to know you," replied Richard gratefully. "I'm a perfect stranger, as I said, and it will be right handy to have some one to give me a few points." Mr. Joyce smiled. He was quite taken by the boy's frank manner. "I'll give you all the points I can," he said. "You must keep your eyes and ears open, though, for there are many pitfalls for the unwary." Mr. Joyce felt in his coat pocket. "Here is a map of the city. I am going out in the smoker presently, to enjoy a cigar. I would advise you to study it while I am gone, and when I come back I'll explain anything that you can't understand." "Thank you, I will." "Just look to my bag while I am gone, will you?" continued Mr. Joyce, as he arose. When alone, Richard became absorbed in the map at once. On and on sped the train, now running faster than ever. But Richard took no notice. He was deep in the little volume, trying his best to memorize the names of the streets and their locations. "It's not a very regular city," he sighed. "Streets run in all directions, and some of them are as crooked as a ram's horn. If I ever--" A sudden jar at this instant caused Richard to pitch forward from his seat. Then, before he realized what had happened, the car tilted, and then turned completely over on its side. CHAPTER V. THE SMASH-UP. Richard was bewildered and alarmed by what had happened. As the car went over upon the side nearest to which he was sitting, he fell down between the windows, with his head resting upon the bundle-holder, that a moment before had been over him. His own valise and that belonging to Mr. Joyce came down on top of him, and as both were heavy, they knocked the breath completely out of him. As soon as the boy had somewhat regained this and his scattered senses, he scrambled to his feet, and tried to look around him. Daylight shone into the car from the windows above, but all was dust and confusion, mingled with the cries of women and the loud exclamations of men. Luckily Richard was not far from the rear door, and having somewhat recovered from the shock, he resolved to get out as speedily as possible. The car had now stopped moving, and as there seemed to be no immediate danger of anything more happening, the boy stopped to get the two valises. With such a load it was no easy matter climbing over the seats to the door. Yet the feat was accomplished, and two minutes later, with an exclamation of relief, Richard pitched his baggage to the bank beside the track, and sprang to the solid ground. His foot had been slightly sprained when the shock came, but in the excitement he hardly noticed the pain. He could readily see that assistance was needed on all sides, and he was not slow to render all that lay in his power. The cause of the accident could be seen at a glance. A heavy freight train had backed down from a side track, smashing the locomotive attached to the passenger cars, and throwing three of the latter off the track. One of the cars--the first--had been turned completely over, and to this every one was hurrying. "It's the smoking car," replied a man, to Richard's eager question. "It's full of men, too." Setting down the two valises within easy reach, the boy hurried forward. "Mr. Joyce is in there," was his thought. "Oh, I hope he isn't hurt!" Though Richard had known the man but a short hour, yet the city merchant's cordial manner had completely captivated the boy. It was no easy matter for the men in the smoker to free themselves. In turning over, a number of the seats in the car had become loosened, falling on many, and blocking up both doors as well. But presently several windows were smashed out, and the occupants began to pour from these, some with their clothing badly torn, others hatless, and several severely injured. "There are two men in there stuck fast!" exclaimed a short, stout man, as puffing and blowing he reached the ground. "I tried to help 'em both, but it was no use,--the seats all piled up atop of 'em. Beckon they'll have to be cut away, they're jammed in so tight." Instantly Richard thought of Mr. Joyce. Nowhere in the crowd could he catch sight of the gentleman. It was possible that one of the two might be his newly-made friend. "There's a tool-house down the road a ways," continued the stout man. "I noticed it as we rode past, a moment before we went over." "Where?" asked Richard eagerly. "On the other side, up the embankment," was the reply. "I'll see if I can get something to work with," returned the boy. "Just watch my baggage while I'm gone." In an instant he was off, running as fast as possible. He found the building just as it had been described. The door was open, and rushing in, he confronted an Irish laborer, who was cleaning up some tools. "The train has been wrecked, just below," he exclaimed hurriedly. "We want some tools--an axe or a crowbar--something--quick!" "Train wrecked?" repeated the man in astonishment. "Yes,--just below." Richard picked up an axe and an iron bar. "Bring some more tools with you!" he cried as he started to go. "It may mean life or death!" Richard's earnest manner made an impression upon the laborer, and in a few seconds the man was following the boy, with his arms full of such implements as were handy. Down at the wreck Richard found that one of the two men, a lean, sallow-complexioned individual, had already been liberated, but the other was still a prisoner. "Just what we want!" cried one of the workers, as he took the axe from the boy's hand. "Can you use the bar?" "I guess so." "Follow me, then." Richard crawled into the car after the man. Inside it was full of dust, and the thick tobacco smoke nearly stifled the boy. Near the center of the car they found the unfortunate passenger. It was not Mr. Timothy Joyce. The man was on his back, and a seat, fastened in some strange manner, pinned him down. "Help me! help me!" he gasped. "That thing is staving in all my ribs!" It did not take Richard long to insert the iron bar under one end of the slat and thus pry it up. This done the man with the axe gave the side of the seat a couple of blows, and then the prisoner was free. "Thank God!" exclaimed the man, as he sprang to his feet, and followed the others out of the car. "And thank you, too, my hearties," he continued to the other man and to Richard. "I thought as how I was strangled sure. But Doc Linyard allers was a lucky tar. Thanky, messmates, thanky." He was a nautical-looking fellow of perhaps forty. He wore a blue pea-jacket and trousers, and under the rolling collar of his gray flannel shirt was tied a black bandanna in true sailor style. "Is your chest hurt much?" asked Richard, as he thought he noticed a look of pain cross the man's countenance. "No bones broken," was the reply, after a deep breath. The two were soon standing side by side on the bank near the track. "Wish I could reward you," went on the man. "But I ain't got a dollar all told." And diving into his capacious pocket he brought to light only a miscellaneous collection of small coins. "Oh, never mind that," said the boy, coloring a trifle. "I'm glad you're all right." "So am I--downright glad, and no mistake. As I said afore, my name is Linyard, Doc Linyard, general manager, along with my wife, of the Watch Below, the neatest sailors' lunch-room on West Street, New York. I say neatest acause my wife keeps it. She's a worker, Betty is. Come and see me some time. I won't forget to treat you well." "Thank you, Mr. Lin--" "Avast there! Don't tackle no mister to my name," interposed the old sailor. "What's _your_ name?" he continued suddenly. Richard told him. "All right, Mr. Dare. I'll remember it, and you too. But don't go for to put a figure-head to my name. Plain Doc Linyard is good enough for such a tough customer as me." "I'll remember it, Mr--" "Avast, I say--" "I mean Doc Linyard." And shaking hands the two separated. Picking up the two valises, Richard made his way through the crowd, looking for Mr. Joyce. It seemed rather queer that the gentleman who had left his baggage in the boy's care was nowhere to be found. Richard made quite a number of inquiries, especially among the men who had occupied the smoking-car, but to no avail. The smash-up was no small affair, and it took fully an hour before the railroad officials that were present could get assistance to the spot. In the meantime, the injured were laid out on the grass and made as comfortable as circumstances would permit. Luckily, several doctors had been passengers on the train, and as they were uninjured they took charge of all who needed their aid. Finally a train backed down to take the passengers to Rockvale, the next town of importance. Richard hardly knew what to do. If Mr. Joyce was hurt it was certainly his duty to remain. But perhaps the gentleman had gone off, to render assistance, or, it was possible, on a search for his satchel. "Guess I'll take the train and risk it," was Richard's conclusion. "He is bound to follow to Rockvale sooner or later, and we will probably meet in the depot." Nevertheless, as the boy entered the car he felt rather uncomfortable, carrying off the property of another, who was comparatively a stranger to him. CHAPTER VI. UNDER SUSPICION. "Well, I've had an adventure on the road just as Grace hoped I would," was Richard's mental comment, as he lay back in the car seat. "So I'll have something to write home after all. But I don't care particularly to have any more such happenings." For though Richard had taken the whole affair rather coolly he now found that it had been more the excitement than aught else that had kept him up, and he was beginning to feel the full force of a most uncomfortable shaking up. But this feeling, bordering upon nervous prostration, was not confined to the boy alone. Every one of the passengers, most of whom had escaped without a scratch, were decidedly ill at ease. It was not long ere Richard thought to take a look through the train for Mr. Joyce. "He may have got aboard without my seeing him," he said to himself. And leaving his baggage piled up in the seat, he made the tour from one end to the other and back. He was unsuccessful. It was as if the leather merchant had disappeared for good. "Hope he turns up," thought the boy. "If he doesn't what am I to do with his baggage? I don't know where he lives and--Hold up." He suddenly thought of Mr. Joyce's card, which that gentleman had given him, but a hasty and then a thorough search convinced him that the bit of pasteboard was no longer in his possession. "Must have slipped out of my pocket in the smash-up," he thought. "Well, I'll have to make the best of it, only I don't want to carry off another person's property." Richard did not know enough to leave the valise with the baggage master or some of the other railroad officials. This was his first journey of importance, and everything was new and strange to him. The next station was quite a distance, and after thinking the matter over the boy concluded to let the matter rest until they reached that point. He still retained the guide-book the merchant had loaned him, and presently he took it out and began to study it more carefully than ever. "Father used to live up in that neighborhood," he said to himself, as certain familiar names of streets arose in his mind. "Sometime, after I'm settled, I'll visit that district and learn if there are still any people there who knew him. Who knows but what I might run across some one who knew him during the war, and could witness his application?" The idea was a rather pleasant one, and gave the boy a wide field for meditation and hope. He determined not only to take a "run up," as he had said, but also, when the opportunity offered, to make a thorough canvass of the locality and get every bit of information obtainable. "Ahoy, there! Mr. Dare. On board, too, eh?" exclaimed a voice, and looking up Richard saw Doc Linyard's beaming face. "Sit down," returned the boy. The seat in front was vacant, and in a trice the old sailor had it turned over and himself ensconced in the soft cushions, opposite Richard. "Might I ask where you're bound?" asked Doc Linyard, after another long string of thanks for the services that had been rendered. "I can't say any more than that I'm going to New York. I'm looking for work, and I don't know where I'll settle. Perhaps I'll strike nothing and have to go back home." "What! A strong, healthy young fellow like you? Nonsense! Not if you care to lend a willing hand." "Oh, I'm anxious enough to do that." "Then you'll pull through. Them as is anxious and willing always do. I didn't have much to start on when I settled in the city. Only six months' pay at sixteen dollars a month." "How came you to leave the sea?" asked the boy, with considerable curiosity, for Doc Linyard was the first regular sailor he had ever known. "Oh, you see I was wrecked a couple of times, and lost one leg; this," he tapped his left knee, "is only a cork one, you know, and then the wife grew afeared, and said as how she wanted me ashore. But a tar used to the rigging and sech don't take kindly to labor on land, so instead of working for other people, I up and started the Watch Below." "What is it--a boarding-house?" "Not exactly, though we do occasionally take a fellow in. It's a temperance lunch-room for sailors, with regular first-class ship grub; lobscouse, plum-duff and sech. Most of the fellows know me, and hardly a soul comes ashore but what drops in afore he leaves port." "It must pay." "I don't get fancy prices and only make a living. I'd like to ask you down, only maybe it wouldn't be fine enough." Doc Linyard had noticed Richard's neat appearance, and saw that the boy was accustomed to having everything "nice." "Oh, I should like to come very much," replied Richard, "that is if I get the chance." On and on rolled the train, and finally the town for which it was bound was reached, and the passengers alighted and crowded the station. It was announced that owing to the disaster no train would leave for New York for two hours. This left a long time on Richard's hands, and he hardly knew what to do. Immediately on the arrival Doc Linyard had gone off to hunt up a friend he fancied lived in the place. Not far from the station was a little park containing a number of benches, and walking over to it Richard sat down. The lunch his mother had given him came in handy now, and he did full justice to it. He wished the old sailor was with him to share the repast. He had taken a fancy to the tar, and loved to listen to his hearty voice and open speech. After the lunch was disposed of, Richard took a short stroll through the town. He did not go far, for he had the two valises with him, and they were heavy. Presently he returned to the station, and it was not long before the train could be seen approaching in the distance. Along with a number of others, Richard started to walk over to the right track. As he did so two men, who looked like railroad officials, approached him. "Say, young fellow," sang out one of the men. "Hold up; we want to speak to you." "What is it?" asked Richard. "Whose baggage have you got there?" "My own and another man's." "What man?" asked the other official. "A gentleman I met on the train." "Where is he now?" "I don't know. I'm trying to find him." By this time the train had rolled into the station. Not wishing to miss it, Richard began to move on. Both officials made a dive for him, and one of them caught him by the shoulder. "Not so fast, my fine fellow?" he exclaimed. "Why, what--what do you want?" asked Richard, with a rising color. "We want you to give an account of yourself," was the reply. "Where did you get that valise?" CHAPTER VII. THE END OF THE JOURNEY. Despite the knowledge that he was doing no wrong, Richard's heart sank when he heard the railroad official call him back. He did not think how easy it might be to prove himself innocent of all wrong-doing. It was bad enough to be suspected. Besides, he had not been the only one to hear the harsh words that had been spoken, and in a moment a crowd had collected. "I was in the wreck, and this valise belongs to a friend of mine," replied Richard, as soon as he could collect his thoughts. "What is your name?" asked the official who still held him by the arm. Richard told him. "And who was your friend?" "His name is--is--" And here, being greatly confused, Richard could not remember the leather merchant's name. "Come, answer me," continued the man sharply. "His name is--is--I've forgotten it!" stammered the boy in confusion. "Humph! A very plausible excuse I _must_ say," sneered the man. "It's the truth. I met the gentleman on the train. He introduced himself, and we had quite a chat. Then he asked me to look after his baggage while he went into the smoking-car, and while he was gone the accident happened." "Where is the man now?" asked the first official. "I don't know. I've been trying to find him." "Do you expect me to believe that?" exclaimed the other. "There isn't a soul missing from that wreck!" "I can't help it," replied Richard stoutly, for he was recovering from the shock he had received. "What I'm telling you is a fact." "What's the matter here?" broke in a hearty voice; and Doc Linyard elbowed his way through the crowd. "What's wrong with the young gentleman?" "What business is that of yours?" returned the man sharply. "Not much may be, but if there's trouble for him I want to know it. He saved my life down in the smash-up, and I intend to stand by him," returned the old tar decidedly. "They think I'm trying to steal this valise," explained Richard. "_What!_" roared Doc Linyard. "Confound you for a pair of landlubbers! Don't you know an honest figurehead when you see it? Look at him! 'Pears to me he looks more straightforward than those as accuses him." Both officials were taken back by the tar's aggressive manner. "Better be careful," continued the sailor. "You don't know who this young gentleman is, and before long you'll be laying up a heap of trouble for yourselves." "We have to be on our guard," said the first official in a milder tone. "The young man will have to leave the valise here, at least," added the other. "I'm willing to do that," said Richard. "But I'm no thief," he continued as they walked over to the baggage-room. "Yes, but that man's name--" began one of the men. "Was Joyce--Timothy Joyce!" cried the boy. "I knew I would remember it sooner or later." The official took a piece of chalk and scratched the name upon the bottom of the valise. "That one is yours?" "Yes; here is my name on the bottom," and Richard showed it. "All right. You can go. If Mr. Joyce calls he can get his property, otherwise it will be forwarded to the main baggage office in New York." "Hold up! Not so fast," put in Doc Linyard. "Just give him a receipt for that valise." "Oh, that's all right," replied the man, turning red. "Maybe so. But I don't see as how he ought to trust you any more than you trusted him," went on the tar bluntly. "That's fair," put in an old man, who had stood watching the proceedings. "'What's sauce for the goose is the sauce for the gander.'" With very bad grace the official wrote down something on a pad, tore the page off and thrust it at Richard. "I hope you're satisfied," he snapped to Doc Linyard; and taking up Mr. Joyce's valise he entered an inner room, slamming the door behind him. "Good riddance to him," muttered the old tar. "A few brass buttons on his coat has turned his head." The train had fortunately been delayed, but it was now moving from the station. Richard and Doc Linyard made a rush for it, and succeeded in boarding the last car. "Hope we're done with adventures," remarked the old tar, when they were seated. "I'd rather have things quiet and easy." "I must thank you," said Richard heartily. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't come up just when you did." "Shoo--'tain't nothing, Mr. Dare, alongside of what you did for me," replied the sailor. "But I've had a run of bad luck since I left New York two days ago," he added meditatively. "Yes?" questioned the boy with some curiosity. "How so?" "Well, it's this way," began Doc Linyard, crossing his good leg over the cork one: "My wife got a letter from England last week, saying as how an uncle had died, leaving his property to her and her brother, Tom Clover. In the letter she was asked to see her brother and fix the matter up with him. They wrote they didn't have his address, and so left it to her." "I should think that would be all right," remarked Richard, as the old tar paused. "It would be, only for one thing--we don't know where Tom is. He used to live in New York, but moved away, we don't know where. A party told me he thought he had got work in a place called Fairwood, but I've just come from there." "And you didn't find him?" "No; he had never been in the place. I have an idea he is again somewhere in New York." "Didn't he used to call on you?" "Sometimes; but he was a bit queer, and there was times he didn't show up for months and months. He's pretty old, and couldn't get around very well." "Is the property valuable?" "It's worth over eight hundred pounds--four thousand dollars." "It's a fortune!" exclaimed Richard. "'Twould be to Betty and me," returned the sailor. "We never had over a hundred dollars in cash in our lives." "It's a pity you can't find him," said the boy. "What are you going to do? Get your wife's share, and let the other rest?" "No; that's the worst of it. By the provisions of the will the property can't be divided very well except by the consent of both heirs." "In that case I think I'd commence a pretty good search for Mr.--your wife's brother. It's worth spending quite a few dollars to find him." "Just my reckoning. But New York is a big place to find any one in." "Perhaps your brother-in-law will drop in on you when you least expect him." "Hope he does." The two continued the conversation for a long time. The more Richard saw of Doc Linyard, the better he liked the bluff old tar, and, to tell the truth, the latter was fully as much taken by Richard's open manner. It was not long before Richard poured out his own tale in all its details. He found a strong sympathizer in the sailor, who expressed a sincere wish that the pension due the Dare family might be speedily forthcoming. "Somewhat of a like claim to mine," he remarked. "We are both looking for other people to help us out." "And I trust we both succeed," added Richard earnestly. "In fact we _must_ succeed," he continued, with sudden energy. "Right you are!" was the reply. "We're bound to get the proper bearings some time." Before they reached their journey's end they were fast friends. "Jersey City!" It was the brakeman's cry, and an instant later the train rolled into the vast and gloomy depot, and every one was scrambling up and making for the door. In a moment they were upon the platform, amid a surging, pushing mass of people. "Which way?" asked Richard, somewhat confused by the unusual bustle. "This way," replied the sailor. "Just follow me." "West Shore this side! Checks for baggage! Brooklyn Annex to the right!" and several similar calls filled the boy's ears. He kept close to the tar, who led the way to the slip where a Cortlandt Street boat was in waiting, and, dodging several trucks and express wagons, they hurried down the bridge and went on board. The gentlemen's cabin was so full of tobacco smoke that it nearly stifled Richard, and he was not sorry when Doc Linyard led the way straight through to the forward deck. It was a pleasant day, and the lowering sun cast long shadows over the water, and lit up the spires and stone piles of the great metropolis that lay beyond, tipped with gold, typical of Richard's high hopes. Swiftly the ferryboat crossed the North River, crowded with boats. Then it ran into the slip--there was the rattle of the ratchets as the line wheels spun around, and finally the gates were opened. Richard had reached New York at last. CHAPTER VIII. THE "WATCH BELOW." "Gracious, what a busy place!" This was the thought that ran through Richard's mind as he stepped from the ferryhouse to West Street, in New York City. Doc Linyard had managed to get the boy off the boat as soon as the landing was made, but now, as they waited for a chance to cross the slippery thoroughfare that runs parallel to the water's edge, the crowd surged around them until to Richard there seemed to be a perfect jam. "Hack, sir? Astor House? Coupe, madam? This way for a cab!" In a moment they were safe upon the other side of the street. "Made up your mind which way to steer?" asked Doc Linyard. "Not exactly," replied Richard. "This is the way to Broadway, I suppose," he went on, pointing up Cortlandt Street. "Yes; but what do you intend to do up there?" "I thought I'd take a look around. I imagine I can't do much in the way of finding work at this time in the evening." "No; you'd best wait till morning. Then get a _World_ and a _Herald_, and look over the want advertisements. I reckon that's the best way of striking a position." "Thank you, I'll try that plan. Good-by." And Richard held out his hand. "Won't you come down to my place afore we part?" interposed Doc Linyard. "It's only a few steps from here." Richard demurred. From the description he had been given of the place he knew money was to be spent there, and he had no cash to spare. "I--I--guess not," he faltered. "Why not?" "I--well, to tell the truth, I haven't much to spend." The old tar slapped the boy heartily on the shoulder. "Don't worry about that!" he cried. "I'm no land-shark. This trip shan't cost you a cent. Come on." And Richard followed. To a new-comer West Street is certainly a curious sight. Saloons predominate, but between them are located tiny eating houses, cheap clothing shops, meat stalls, bargain "counters," and lodging-places, only about one in ten of the latter being fit for occupancy. "Here we are!" exclaimed the sailor presently. They stepped up to a small restaurant, considerably neater than its neighbors. Its exterior was painted light blue, and over the door in big, black letters, hung the sign: THE WATCH BELOW, DOC LINYARD, _Boatswain_. And to the right of the door, near a figurehead representing a gorgeous mermaid, were added the words: _Messmates Always Welcome_. The doors were wide open, and the two entered. Several men sat at various tables, eating and drinking, and behind a counter that did the double duty of a pie-stand and a cashier's desk sat a tall, old man with grizzled white hair. "Well, pop!" exclaimed Doc Linyard, as he stepped up. "Hello, my boy! Back again," returned the older man. "Did you find 'em?" he added, in an anxious tone. "No." The old man shook his head ominously. "Too bad, too bad," he murmured. But he was evidently too old to take a very strong interest in the matter. "Never mind, it will all come outright in the end," was the son's reassuring reply. "Where is Betty?" "In the kitchen." "This is my father," went on Doc Linyard to Richard. "Pop, here is a chum as I picked up on the road. His name is Mr. Dare, and he saved my life." "Saved your life?" queried the old man doubtfully. As he spoke a door in the rear opened, and a buxom woman of thirty tripped out. She came straight up to the sailor and gave him a hearty kiss. "No luck, Betty," said Linyard soberly. "No?" "Not a bit. Couldn't locate 'em nohow." "It's too bad, Doc." "And he says his life was saved by this chap," put in the old man, who had been gazing at Richard ever since the assertion had been made. "Yes; we've both had strange adventures in the last twelve hours." This bold praise made Richard blush. "Oh, I didn't do as much as all that," he exclaimed. "I only helped him out of the car, just as I would have helped any one." "No sech thing, he did lots." And sitting down near the counter, Doc Linyard gave a graphic account of all that had transpired. "I thank you very much," said Mrs. Linyard, when her husband had finished. "I know Doc won't forget what you did, and neither will I." She gave the boy's hand a tight squeeze. "Won't you have some supper with us?" Richard hesitated. He always was backward in accepting favors. "Come don't say no," urged Doc Linyard. "By the anchor, it's little enough." Mrs. Linyard led the way to a cozy nook near the end of the restaurant, and gave them two seats at a small table covered with a snowy white cloth,--a table that was generally reserved for officers, or "upper class" patrons. "So you've had no luck?" she said to her husband, as she began to bustle around with the tableware. "It's queer. What can have become of Tom?" "Blessed if I know." "We may lose that money, all through him," sighed Mrs. Linyard. "It would be a shame," put in Richard. "Your husband has told me of the matter. I wish I could help you." The sailor laughed good-naturedly. His disposition was too easy to worry much over the situation. "Reckon as how you'll have your hands full on your own account, finding work and all that," he returned. "I suppose I will. Still I would like to help you." Mrs. Linyard provided a warm and bountiful supper, and both enjoyed every dish that was set before them. "I mustn't lose too much time," went on the boy, as he was finishing. "I must at least find a boarding-house. I don't want to spend the night in the streets." "No fear of that," said the old tar hastily. "Betty, another cup of that good coffee, please. Tell you what I'll do if you're willing. This place isn't as grand as a hotel, but Betty's beds are as clean as any of 'em, and if you will you're welcome to stay all night." "Thank you, I'll do so gladly," replied Richard quickly, for the proposition took a load from his mind. "I'll pay you whatever--" "Avast there! What do you think I am, to take money from you for that? No, thanky, I'm no land shark." "I know you're not," replied Richard quickly, for he saw that the sailor's feelings had been hurt, "but I would like to do something in return." "No need of that. Tell you what you can do though," continued Doc Linyard, after a moment's reflection. "Well?" "Write me out an advertisement for the newspapers. My eddication ain't none of the best, and my hand's more used to a marline spike than it is to a pen." "Willingly. What do you want to advertise?" "I want to put a notice in for my brother-in-law. I'll give you all the particulars." "Very well. Have you pen, ink and paper?" "Yes; Betty, will you bring 'em?" Mrs. Linyard nodded. A few minutes later the dishes were cleared away, and Richard prepared to write out the advertisement. CHAPTER IX. LOCKED OUT. During Richard's and Doc Linyard's meal the Watch Below had been gradually filling up, principally with sailors, the majority of whom were short, heavy-set men, who clapped each other on the back and carried on their conversation in a sea lingo that was nearly unintelligible to Richard. One thing, however, impressed the boy. All the patrons seemed of a better class than most sailors are, and he was glad to notice that drunkenness and profanity were entirely absent. Once in a while some one would let fall some coarse remark, but he was quickly choked off by the others out of respect for "Doc's Betty," who hurried around with a shining face, waiting on one and exchanging a pleasant word with another. Every one was on familiar terms with the proprietor. They were glad to see him back to the "fo'castle," but those who knew were sorry his mission had been unsuccessful. "They all know me and wishes me well," remarked the sailor to Richard. "It's something to be proud of--around on this here globe forty-five years and not an enemy in the world." "How long were you a sailor?" "Almost thirty years. I shipped as cabin boy on a South America brig when I was fifteen. I'd be at it yet if, as I told you, Betty hadn't anchored me ashore." "It's long time. Some time I'd like to hear of some of the places you visited. But I'd better get at that advertisement." "No hurry--the newspaper office is only a few blocks from here." "But you want this advertisement to go in tomorrow, don't you?" "They take 'em up to ten o'clock, and maybe later." Presently the crowd began to thin out, and by nine o'clock only half-a-dozen customers remained. Mrs. Linyard and the old man waited upon these, and Doc Linyard drew up to the table and motioned Richard to go ahead. "Here is the paper I'm going to put the notice in," he said. "Guess you better follow the style of the other advertisements." "I will," replied Richard. "What is your brother-in-law's full name?" "Thomas Clover. He has no middle name." "And his address?" "He came from Brighton, England, and lived here, in a number of places on the east side." "The east side?" "Yes; he lived somewhere on Cherry Hill last." "And what is your wife's name?" "Only Betty. That stands for Elizabeth, I suppose, but she was never anything else to me or anybody else." "Better let it go at that, then," returned Richard. "Now what is the name of the estate to be divided?" The old sailor told him. "And say we want to hear from them at once," he added. Richard went to work earnestly. Several attempts to get the advertisement into proper shape were failures. Finally he produced the following: INFORMATION WANTED IMMEDIATELY of THOMAS CLOVER or his heirs, formerly of Brighton, England, but when last heard of lived in Cherry Street, this city. He is an heir of the PELEG SABINE estate which awaits settlement. Address DOC LINYARD, THE WATCH BELOW, West Street, New York. "How will that do?" asked the boy. "First-rate?" cried Linyard. "Only don't put my address on it. I want the answer to come through a box in the newspaper office. I don't want to be bothered by lawyers and detectives looking for a job on the case." "I see," said Richard, and crossing out the address he substituted the words: "Doc, box ----, this office." "Guess I'll take a walk over to the newspaper office at once," said the old tar, when the boy had finished. "Reckon as how pop and the mistress can get along for a while. I suppose you'd like to come along." "Indeed I would. I'd like to see as much of the city as I can before I get to work." "There's lots of strange sights, no doubt, to new eyes like yours. You'll find lots that's bright and a heap more that's dark and dismal enough." A moment later they set out. Passing up Liberty Street, they turned into Greenwich and walked along to Fulton. The Elevated Road, with its noise, was a surprise to the boy, but he was not allowed time to notice it long, for the sailor hurried him up Fulton Street, to St. Paul's Church, and then they stood on Broadway. "What a busy--an awfully busy--street!" was Richard's comment. "It's rather dull now," said Doc Linyard. "Just wait till day-time. The wagons and people are enough to drive a man wild. That's the postoffice over there," he continued, as he pointed to the stone structure that stands as a wedge, separating Broadway from Park Row and the Bowery. "Come ahead. Here we are on Newspaper Row, as lots call it. This was the _Herald_ building before that paper moved uptown. It used to be Barnum's Museum years ago. Way down at the head of Frankfort Street is the _World_, and nearly all the rest of the great dailies are strung along between the two. Here we are." As Doc Linyard finished he led the way into the outer office of a newspaper about midway down the Row. It was a lively place, a constant stream of people coming in and going out, and the hum of many voices--the whole putting Richard in mind of some huge machine, grinding out its stipulated work. Along one side of the counting room was a row of small windows, each labeled with its department name. Stepping up to that marked "Advertisements," the old sailor handed in the one Richard had written out. The clerk examined it. Then he wrote in the number of a box, and put down several private marks in the corner. "Pay at the next desk," he said, handing the paper back. "How much will it be?" asked Linyard. "Ninety cents." At the next window the man in charge put the advertisement on file along with numerous others. Then he took the money the tar handed over, and in return filled out a printed order entitling the bearer to receive all letters bearing the address advertised, for ten days. "It will go in to-morrow?" asked the tar. "Certainly." "Suppose we take a walk up the Bowery," suggested the sailor, when they were once more outside. "It's early yet." Richard readily consented. He had often heard his father speak of the street--how beautiful it had been years ago, and how trade had taken hold of it, and the boy was curious to see what it was like. The thoroughfare was a revelation to him, just as it is to every one seeing it for the first time. The shops huddled together, their show-windows littered with articles of every description, the second-hand establishments, the pawnbrokers, the peddlers and street-stand merchants, who offered everything from shoelaces to collars, books and trick novelties, were all decidedly new to him. One stand in particular attracted his attention. It was laden with choice books, at remarkably low prices. There was a well-bound history of the United States for forty-five cents, and a beautiful edition of Shakspere, with steel engravings, for the small price of one dollar. "Selling 'em off cheap," cried the vender, putting several volumes in Richard's hands. "Take 'em right along. You'll miss the opportunity of a lifetime if you don't." "They are very nice," replied the boy. "But I guess I won't take any to-night." "You'd better. They may be all gone by to-morrow. This is only a job lot, and dirt cheap." "No, I guess not," and Richard put the books reluctantly back on the stand. "Give you a special discount of ten per cent," persisted the dealer. "No; I haven't the money." "Oh! Well, come around to-morrow. I'll lay the books aside for you." "No, don't do that. I may not be back," and without waiting for further words, Richard hurried off. Meanwhile Doc Linyard, all unconscious of what was transpiring, had gone on ahead, and when Richard looked around for him, the old sailor was nowhere to be seen. Rather startled, the boy hurried along to catch up. But under the Elevated Railroad and down by the Brooklyn Bridge all was confusion and jam, and in a moment Richard realized that he had lost his friend. He hurried along several blocks, and then just as rapidly retraced his steps. But it was useless. Doc Linyard had disappeared in the crowd and was not to be found. "Now I'm in a pretty pickle," thought Richard. "I suppose there is nothing to do but get back to the Watch Below." But that was easier said than done. The boy did not like to make too many inquiries, and so started off on his own account. He paid dearly for the experiment. A wrong turn or two, and lo! it took Richard an hour to get back to West Street and to the restaurant. And arrived here, an awkward state of affairs confronted the boy. The Watch Below was closed for the night. All was dark, and not a soul was in sight! CHAPTER X. THE FIRST NIGHT IN NEW YORK. For an instant a feeling of intense loneliness swept over Richard's heart as he stood on the dark and silent pavement. He had firmly counted upon spending the night at the Watch Below, and now to find that place closed up caused his heart to sink within him. He reproached himself bitterly for having allowed his curiosity and love of books to make him forgetful of his situation. "How am I ever to get along in this world unless I watch out?" he said to himself dismally. "I suppose it will do no good to knock on the door. By the way the place is located, the sleeping-room must be upstairs in the rear, and I might pound till doomsday without any one hearing me." Nevertheless, he rapped loudly upon the door, not once, but several times, and so hard that he drew the attention of the policeman on that beat. "Phat are you trying to do?" asked the officer as he came up. "I want to get in;" and Richard related the particulars of his plight. "You'll have a job, me b'y," was the reply. "Mrs. Betty slapes like a log." They waited for several minutes in silence. But nobody appeared and no sound came from within. "Phat are you going to do?" asked the policeman finally. "I don't know, I'm sure. My valise is inside with my money. I've only got twenty cents in change in my pocket." "There's a lodging-house in Washington Street where you can get a bed for that," went on the officer. "But it's not over clean." "I don't want to go where it's dirty," replied the boy, shuddering. And for a brief instant a vision of his own neat and tidy cot at home floated through his mind. "Well, oi dunno; you can't stay out here." While trying to plan what to do a man turned the corner and came toward them. By the walk Richard recognized Doc Linyard, and with a cry of joy he ran up to the old tar. "Ahoy! so here you are?" exclaimed the sailor, his face beaming with satisfaction. "A nice chase you've led me! Where did you go to?" "Nowhere. I stopped to look at some books and then I couldn't find you again," replied Richard. "I'm so glad you've come. They've gone to bed." "All below decks, eh? Well, it's time. I've spent an hour looking for you over on the Bowery. How are you, Mulligan?" the last to the policeman, who nodded pleasantly. Producing a key, Doc Linyard opened the restaurant door. Then he handed the policeman a cigar as a reward for the trouble the officer had taken, and he and Richard entered. The old sailor locked the door carefully behind them and lit a hand lamp that his thoughtful wife had placed upon the front counter. "I thought such places as this kept lights all night," observed Richard, as they walked back. "Most of 'em do,--them as has gas. But the insurance companies think oil dangerous, so we do without." Doc Linyard preceded the boy up a narrow stairway to a small room on the third floor. "Here you are," he exclaimed, as he set the lamp down on a table. "Betty got it all fixed for you. There's your valise and the bed's waiting for you. Take my advice and don't get up too early, not afore seven o'clock any way,--and pleasant dreams to you." "Thank you; the same to you," replied Richard sincerely. It was a cozy apartment, and the boy had not been in it over five minutes before he felt perfectly at home. Before retiring he sat down to write the promised letter home. He had no ink; but paper and envelopes had been brought along, and in half an hour his lead pencil had filled several sheets with a very creditable account of what had transpired. This done he undressed and retired, not, however, before thanking God for his kind care, and asking for His help and guidance during whatever was to follow. Despite the varied fortunes of his trip, the boy's sleep was a sound one, and it lacked but a few minutes to seven when he awoke in the morning. A basin of clean water stood on a stand at the foot of the bed, and after a plunge into this, he dressed, combed his hair, and went below. Of course the restaurant was already comfortably filled, and as a matter of fact, had been for over an hour. "Hello, my hearty! on deck I see," called out Doc Linyard. "I hope you slept well in your strange bunk." "First rate," was Richard's reply. "And longer than I expected, too. Guess I'll start right out to look for work. "Not afore you've had some breakfast. Sit down, and I'll fetch you some coffee and biscuits. Here's the morning papers; you can look 'em over--the Male Help Wanted column. Reckon you'll find something worth trying for." Finding remonstrances of no avail, Richard sat down and allowed himself to be helped to a morning repast. While eating he looked over the paper, and found quite a number of places worth hunting up. By the aid of the map Mr. Joyce had loaned him he sorted out the addresses in regular order, and put them down in his note-book. "Here is that newspaper office order," said the sailor, as Richard was about to leave. "If you're around in that neighborhood in the afternoon just see if there are any answers. One might have come already." "I will," replied Richard. "Can I leave my valise here?" "Certainly; I want you to make yourself at home here until you find a better place." "Thank you. But I must pay you--" "Not a cent. You helped me, and I'm going to do my duty by you. I'm no land shark." And the old sailor shook his head in a way that showed he meant every word he said. BOY WANTED, bright and active; to help feed. Norris Printing Co., Water St., near Wall. Such was the wording of the first advertisement on Richard's list. He knew Wall Street ran from Broadway opposite Trinity Church, towards the East River, and he was not long in reaching that famous money mart, where millions of dollars change hands each day between the hours of 10 A.M. and 3 P.M. The grand approaches to many of the buildings made him feel timid, and he could not help but wonder if the place to which he was going was also so magnificent. But Water Street, crooked, ill paved and dirty, was a decided contrast to its neighbor. Storage and warehouses abounded; and the numerous trucks backed up to receive or deliver goods necessitated walking more in the street than on the sidewalk. The building occupied by the Norris Printing Co. was at length reached. The office was on the second floor, and climbing up a flight of worn and grimy steps, Richard knocked at the door. "Come in," said a voice from inside, and he entered. "I understand you want a boy to help feed," he began, addressing a man who sat at a desk piled with books and printed sheets. "Apply to Mr. Nelson, in the basement," was the brief reply. "Yes, sir." The stairs to the lowest floor were even narrower than the others had been. It led to a pressroom that seemed to be one mass of motion and noise. Mr. Nelson proved to be a pleasant man of perhaps fifty. "Had any experience?" he asked, after Richard had announced his errand. "No, sir; but I think I can learn as quickly as anybody." "Perhaps; but we couldn't pay you so much while you were learning." "How much would you start me at--if I worked real hard?" Mr. Nelson hesitated. "We'll give you two dollars a week to begin," he said. "When you can do as much as the rest we'll raise you to three or four." Richard's hopes fell. Even four dollars a week would barely keep him, much less allow of money being sent home. "I'm afraid I can't accept it," he said. "I must support myself and I can't do it on two dollars a week." "It's all we can allow," replied Mr. Nelson, and he turned away to his work. In a moment Richard was on the street again. The setback chilled his ardor, but only for an instant, and then he hurried on to the next place. It was a confectionery store, and entering, he purchased five cents' worth of chewing gum, such as he knew his little sister would like. "I understand you want a boy," he said to the proprietor, who happened to be the one to wait on him. "I hired one about an hour ago," was the reply. "Are you looking for a place?" "Yes, sir." The man gave Richard a sharp glance. "You look like a bright sort of a chap," he said. "Suppose you leave me your address? The other boy may not suit." So Richard put down his name and the address of the Watch Below. "I'm only stopping there temporarily," he explained, "and may leave, but I'll drop around again in a day or two if I don't strike anything else." "Do; I don't like the other boy much. I only took him because a friend asked me to." "What do you pay?" "Four dollars a week, and I might make it five if you would be willing to help on the wagon as well as in the store." "I certainly would," replied Richard promptly. "I'm willing to work real hard at anything, providing it's honest." "That's the way I like to hear a lad talk," said the confectioner approvingly. "Five dollars a week is certainly better than two," was Richard's mental comment, as he hurried along. "Perhaps the next place will offer something better still." But the next place was already filled; and so were the three that followed. The seventh was on Vesey Street, the neighborhood that supplies half the metropolis with tea and coffee. A boy was wanted to help fill orders and deliver--a man's work--though Richard did not know it. "We'll pay you seven dollars," was the merchant's reply, after the boy had inquired after the place. "You will have to deliver principally, and collect, of course." "And when can I go to work?" asked Richard, overjoyed at an opening that promised so well. "Anytime. Right away if you like. But you'll have to furnish twenty-five dollars security." This news put a damper on the boy's hopes. "Twenty-five dollars security?" he repeated. "Yes. You'll have more than that to collect"--which was not true--"and of course you will be responsible, and must turn in the money for every order taken out." "I'd be sure to do that, or else return the goods." "We don't take the goods back," was the firm reply. "Everything that goes out has been ordered and is charged to the account of the one taking the goods out." "Who takes the orders?" "Our canvassers." "But the orders may not be good," suggested the boy. "People sometimes change their minds, especially when they've been talked into buying." "The orders are always good. Besides, if a person refuses to honor his order all you've got to do is to turn round and sell the packages to some one else. Come, what do you say? You'd better try it. It's a good offer." "I haven't got the money," was Richard's reply. And for some reason he was glad of the fact. "Better get it then and go to work," urged the merchant. "You can't make seven dollars a week easier." "I'll think it over," replied the boy. There was something in the offer that did not strike him favorably, and indeed it was a good thing that he was not in a position to accept it. The whole proposition was hardly above a common swindle, enough bogus orders being put among the honest ones either to make the one undertaking the job do a lot of peddling on his own account, or else cause him to pay away half his salary on the goods left over. Walking up Vesey Street, Richard found himself directly opposite the post-office. By the clock on St. Paul's he saw that it was long after noon. Rather disheartened at his non-success after spending a whole morning in the search for work, he rounded the Astor House corner and crossed Broadway. "Newspaper Row," as Doc Linyard had appropriately called it, was just across the opposite street, and the boy made up his mind to visit the office where the advertisement had been left, and see if there were any letters as yet for the old sailor. The doors of the post-office were open on both sides, and, curious to see how the building looked inside, Richard started to go through instead of going around. The many departments upon the ground floor were a study to him, and the signs--Domestic Mails, Foreign Mails, Letters for New York City, Letters for Outgoing Mails--all this was in strong contrast to the little three by four box that held all the mail of the village at home. And the many private boxes! He guessed there must be ten thousand of them. Every second a new-comer walked up to open one. Presently a familiar figure stepped up to one directly in front of Richard, and taking out a handful of letters, closed the box and turned to go away. It was Mr. Timothy Joyce. CHAPTER XI. ROBBED. Richard was highly delighted to see his fellow passenger once again, and running up he grasped the gentleman by the shoulder. "Mr. Joyce!" "Why, hello! Where did you come from?" exclaimed the leather merchant, thrusting the letters into his pocket and taking hold of the boy's extended hand, "I hope you weren't hurt." "No, sir," replied Richard, "only shaken up. I trust you were as fortunate." "Not quite. My foot was caught under the seat and was wrenched pretty badly, so much so that I had a man take me half a mile in a wheelbarrow to a doctor's." "I looked all over for you," continued the boy. "I saved your valise and wanted to return it." And Richard related the particulars of his adventures. "Humph! those railroad chaps are too particular in some cases and not half enough so in others," declared Mr. Joyce. "What is in the bag doesn't amount to much, but I'm much obliged to you for taking the trouble to save it. I'll send for it this afternoon." "And here is your guide-book," went on Richard, handing out the volume. "I'm thankful for the use of it. It's been a real help to me." "Better keep it then," replied the merchant. "I'll make you a present of it." He laughed, presumably at the smallness of the gift. "Thank you." "Have you had any luck yet in your search for work?" "No, sir. I could have had a job at several places, but the pay was so small I couldn't afford to accept any of them." "Yes, that's the trouble. Good openings are scarce, and very often one must be known to get a place." "And some want security," added the boy, relating his interview with the tea-merchant. "Don't have anything to do with that class of men," exclaimed Mr. Joyce emphatically. "They won't give you a cent more than they are forced to, and advancement in their service is out of the question." "It didn't strike me very favorably." "I am sorry that you are not better acquainted with city ways. You may have to pay dearly for your experience, though I hope not." "I'm going to keep my eyes open as widely as I can, sir." "You'll have to." Mr. Joyce paused for a moment. "Can you come over to my office this afternoon, about three o'clock?" he asked. "Yes, sir." "Maybe I'll be able to place you. I won't promise, but I'll do what I can." Richard's heart gave a bound. He had taken a strong liking to the leather merchant, and the hearty manner of the latter, somewhat like that of Doc Linyard, was certainly taking. "Thank you, I'll be on hand," he replied quickly. "Do; but remember I make no promises," returned Mr. Joyce. "I'm off now. I must answer this mail and a pile of other letters that have accumulated during my absence." In a moment the merchant was lost to sight in the crowd. "I'm glad that I met him," thought the boy. "It may be the luckiest thing yet. I'm sure if he finds an opening for me it will be the right thing to take hold of." Under the turn of affairs Richard decided to get the sailor's letters, if there were any, and return to the Watch Below at once. It was after one o'clock, leaving him about an hour and a half before going to the merchant's place of business. "I must be prompt," he said to himself. "It will count, I'm sure." Watching his chance among the score of street cars which pass the post-office corner every minute, the boy dived through the crowd and reached the opposite side of Park Bow. The newspaper office was but a few steps away, and in a second he was inside. Quite a number of people were in the counting-room. They were mostly of the poorer class, and were either looking over the want columns of the papers on file or else waiting for answers to advertisements which they had inserted. Richard joined the line of the latter, and in due turn found himself at the window, slip in hand. The clerk glanced at the slip and then looked over some letters in a certain box. "Here you are," he said, and handed back the slip, accompanied by two letters. "Two answers!" exclaimed Richard as he moved away. "Doc Linyard is certainly in luck. I must hurry back. He will be anxious, I know." Richard put the slip in his vest-pocket. In doing so he pulled out two one dollar bills which he had taken from his valise in the morning, and folded the paper and money together. As he shoved the roll into his pocket he did not notice that a hungry pair of eyes, just outside of the swinging glass doors, were watching his every action. The hungry pair of eyes belonged to a boy of twelve, though he looked older--a street urchin--dirty, ragged, with a pinched face and a starved, ill-clad form. A look of sheer desperation came into these eyes when their owner saw the money, and he trembled with excitement as a certain bold and wicked thought came into his mind--a thought born, not of a bad heart, but of--an empty stomach. As Richard came out of the door the street boy shoved against him. The doors were heavy, and for an instant Richard found his way blocked. He pushed back the opposite door, and attempted to pass. "Say, mister, dere's a big bug on your collar!" exclaimed the urchin, pointing to Richard's neck. Now, as I'm sure every one knows, to merely have such a thing mentioned is to feel the insect in question. Such was the case with Richard, and still holding the door with one hand he put the other up to his neck. This was the would-be thief's chance. With a dexterity worthy of a better cause the urchin transferred the slip, money and letters to his own pocket. It was done in less than three seconds, and then he darted back into the crowd upon the street. Of course Richard found no bug, and he was considerably perplexed by the urchin's actions, never dreaming of what had really occurred. "I suppose that boy was fooling me," he thought. "Maybe it's one of those silly jokes that become all the rage every now and then." Richard walked to the corner of Ann Street. St. Paul's clock now pointed to ten minutes to two, and he had no time to waste. "Watch protectors, gents, only ten cents each! May some day save you the loss of a valuable timepiece! Step right up now; only a dime! Regular price fifty cents!" It was a street vender who made this announcement. He stood upon the curbstone, a small tray of his wares suspended from his shoulders. "Here's just what you want, sir," he said, addressing Richard. "Thank you; but I don't carry a watch," was the boy's polite reply. "You will one of these days. Better have one." "If I need one I'll call around," replied Richard briefly. The idea of a safeguard caused him to feel in his pockets to see that his belongings were still in his possession, first in one--another--every one. Then he realized what had happened. He had been robbed. CHAPTER XII. ON THE SEARCH. Richard was dismayed and disheartened by the discovery which he had just made. He went through his clothing a dozen times to convince himself that he was not mistaken--that the slip, money and letters were really gone. But it was assuredly a fact, and groaning in spirit, he leaned up against a post, utterly overcome. To tell the truth, however, much as he needed money, he did not think of the bills that had been taken. His mind ran altogether on Doc Linyard's property. "What will he say when I tell him of it?" was Richard's mental comment. "He won't want to trust me any more. Perhaps those letters were worth hundreds of dollars. What a fool I've been! I ought to be sent back to Mossvale at once. I'm not fit to stay in New York." Then came the thought that possibly he had dropped the things, and he hastily retraced his steps, scrutinizing every inch of the way as he went. But, as we know, such an effort was fruitless, and by the time he had reached the newspaper-office Richard was convinced that it was a plain case of robbery and nothing else. "But when did it happen? I had the letters when I reached the street--hold up; that boy. I'm sure he's the one!" he exclaimed to himself. "I remember now feeling something at my pocket when I put my hand up to my collar. That bug business was only a ruse! Well, I _am_ a fool! And after all Mr. Joyce and Doc Linyard told me, too!" The thought of how he had been taken in made Richard fairly sick, and the tears of vexation sprang into his eyes as he stood deliberating upon what to do next. Just then a burly policeman came lounging along. Richard touched him on the arm. "I have been robbed," he said. "Robbed? Where? When?" exclaimed the officer, all attention. Richard told him all he knew of his case. "I think I know the chap," said the officer. "But I can do nothing now. He is likely a mile away by this time." "Will you watch out for him?" asked Richard. "I don't care so much for the money as I do for the letters." "Better come over to the station and make a complaint." "Is it far? I've got an engagement at three o'clock that I don't want to miss." "Won't take ten minutes. Come on." At the station Richard was required to leave his full name and address, describe what had been stolen, and give a full description of the person he suspected was the thief. "I can't give you much hopes of recovery," said the officer in charge. "Dollar bills are very much alike, and if the thief finds that he cannot put the letters to account he will probably destroy them. As to his getting other letters on the strength of the stolen slip, you had better go to the office and have the delivery stopped." "Thank you, I will," replied Richard. He was soon on his way back to Park Row. "Do you remember me?" he asked of the clerk who had previously waited on him. "Yes; what is it? Anything wrong with your letters?" Richard told his story. "Will you hold the letters?" he added. "Certainly. And if there is a call for them, I'll send out for an officer and have the party detained." When Richard was again on the street he hardly knew what to do. He had no appetite for dinner, and there seemed now no use of returning to the Watch Below. He had a fancy that the urchin who had robbed him had run across into the post-office. True, it was only a fancy, but Richard had some time to spare yet before he was due at Mr. Joyce's office, and he determined to take a walk in that direction. Going through the post-office he walked over to Warren Street and thence down to College Place. There was a coffee-stand upon the corner, and here he bought two doughnuts for a cent each, and began munching them, noticing at the same time that they were not of the best, being dry, and that the flavor wasn't to be compared to that of those Grace was in the habit of turning out at home. Under the Elevated Road it was not as light as could be wished, and Richard could not see very well. But presently he beheld a figure at the end of the block--a figure that looked familiar. Richard quickened his pace and soon reached the spot, yet only in time to see the figure turn the next corner. But this time his view had been better, and Richard was tolerably certain that it was the thief he was pursuing. He broke into a run instantly, and being light of foot, gained rapidly upon the boy. A glance around the next corner, and Richard just caught a glimpse of the urchin's head as it disappeared down a cellar way. Rushing to the spot, he was compelled to pause. He was far down on a side street that was little better than an alley-way. The building before him was dirty and old, evidently a storehouse, and the open stone steps led down to a steep cellar from which not a ray of light came up. Should he enter? For an instant Richard paused, and then slowly descended. "They shall not say that I was a coward," he said to himself. "And I can easily handle that chap if it comes to a hand to hand affair." The moldy smell of the cellar was nearly unbearable, and in several spots upon the brick floor the scum lay an inch deep. Presently the boy's eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and then he saw it was not so gloomy, after all. At the back there appeared to be several windows, and, though covered with dust and cobwebs, they still admitted some light. The place was packed with wooden cases and barrels, and Richard had not a little difficulty in picking his way among them. Evidently the street Arab had not calculated upon being followed into such a place, for Richard heard him boldly making his way to the rear. He hurried after the urchin, making as little noise as possible. But unfortunately his foot at that moment struck against an empty case, and made known his presence. Instantly the street boy realized the situation, and diving behind a pile of barrels, remained perfectly quiet. Richard's blood was now up, and he did not intend to be outwitted. He hurried to the spot, in his eagerness nearly stumbling over the boy. But the latter was alert. Visions of the Tombs probably floated through his mind; and tripping Richard over he sprang away. Richard was on his feet in a second, but it was too late. In that second, the street Arab had sprung to the top of a pile of cases that stood directly under an opening in the floor above. The next instant he had disappeared through the hole, and was gone. But in mounting the stack of cases he had dislodged several and these now tumbled down, making a lively racket. The noise was followed by several exclamations, and the sound of hasty feet upon a stairway. "Hey, you, vat you do here?" cried a voice; and Richard felt his arm grasped by a tall and savage looking German workman. CHAPTER XIII. RICHARD CALLS ON MR. JOYCE. As the hand of the German workman grasped Richard's arm the boy realized that he was in an awkward fix. Appearances were all against him, and as the man glared at him Richard knew not what to say. "Come now, vat vas you doing here, hey?" demanded the German. "I--I was after a boy who stole something from me," stammered Richard. "After a poy?" "Yes. He ran down here, and I came after him." "Ton't believe it. Vere ist der poy now?" "He jumped up there and got through that hole," replied Richard, pointing to the place. The German uttered an exclamation. "Dat's nonsense!" "It's true. He stole two dollars and some letters, and I chased him in here." The man eyed Richard suspiciously. "Maype dot vas only a make-believe sthory; I don't know," he declared. "Come, ve go upstairs und see." But, as Richard surmised, the boy had, by some means, already made his escape. But the marks of his muddy feet, as he had crawled from the hatchway, were still to be seen, and these Richard pointed out. "Vell, if your sthory is straight dat lafer ain't here now; so you go about your beesness." And with a wave of his arm the stalwart workman motioned for Richard to clear out. The boy was not loth to leave the place. Nothing was to be gained by remaining, and the German's company was certainly not desirable. "I suppose I might as well give up the search now," said Richard to himself when outside. "That fellow will know enough to keep out of my sight for a while; and, besides, it must be time to go to Mr. Joyce's. Gracious, how starved that chap did look! If he wants that money to get something to eat with I'm sure he's welcome to it, only I want the letters." Richard brushed off his clothes as best he could and started off. By the use of the guide-book he had no difficulty in finding the Swamp, as the leather district in New York is called. Presently he came to a big warehouse, with an office at one side, over which hung the sign: TIMOTHY JOYCE, Successor to JOYCE BROTHERS. LEATHER AND HIDES. Established 1837. "It's certainly an old firm," thought Richard, as he read the words. "I guess Mr. Joyce is a pretty substantial business man." The boy found the leather merchant at his desk, deep in his letters. "Ah! on hand I see," said Mr. Joyce. "I'm not quite ready yet; will be in a quarter of an hour." "I won't mind waiting," returned Richard. "Suppose you take a look around the place? I guess you've never seen anything like this before." "No, sir: and I'll look around gladly." Richard stepped from the office to the lower floor of the warehouse. The quantity of leather and hides on all sides filled him with wonder. The place was several stories high, and was filled to overflowing with material soon to be worked up into shoes, pocketbooks, belting, gloves, baseball covers, and a thousand other articles for which this staple material of trade is needed. Several heavy trucks were loading and unloading at the doors, and the boy heard the workmen speak of a consignment to Buffalo, and another to Boston, and of a shipload that had just arrived from South America. "It's a big business and no mistake," was Richard's conclusion. "I guess a person would have to be here half a lifetime to learn all the ins and outs of it." When Richard returned to the office he found that Mr. Joyce had just cleared his desk, and was leaning back in his chair. The leather merchant motioned him to a seat. "Well, what do you think of it?" he asked abruptly. "You seem to be doing a big business," returned Richard. "I think you must have enough leather to supply all New York." "So I have--for a short time. But only a small part stays in the city. It comes and goes all the while. Have you found a place yet?" "No, sir; I haven't had a chance yet." And Richard related the particulars of his recent misfortune. "Humph! Well, after all, experience _is_ the only school we all learn in. I don't doubt but what you've seen the last of both money and letters. Keep your eyes open in the future." "I'll try to. I shall not forget this lesson in a hurry." "But at the same time don't be too suspicious of everybody with whom you may chance to come in contact." "I'll remember what you say, sir." "Now about finding you a situation. I wish I had an opening here for you. I'd make a business chap of you." "I should like to work for you, Mr. Joyce." "Unfortunately, there is no room at present--that is, there is nothing I can offer you." "I'll take anything you'll give me," exclaimed Richard earnestly. "Yes; but you can't do _any_thing. You can't drive a truck--here in the city--and you don't know a thing about packing hides. Besides, such work would be altogether too heavy for you, and it never pays the wages that lighter but more intelligent labor receives." "I suppose you are right, sir." "I am. I don't want to gloss things over for you. It's the worst thing in the world for a young fellow just starting out to have a rosy view of the business world, which is composed of steady work and hard knocks, about equally mixed. You've got too much brains to work altogether with your hands; and one must find out what he is best suited to. How would you like to get into the book and stationery line?" "Very much indeed." "Do you think you could make anything out of it? Make it _the_ business of your life, so that you would stand some show of advancement on the strength of the interest you took in it?" "I think I could," replied Richard slowly, somehow deeply moved by Mr. Joyce's earnestness. "I always liked books--not only to read them, but to handle and to arrange them as well. At home I was the librarian of our Sunday-school, and I got out the catalogue and all that. Of course it was not a great work, but I enjoyed it, and often wished I might have charge of a big library or something like that." Mr. Joyce eyed the boy thoughtfully. "Reckon I was right. Thought you'd take to books. Persons with your kind of a forehead always do. Well, come along. I'll see what I can do toward getting you a place with a friend of mine." Locking up his desk, Mr. Joyce put on his hat and led the way out on the street. "We'll have to hurry," he said, "or we'll find my friend has gone home." Richard needed no urging. With a strangely light heart he kept close behind the leather merchant. They passed along several blocks, and at length turned into Beekman Street. "Here we are," said Mr. Joyce, finally. "This is my friend's place of business." CHAPTER XIV. WORK OBTAINED. The establishment to which the leather merchant had brought Richard was an imposing one, situated in a massive stone building, and having large and heavy plate glass doors and windows. A formidable array of blank-books and sets of well-known authors' works were piled up in the window which bore the firm's name: WILLIAMS & MANN. Directly to the left of the entrance inside, stood a great safe, and further on appeared an almost interminable row of shelves and drawers, all apparently crammed with articles pertaining to the stationery and book trade. Stepping up to a salesman Mr. Joyce inquired: "Is Mr. Williams in?" "Mr. Williams has gone to Chicago," was the polite reply. "Chicago, eh? When will he be back?" "We expect him back day after to-morrow; possibly to-morrow afternoon." "Humph!" Mr. Joyce rubbed his chin. "Is Mr. Mann about?" "Yes, sir; just gone up to the stock-room." "Tell him I'd like to see him for a few minutes." "Yes, sir. Mr. Joyce, I believe." "That's the name." "I'll send word at once. Won't you sit down?" "Thanks." Mr. Joyce sank into an office chair. Going to a speaking tube behind one of the broad counters, the salesman sent his message up to one of the floors above. "Mr. Mann will be down directly," he said, after a moment. In five minutes a stout, bald-headed gentleman of fifty came down by the elevator at one side, and stepped forward. "How are you, Tim?" he exclaimed, thrusting out a chubby hand. "First rate, Mel," returned Mr. Joyce. "This is a young friend of mine, Richard Dare," he continued. Mr. Mann shook hands cordially. "He has come to the city to try his luck," went on the leather merchant. "He has a taste for your line, so I brought him around to see if you hadn't an opening for him." Now an application made in this way, and coming from an ordinary source, would have met with a courteous negative. But the firm of Williams & Mann were under obligations to Mr. Joyce, who had on several occasions indorsed their notes for many thousands of dollars. Besides, all three men were old friends; so Mr. Mann gave the request every attention. "We are rather full of hands," he said slowly; "but still I might find room for him. Have you had any business training?" he continued, turning to Richard. "Very little, sir," replied the boy promptly, though it came hard to make such a confession. "He hasn't had a bit," interposed Mr. Joyce. "He's as jolly green as we were when we came here," he added in a whisper. "But he's bright, honest and level-headed, and I've taken a fancy to him and want you to give him a chance." "Do you like to handle books?" asked Mr. Mann. "Yes, sir; very much." "Yes, it's just what he does like," put in the leather merchant. "Place him among the books if you can." "Perhaps I can do that; but I won't be able to pay you much until you are experienced." "I must earn my living, sir," said Richard respectfully, but in a firm manner. "Of course he must," added Mr. Joyce. "He has just lost his father," he continued in a low tone, "and I suppose it's hard times at home." "Have you known him long?" asked Mr. Mann, as the two walked to one side. "Only two days." "Two days!" "Yes." "Is he--that is, suppose I put him in a place of trust? It will be a risk that--" "I'll go security for him." "And you have only known him two days, Tim! Seems to me you're not as cautious as you used to be." "Never mind. I know some honest faces when I see them, and his is one. Let me tell you how we became acquainted." The two men continued their conversation for several minutes. "I'll take you on at once," said Mr. Mann, presently to Richard. "I suppose you would like that best." "Yes, sir." "You can have the hour remaining to-day to get broken in. I will give you six dollars a week at the start, and if you learn as rapidly as Mr. Joyce thinks you will I'll raise you in a few weeks to seven or eight." "Thank you, sir; I'll try to make myself worth it." "It's hard work, and you will have to pitch right in," Mr. Mann went on. "We have no use for laggards." "Well, I'm going," broke in Mr. Joyce. "Now I've placed you I hope you will make something of yourself," he added. "I'll try to," replied the boy. "Many thanks to you for your kindness." "If you come down in my neighborhood drop in and see me." "Thank you, I will with pleasure," was Richard's reply. "We will go right upstairs to the stock-room," said Mr. Mann, after Mr. Joyce had departed. "We have a large pile of pamphlets and books which the clerk we discharged left all mixed up. I was just assisting the stock-clerk in making out a new division of the department." Entering the elevator, they were soon taken to a floor three stories above. The stock-room was in the rear, the large windows overlooking an alley. The place was piled high with books of all descriptions, some in sets and others separate, from cheap reprints to costly volumes filled with etchings and engravings. "Here, Mr. Massanet, I've brought a young man to help you," said Mr. Mann, addressing the clerk in charge, a pleasant-looking fellow apparently not many years older than Richard. He came forward and gave the boy a kindly look of welcome. "We need help here," he said. "There is plenty to do." "His name is Dare--Richard Dare," continued Mr. Mann. "I do not know him, but a friend recommended him." "We'll soon see what he can do," replied Frank Massanet, with a smile. "Are you going to work now?" he asked of Richard. "Yes; break him in at once," said Mr. Mann. "I'll leave him in your charge. Mr. Massanet will tell you anything you want to know," he went on to the boy. "He is the head here." Left alone with Frank Massanet it did not take long for Richard to become well acquainted with the stock-clerk, who gave him a few brief directions and then set him to work filling up broken sets of books, dusting them, and placing them in a case for shipment. "We must get this whole batch away by next Tuesday," said Massanet. "Because on Wednesday another large consignment will arrive, and we must have room to handle it." The work delighted Richard, and he pitched in with a will. It was new and novel, as well as agreeable, and, besides, doing it for pay made it no task at all. Talking did not interfere with the progress of either of the workers, and attracted by Frank Massanet's cordial manner, Richard gradually revealed to the stock-clerk why he had come to the city, and what his ambitions were. In return Frank related much concerning himself. His father, who had been a Frenchman, was dead, and his mother, sister Martha and himself kept house up-town on the east side. It was apparent that the young man was the main support of the family, for he said that just previous to his death his father had been unfortunate in business and had lost nearly every dollar he possessed. His mother did the work at home, while his sister earned six dollars a week at typewriting. "It is pleasant to have a home to go to," said Richard, after a bit. "You don't know how queer I felt to be away from the others." "Homesick?" asked Frank kindly; and then impelled by a sudden warm feeling he placed his hand on Richard's shoulder. The action, small as it was, brought a little lump to the boy's throat. "No--not exactly," he replied, "only--" "I know what you mean. Before I got this place I went to Boston for two months to try my luck, and _I_ was among strangers." "Some day, when I can afford it, I intend to bring my folks to the city," Richard went on. "Where are you stopping now?" asked Frank. "With a sailor friend of mine down on West Street." "West Street! It is not a very nice locality." "No; but he is very kind, and so is his wife. They keep a restaurant. He was in a railroad accident with me, and that's the reason he takes to me." "Yes, accidents often make strange people friends." "But I must hunt up a regular boarding-house," went on Richard. "I suppose a good one that is cheap is hard to find." "You are right. How much do you expect to pay, if I may ask?" "Not over four dollars. I'm to get six here, and I can't afford any more. When my salary is raised I'll be willing to go a little more, but not much, because I want to send home all the money I can." Frank Massanet was silent for a moment. Richard's way pleased him, and he felt drawn towards the new-comer. "My mother has been thinking of taking a boarder," he said slowly. "We have a spare hall bedroom. It is not very large, but it has good ventilation, and is neatly furnished. I used it when--when my father was alive." "Would your mother take me?" asked Richard. "That is, could she afford to at four dollars a week?" "I can't say." "When I get an increase in wages I'll pay four and a half," went on the boy. "I would like to live with you," he continued open-heartedly. Frank smiled. "I'll speak to my mother to-night," said he, "and I'll let you know to-morrow morning." CHAPTER XV. NEW QUARTERS. At six o'clock Frank Massanet announced the day's work ended, and, bidding his friend goodnight, Richard hurried off to West Street. His heart was light over his own good fortune, but heavy when he thought of the losses he had sustained earlier in the day. The Watch Below was crowded, and Doc Linyard presided at the pie-stand and the desk. He noticed Richard's grave face, and surmised that all was not right. "You're late!" he exclaimed. "Come sit down to supper. I'll bet you haven't eaten a mouthful." "I've had bad luck," replied Richard. "Bad luck for you and good luck for myself." And, sitting down beside the desk, he made a clean breast of what had transpired earlier in the day. "I know I have been careless," he added, "and I don't deserve to be trusted any more." "Never mind," returned the old sailor cheerily. "It's too bad, but, as Betty often says, it's no use crying over spilt milk, so we'll make the best of it." "I'll have the advertisement put in to-morrow," said the boy, "and I'll add that former letters have been lost." "That's a good idea. And don't tell Betty; it would only worry her. Who knows but what those letters didn't amount to much after all?" "At all events, I'm going to get them back if I can." "And your two dollars, too. The little rascal! But you said you had good news?" "So I have. Mr. Joyce got me a place." And Richard told of the meeting in the post-office, and his subsequent engagement by Williams & Mann. "Well, I'm downright glad to hear that!" cried Doc Linyard heartily. "Reckon you are on the right tack at last." The walking and working had made Richard hungry, and he was not backward about sitting down and eating a hearty supper. But he insisted upon paying for all he had, and, seeing that the boy really meant it, Doc Linyard took the money, though not without reluctance. As soon as he had finished eating, Richard went to Park Row and handed in the advertisement. The clerk informed him that no other letters had been received, nor had any applications for them been made. Returning to the Watch Below, Richard sat down and wrote a second letter home, which he shortly after posted, along with the precious packet of chewing gum for Madge. The old sailor offered him a ticket to the theater, which had been left in the restaurant for the privilege of hanging a lithograph in the window, but this the boy declined with thanks, and retired early, so as to be on hand promptly in the morning. Seven o'clock was the hour for opening at Williams & Mann's, and five minutes before that time Richard presented himself, and was let in by the sleepy porter. The elevator was not running at this time in the day, so Richard took the narrow iron stairs, and was soon in the stock-room, where he went to work at what he had been doing the previous day until Frank Massanet arrived. "My mother would like you to take dinner with us," said Frank, when he had given directions concerning how the work should go on. "She would like to know you before she takes you as a regular boarder." "Can she take me at four dollars?" asked Richard. "She thinks she can. You can talk it over together when you see her--that is, if you will come." "Certainly I will." "It's the best way. Perhaps our board might not suit you." "I'll risk it," laughed Richard. They were allowed an hour at noon, and at exactly twelve o'clock the two hurried off. Frank led the way up to the Third Avenue Elevated Station, and a five minutes' ride brought them to their destination. "I generally bring my lunch with me," explained the stock-clerk on the way, "and I have dinner when I get home in the evening. By that means I save my car fare, and have plenty of time to eat the best meal of the day." "It's the better way," said Richard. "Do you ride morning and night?" "Only when the weather is bad. When it is clear I save the ten cents." "So would I. Besides, it's healthy exercise," returned the boy. The Massanets occupied the second floor of a modest little flat of six rooms. It was a cheerful home, and Mrs. Massanet, a pleasant, middle-aged Frenchwoman, greeted Richard cordially. "You are indeed welcome, Mistair Dare," she said, with a beaming face. "Francois have tole me everything of you, and I feel as eef I know you long." Mrs. Massanet had the peculiar French accent of the province of Lorraine, and Richard frequently experienced difficulty in understanding her, but her motherly way soon put him at ease, and in a few minutes he felt perfectly at home. "This is my sister," said Frank, as a tall, dark-eyed girl of sixteen entered. "Mattie, this is Richard Dare." "Frank has been telling us of you," said Mattie Massanet, as she took Richard's hand. "We talked you all over last night," she added, with a merry twinkle of her eye. "I'm sure it couldn't have been a very bad talk if you had a hand in it," said Richard gallantly. They were soon at the table, and having by a lucky chance (or was it the girl's natural tact?) struck the right vein, the conversation became quite animated, and soon all were on very good terms. "I like you verra mouch," said Mrs. Massanet, when Richard had finished, "and I shall be pleased to have you as a boarder--eef you like ze _diner_." "Thank you, Mrs. Massanet. I shall be thankful to have you take me. I know it will feel quite like a home." "Ve make zat so. Ve keep no _hotel garni_ even--only for one." "Thank you," returned Richard. He did not understand the French, which means a lodging-house. "Can I come to-night?" "Oh, yees." So it was arranged that he should become a boarder at the Massanets', and having this settled took quite a load from his mind. Now if he could only do his work well for Williams & Mann, he would be all right, and have every chance of eventually attaining the object of his metropolitan venture. Of one thing he was sure--Frank Massanet's friendship and help, and in his present place he knew these would count for a good deal. Little did he dream that the position kind-hearted Timothy Joyce had procured for him would lead him to the hardest trials of his youthful life, and place him in the bitterest situation he had ever yet experienced. CHAPTER XVI. PEP. In a week Richard felt quite at home, both in the stock-room at Williams & Mann's and at the Massanets'. During that time Mr. Williams had returned from Chicago, and both of the members of the firm seemed to be well satisfied by the way in which their new clerk discharged the duties assigned to him. A warm friendship sprang up between Frank Massanet and Richard--a friendship that was destined to bear important results. The stock-clerk, though Richard's superior in the business, acted more like a chum, and in the evenings the two, accompanied by Mattie Massanet, walked, talked, played games, or listened to Mrs. Massanet's music on the flutina, and were all but inseparable. Richard received several letters from home--one from his mother, congratulating him on the position he had secured, and another from Grace and Nancy, full of village gossip, and what people had said about his going away. Both Frank and Richard loved their work, and by the second week the books in the stock-room were in a neater and handier condition than they had ever been before, and Frank expressed his pleasure at having some one who could really help, and not hinder, as the discharged clerk had done. On Tuesday morning of the second week, Richard was hurrying to the store a little earlier than usual. The big consignment of books was soon to arrive, and they must have even more room for it than had at first been anticipated. As he came down the Bowery at a rapid gait, a small figure crossed the street directly before him, and stopped to gaze into the well-filled window of a German bakery. It was the street Arab who had robbed Richard in Park Row! For an instant Richard could hardly believe his eyes, but, stepping up, he took a closer view, and then grasped the urchin by the arm. Instinctively the street Arab shrank away. Then he turned his pinched and startled face around, and, seeing who it was that held him, gave a loud cry of alarm. "Oh, please, mister, please lemme go!" he pleaded. "I won't do it again, please, sir, no I won't! Oh, don't lock me up, mister!" That piteous appeal went straight to Richard's heart. If he had felt any indignation, it melted away at the sight of that haggard, famished, desperate look. "What have you done with the stuff you took from my pockets?" he asked, but his tones were not very harsh. The boy began to whimper. "I--I ain't got de money no more," he sobbed, "It's all gone, mister; I spent every cent of it but two nickels fer medicine and de doctor. Please don't lock me up, mister." "Medicine and the doctor?" repeated Richard, rather astonished by this unexpected statement. "Who is sick?" "Me dad, mister." "Your dad? Your father?" "Yes, mister; been sick going on two months now, and ain't no better." Richard looked at the boy sharply. He had been deceived so many times that he was half inclined to discredit the urchin's story. "It's the truth, mister," went on the boy, seeing the look of distrust. "I ain't tellin' no lies, so help--" "What's your name?" "Pep, sir." "Pep what?" The urchin held down his head. "I ain't got no other name!" he answered hesitatingly. "Oh, you must have!" exclaimed Richard. "Come, out with it." But the little ragged figure only began to cry again, harder than ever. "Come, tell me; I won't have you arrested," urged Richard. "Oh, thank you, mister! It would kill dad to know I'd been stealin'. I told him I made the money sellin' papers." "That was a lie," said Richard sternly. "I know it, mister, but I couldn't help it. It was better than tellin' him I'd been stealin'. I wouldn't have taken yer money only I was afraid he'd die if he didn't have de doctor and de medicine, so help--" "There, don't swear," interrupted Richard. "If you were so hard up you should have asked me for help. I would have given you something." "I would have asked, only most of de people laughs at me and tells me to clear out, and they think I'm lyin' when I say dad's sick, and say they guess he must drink de money up, which is a lie itself, 'cause dad don't drink a drop; he's got pneumony, so de doctor says, and he's coughin' all de time." "Is your mother home?" "Ain't got no mother; she died when I was a kid." "Well, Pep, I'm sorry for you," said Richard kindly, "and I won't do anything to you for having taken that money. But those letters--they were valuable. What have you done with them?" "I've got 'em home, sir. I'll bring 'em to you right away, sir." "I haven't got time to wait now," returned Richard, highly elated to find that Doc Linyard's property was safe. "Will you meet me here at six o'clock to-night?" "Yes, sir." "Sure? Remember I must have those letters." "I'll bring 'em. I've got 'em hid in de garret. I didn't open 'em or noddin'. I can't read only a little newspaper print--'nough to find out what's in de paper ter sell it." "Well, I shall expect you sure," replied Richard. "I'll give you ten cents for bringing them," he added, to make certain that Pep would not change him mind. "Have you had any breakfast?" "I haven't had no eatin' since yesterday mornin'." "What would you do if I gave you ten cents?" Pep's eyes opened in wonder. In his knockabout life he had met all sorts of people, yet here was certainly a new kind. "Yer jokin'!" he gasped. "No, I'm not." "Then if I had ten cents I'd go and buy some morning papers--I could sell 'em yet--and take de money home." "All of it?" "Yes, sir. Every cent." Richard felt in his pocket. He had just sixteen cents in change. "Here is the ten cents," he said, handing it out. "And here is six cents. I want you to buy something to eat for that." Slowly Pep took the money. He did not know but he might be dreaming. "Thank you, mister, you--you're good to me," he said in a low tone. "I'm in a hurry now," went on Richard, "otherwise I'd talk to you some more. I want to find out how you get along and how your father makes out. You can trust me." "I know I can--now," replied Pep. "And I'll be on hand at six o'clock with those letters sure. I'm very, very thankful fer what you've done, indeed I am, and I'll try to make it up to you some day, see if I don't." "Anyway, don't steal any more," said Richard. "It isn't right, and it will land you in jail sooner or later." "I never took noddin' before," replied Pep, "and I won't ag'in." "I hope so, Pep." "Will yer please tell me yer name?" "Richard Dare." "I'll remember it, Mr. Dare; ye're the first gentleman ever noticed _me_, and I'm much obliged, even if you hadn't given me a cent." "I shall expect to see you at six o'clock or a few minutes later," was Richard's reply, and fearful of being late at the store he hurried off. The street urchin stood still, gazing after him. There were tears in the light blue eyes, and a choking sensation in the thin little throat. "He must be one of them missionaries I once heard tell of," was Pep's thought. "They said they went around doing good, and that's what he's doing. Six cents for something to eat, and a dime to buy papers with! That's the best luck I've had in five years. If I don't make a quarter by nine o'clock I'm no good. And I'll never steal again--I won't--as sure as my name is Pep Clover." CHAPTER XVII. GETTING ACQUAINTED. When Richard reached Williams & Mann's he found Frank Massanet already hard at work. He had told the stock-clerk of the robbery in Park Row, and now he related its sequel in the shape of the incident of the morning. "Well, maybe you did right," said Frank; "although the majority of the street boys are not to be trusted beyond sight. You will find out by this evening if the boy's word is worth anything." "I think I can trust that boy," replied Richard. "I believe he was truly penitent. My treating him as I did may be the making of him." Williams & Mann employed in their various departments between fifteen and twenty clerks. They were mostly young fellows, and outside of a tendency to play practical jokes, because he was a new-comer, they treated Richard very well, and the boy was, with one exception, on good terms all round. This one exception was a young man of twenty. His name was Earle Norris, and he was head of the shipping department. Richard's duties brought him into daily contact with the shipping-clerk, but though the latter treated him fairly well, there was something in the other's manner that he did not like, and consequently he did not associate as freely with Norris as that young man seemed to desire. Norris was something of a dandy in his way, and rarely appeared at the store otherwise than faultlessly dressed. Of course when at work he changed his coat, cravat, collar, and so forth, so as not to soil them, but he never left without looking as much "fixed up" as when he had arrived. "You're a new fellow here," he said to Richard when the latter came down to see if a certain box of books had as yet been sent away. "Yes; new here and new in New York," Richard replied, smiling, "I thought you weren't a New Yorker," Norris went on. "How do you like things in the city?" "First-rate. I haven't seen much of the place yet, though." "Where do you live?" "I board with the Massanets." "Oh, a relative?" "Oh, no. I never knew them until I got acquainted with Frank here." "Rather slow at their house, I imagine." "Oh, I like it very well." "My folks live in Yonkers," said Norris, "but I couldn't stand it there, though I had a good position. I like New York life. You ought to be over at our boarding-house. There are six of us young fellows, and we're out every night and have lots of sport." "Thank you; I am very well content where I am," said Richard coldly. He did not like the manner in which the shipping-clerk had spoken of Frank and his family. "I did not think the Massanets kept boarders," continued Norris. "I thought they were too retired for that." "I am the only one, and am treated like one of the family." "Frank has got a sister, hasn't he?" "Yes." "Maybe that's the attraction," suggested Norris. "My landlady has a pretty daughter, too." "It is not the attraction," said Richard flushing, "though she, like her mother, treats me nicely," he added stoutly, and with a certain amount of loyalty. "Oh, well, it's all right," put in the shipping-clerk hastily. "I don't want you to change if you're satisfied. Only if you get tired of being quiet let me know. I tell you, there's lots of fun to be had if you only know how to get it." "I guess I won't change, at least for the present," replied the boy. When he returned to the stock-room he related to Frank what Norris had said about keeping too quiet. "I don't agree with him," said the stock-clerk. "I don't know what he means by having lots of sport and all that, but I never believed in being out late nights. It isn't right, and besides it doesn't pay. Haven't you noticed the deep circles around Norris's eyes? They come from a want of sleep, and how long do you suppose he can stand that sort of thing and his work here without breaking down? Why, I remember when he came here, a year ago, he looked twice as healthy as he does now." "Then he is foolish," said Richard. "I wouldn't want to run the risk of ruining my health, especially needlessly." "Of course if our way of living is too quiet for you--I suppose it would be for most young fellows--you are at liberty to leave at any time." "Thank you, Frank; I know I can, but I reckon I'll stay just as long as you care to keep me, or at least until I can afford to bring the family here." "Norris has approached me several times on the subject of joining him in some of his frolics," went on Frank, "but I have never gone out with him." "Does he get a very large salary?" "No more than I--ten dollars a week." "I should think it would take every cent he had after his board was paid to dress him. His clothing is more fashionable than Mr. Mann's." "He certainly isn't saving any money," replied Frank. Frank Massanet had his own idea about Earle Norris and his peculiar ways. He was almost certain that there would some day be a startling development at Williams & Mann's, but, having as yet no proofs, he kept quiet concerning his suspicions. During the afternoon Richard had occasion again to visit the packing-room, and once more Norris, who was the only one present, approached him. "How would you like to go to Niblo's Garden with me to-night?" he asked. "I have two tickets, and I would be pleased to have your company." "I am much obliged, I'm sure, but I have an errand to-night," replied Richard. "I must deliver two letters." "Well, that ought not to take you all the evening. Come along; I don't want to have the extra ticket and not use it. A friend of mine from Brooklyn was going with me, but he has just dropped me a postal card saying he is sick." "Can't you sell the extra ticket?" "Oh, I suppose I might; but I don't care to go alone," explained Norris. "Come, you'll enjoy it, I know." Richard was sorely tempted. The play at the theater was a standard one, and the leading actor one of renown. Surely there wouldn't be much harm in going. If any other person than Norris had asked him, he would probably have accepted. Yet his reasoning on the point was remarkably clear. He was sure that there had been nothing in his own manner to draw him to Norris, and this being so, why did the latter take such an interest in one who was but a step removed from a stranger to him? "No, I guess not," he replied, after a pause. "I don't care to go." "Oh, well, don't then," replied Norris coldly. "I only asked you out of kindness, being as you were a stranger." And he turned his back on the boy and walked away. Richard told Frank where he was to meet Pep, and added that if the stolen letters were forthcoming he would take them to Doc Linyard's before returning to the Massanets'. At six o'clock the two quitted the store together and walked over to the Bowery. Pep was already waiting for Richard. He had a big bundle of evening papers under his arm, and seemed to have improved both his capital and his time. "Here's de letters, mister," he said, holding out the two envelopes and the slip. "I'm sorry I got 'em dirty." For his unwashed hands had left many marks upon the white paper. Richard took the letters eagerly, and put them in an inside pocket. "How have you done to-day?" he asked. "First-rate. Had luck ever since yer started me. I'm worth sixty cents now. Say," he went on in a whisper, "I'm going to pay yer back that two dollars soon as I kin." "And how is your father?" "He is a bit better to-day--he was awful yesterday. Can I see yer here in a few days?" "Why?" "About that money. I want yer to have it back. It's the first time I took anything." "Yes, you can see me," replied Richard, somehow pleased at the idea of becoming better acquainted with the urchin, in whom he found himself taking a strong interest. "You can generally meet me at the same time you've met me to-day." "All right. I'll have der chink in a few days, see if I don't. Have an _Evening Telegram_ or _Mail and Express_?" "I haven't any change," replied Richard. "Ho! what yer take me for?" And, thrusting a copy of each paper in Richard's hand, Pep darted across to the Elevated Station, crying his wares as he went. "Not such a bad chap, I guess," said Frank. "I have seen worse fellows than him reform. I must see if we can't get him in our mission." "I'll go right down to West Street with these letters," returned Richard. "They may be very important." "I'm sorry I can't go with you," said Frank, "but I'm going out with mother. Will you be long?" "I guess not. Of course I can't tell. Doc Linyard may want me to do something for him--write a letter or so, and that all takes time. I'll be back by nine, I guess." And with these words the two separated, Frank hurrying up town, and Richard to carry his news to the old sailor. CHAPTER XVIII. A STRANGE SITUATION. The road to West Street was no longer a strange one to Richard, and it took him but a short quarter of an hour to reach the Watch Below. As usual the restaurant was crowded, and the merry jests of the sailors mingled with the rattle of dishes and clatter of knives. Doc Linyard was glad to see the boy, and immediately asked how he was progressing and how he liked his position. "I have good news for you," said Richard. And he handed over the two letters. "Are they the ones as were lost?" asked the old sailor. "Yes; I caught the boy and made him return them." "Did you get your money, too?" went on Linyard, as he cut the envelopes open. "Not yet, but I'm pretty sure of getting it in the near future." "Hope you do; two dollars ain't much, but it's something, and nowadays everything counts. Will you read these letters for me? My eyesight ain't none of the best any more, and besides, writing is kinder stiff reading for me at the best." "Certainly I will, Mr.--" "Avast there on that figurehead!" interrupted the old tar. "Doc Linyard, I'll do it with pleasure." But it was no pleasure after all for Richard to read the two communications, for each was a disappointment. The first was from a firm of lawyers who wished to take the case in hand at "astonishingly low terms," which must, however, be paid in advance. The other had been sent by a private detective, who was willing to institute a search for the missing party for the modest sum of three dollars per day, also payable in advance. "Just what I thought they might be," observed Doc Linyard, when the reading was finished. "You can tear them up. We don't want such outside help." Richard did as directed. "It's a pity that such letters should cause you so much trouble," went on the old sailor; "but that's the way of the world." "Have you had any other letters?" asked Richard, for he had not seen Doc Linyard for several days, and thought it possible that something might have turned up in the meantime. "Nary a word. I've put the advertisement in the papers--three of 'em--twice now, and not a single answer." "It's too bad. Have you heard anything from the property in England?" "Yes; I got a letter to-day asking me to hurry, as they wanted to settle affairs up there." "Did you answer?" "Not yet. You know it's hard lines for me to write." "If you wish I'll write for you." "Thank you; I'll wait a day or two yet, and see if something doesn't turn up." It was not yet eight o'clock when Richard, after having a bit of lunch, left the restaurant to return to the Massanets'. Feeling that it was early yet, and having a desire to do some "window gazing," he did not go up the Bowery, but strolled up Broadway instead. The magnificent windows and their rare and costly exhibits were to him an enjoyment of the keenest sort, and as he approached the neighborhood of Astor Place, where the book stores seem to have congregated, he walked slower and slower, taking in all there was to be seen of each establishment, how the windows were dressed and the stock arranged, and wondering away down in his heart if he would ever own, or have an interest in, any similar establishment. While deeply engaged in reading the titles of a number of volumes in a certain window, he felt a light tap on his shoulder, and turning, found himself face to face with Earle Norris. The shipping-clerk was dressed in the height of style, including low cut shoes and carried a heavy gold-headed cane. "Hello, Dare!" he exclaimed pleasantly. "What brings you up here?" For an instant Richard was taken aback, not only at meeting Norris, but at being greeted so familiarly after what had occurred during the day. "I have just finished my errand, and thought I'd take a walk to see the sights," he returned. "How is it you are not at the theater?" "As I said, I didn't care to go alone, so took your advice and sold the extra ticket, and also my own. I'll take a walk along with you if you don't mind." Richard was not overpleased at the proposition; yet he could not very well object except by seeming rude, and from this he shrank; so he gave a mild assent. "You see I like to get on good terms with all the boys," explained Norris, as they walked leisurely along. "I'm on the best of terms with every one in the establishment but Massanet, and I'd like to be with him, only he's so awfully slow." "Frank Massanet is a very nice fellow," said Richard stoutly. "Oh, yes--too nice for me, though. But let that pass. Everybody has his peculiarities. Have a smoke?" And Norris pulled two strong-looking cigars from his vest pocket. "I'm much obliged," replied the boy. "I don't smoke." "Try one. They are fine," went on the shipping-clerk, stopping to get a light. "No time like the present for making a beginning. I'm quite sure it won't make you sick." "I don't think I care to try," was all Richard could say; and he heartily wished Earle Norris would go his own way. "Oh, well, it's all right if you don't care to. I find it just the thing to settle my nerves after a big day's work." They walked on in silence for nearly a block, and the boy was wondering how best to leave Norris without offending him when the latter spoke up. "Here are the rooms of the Laurel Club," he said, pointing up to the narrow but brilliantly lighted stairways of a handsome building just around the corner of a side street. "The Laurel Club?" repeated Richard. "Yes; it is a club of about twenty young fellows. I am a member. We have a reading-room, and another for all kinds of games." Norris did not take the trouble to add that "all kinds of games" had narrowed down to simply card playing, and that for money, too. "Just come up for a moment," he went on. "I wish to get a book I left there a few nights ago." "I'll wait for you here," replied Richard. "No, no; I want to show you the rooms. We have some fine pictures and all that up there." Somewhat against his will Richard consented. Norris led the way up three flights of stairs and then down a side hall. Stopping at a certain door he gave two distinct knocks, followed by a single one. There was a hurried movement within, and then the door, which had been securely locked, was cautiously opened. "Hello, Springer!" exclaimed Norris to the tall young man who had admitted them. "You're locked up as if this was a sub-treasury. This is a friend of mine. Mr. Dare, Mr. Springer, our worthy secretary." "Glad to know you, Mr. Dare!" said the other, and he gave Richard's hand a tight grip, but at the same time cast a sidelong, inquiring glance at Norris. "He's a green one," murmured Norris, as he brushed past. "Don't you think we have it cozy up here?" he continued, turning to Richard. Richard was not prepared to answer in the affirmative. His introduction into the place, even though his curiosity has been small, was a disappointment. The room had been nicely furnished once, but the carpet and the furniture showed signs of much wear, and the pictures of which Norris had spoken proved to be several of a remarkably "loud" sort, but of no real artistic value or excellence. "Many of the boys here to-night, Springer?" asked Norris. "Foley, Nichols and two or three others. Will you take a hand in?" "Maybe; I'll see in a little while." "My night at the door," growled Springer. "I hate it." "Never mind; as long as we can't pay a porter some one has got to do it among us. I'll get my book," added the shipping-clerk, glancing at Richard. He entered the next room, closing the door carefully behind him. Richard thought he heard the clinking of glasses within, but he was not sure. In a few moments Norris reappeared. "Come in!" he said. "The boys would like to know you." Not dreaming of what was to come, Richard accepted the invitation. He found himself in a small room, well lighted. The air was heavy with tobacco smoke, and the fumes of liquor were not wanting. But what astonished him most was a group of five fellows seated at the center table, playing cards, with several piles of money in front of them. "They are gambling!" he thought, with something like horror. "I wish I was out of it." "Gentlemen, my friend, Mr. Dare," said Earle Norris. "Come, sit down and make yourself at home," he added, slapping Richard on the shoulder. CHAPTER XIX. THE LAUREL CLUB. Richard felt decidedly uncomfortable over the situation in which he now found himself. It was so unexpected--it had been so forced upon him that he did not know what to do. "Come, take a hand in," repeated Earle Norris, offering him a chair at the table and at the same time removing his hat. "Thank you, but I do not play cards," replied Richard coldly. "Oh, you'll soon learn!" returned the shipping-clerk. "Come, sit down, and I'll give you a few points." "I don't care to learn," was Richard's firm reply. "I never gambled in my life, and I don't intend to begin now." "Say, Norris, what do you want to bring such a fellow up here for?" asked one of the players, with a scowl. "We were just having a jolly good game, and don't care to have it spoilt." "Oh, that's all right. I'm aware of that; but Mr. Dare is a new-comer to New York, and I'm only showing him around a bit." "We don't want any one here who is going to give us away," put in another player. "Harrison, your cut." "I'm quite sure Mr. Dare won't be so mean," said Norris. "Come, make yourself at home." But during the last few minutes Richard had been doing some heavy thinking, and the conclusion of it all was that he had better get out as soon as possible. He had nothing in common with such a crowd, and to remain might place him in an awkward if not dangerous position. "I thought you only wanted to get a book?" he said to Norris. "So I did; but now we are up here we might as well stay awhile and have some fun. It's early yet." "It's not early for me," responded Richard. "I promised to be back by nine o'clock, and it must be near that now. Just give me my hat." For Norris had taken his guest's hat and placed it on a hook beside his own. For reply, the shipping-clerk pulled Richard down into a seat. "Don't be a fool," he whispered. "We won't hurt you. All the fellows here are gentlemen. No use of offending them." Richard sprang to his feet. "I don't want to stay, and that's all there is to it," he exclaimed. "If your friends are offended by my going away, why I can't help it. I didn't come up here of my own choosing in the first place, and I claim the right to leave whenever I please." "Oh, you do, do you?" sneered Norris. "Well, we'll see about that." And he placed himself between Richard and the door. Richard grew pale. "Perhaps I'll have to fight my way out," he thought. "I suppose this is nothing but a gambling den. Well, I'll fight if it comes to that," he finished; and his eyes flashed with determination. "Come, Norris, none of that," said a tall young man, who sat at the head of the table. "No one shall be forced to stay here against his will. You should have found out if your friend cared for this sort of thing before you brought him." It was seldom that Don Wimler said so much, either at the club-rooms or outside, and every one knew he meant every word. Earle Norris's face fell. "Of course, if Dare won't stay, he needn't," he said slowly. "I only thought I was doing him a favor by bringing him." "I hope, Mr. Dare, that you will not speak of what you have seen here to-night," went on Don Wimler. "It might place us in an unpleasant predicament." Richard hesitated. "If I do, it will only be so far as it concerns Mr. Norris and myself," he replied. "I have no desire to hurt you or the others." And going to the door Richard passed swiftly through it to the outer room. Norris was after him on the instant. "What do you mean by saying you may tell on me?" he demanded, with an evil look in his eyes. "I meant just what I said," retorted Richard. "I may be green, but I'm not so green as you take me to be. Let me go." Norris had taken a tight hold of his shoulder. "You shan't go till you promise to keep the thing quiet," he replied grimly. For reply, Richard gathered himself together and gave the shipping-clerk a shove that sent that individual sprawling to the floor. Before Norris could regain his feet, Richard had unlocked the outer door, and was speeding down the stairs. "I made a failure of it that time," muttered the shipping-clerk, as he slowly arose to his feet. "But we'll get even yet, and more than even, too!" Richard breathed a sigh of relief when he emerged once more upon the street. "I'm glad I found Norris out, any way," he said to himself as he hurried along. "I think I can safely put him down as a bad egg." Retracing his way down Broadway the boy at length crossed over to Grand Street, and directed his steps towards the east side. When he reached the Massanets' it was quarter past nine. Mattie let him in, stating that her mother and her brother had not yet returned. Frank had told her of the street urchin and the letters, and she was anxious to hear about the result of Richard's visit to Doc Linyard's, trusting it had been good. Richard related the particulars. He did not mention Norris; and finally the talk drifted around to Pep, the street urchin. "I feel sorry for him," said Mattie Massanet. "We must find out where he lives, and see if we can't do something for him and his sick father." "I've been thinking of it," returned Richard. "He is very shy, and wouldn't even tell me his last name. But perhaps when he sees that I mean him no harm he'll grow more communicative." "We might go down and see his father on a Sunday," went on Mattie. "I suppose the neighborhood in which he lives isn't a very nice one to visit at night." "I'll ask him if we can come." There was something about Mattie Massanet that Richard liked very much. She was gentle as well as lively, and sympathetic as well as full of fun. She reminded him strongly of his sister Nancy in one way, and his sister Grace in another. Indeed it was Mattie who made the Massanet flat a real home for him. Presently there were footsteps on the stairs, and in a moment Mrs. Massanet and her son entered. They had been shopping over in the French district, and carried several bundles. It was now drawing towards ten o'clock, and only a few words were spoken before the good-nights were said. In the upper hall Richard asked Frank to come to his room, and giving his friend a chair and seating himself upon the edge of the bed he told of his adventure with Norris. "I have suspected Norris of something like that for several months," said Frank. "I was tolerable sure that he was spending more money than he was making now. He must be an expert player or else an unfair one. I suppose he thought as long as he got you there the rest would follow easy enough. I'm glad you didn't give in. If you had, he or his companions would have won every cent you had, and perhaps have placed you in debt to them." "What would you do? Tell on him?" "Williams & Mann ought to know what kind of a fellow their shipping-clerk is," replied Frank. "Yet one word about it may cost Norris his position. Suppose you wait a day or two? Watch how he acts and think it over." Richard thought this was good advice, and told Frank he guessed it was just what he would do; and on this conclusion the two separated. Far better would it have been for both, however, if they had taken their information to the firm at once. Later happenings will explain why. CHAPTER XX. TROUBLE BREWING. In the morning Richard went to work as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. It was not until after dinner that business called him down to the packing-room, and then there were several others besides Norris present. Yet the shipping-clerk evinced a strong desire to talk to Richard privately, and finally accosted him just as he was going up the stairs. "Say, I hope you'll let what happened last night pass," he said in an undertone. "I only wanted to show you a little of life here, and didn't dream you'd resent it as you did." "Well, next time you will understand that I mean what I say," returned Richard sharply. "I know I was to blame," went on Norris humbly. "But to tell the truth I'd had a glass of champagne at supper time, and my head wasn't as clear as it should have been. If you say anything of it here, though, I may be discharged." "Well, I won't say anything unless something more happens," Richard replied. "I don't want to get any one into trouble. But I'll tell you, Mr. Norris," he went on, "I think you're on the wrong track. Take my advice, even if I am younger than you, and steer clear of the Laurel Club." "I'll think of it," replied the shipping-clerk, turning away. "I guess I've shut the young fool up," he muttered to himself. "He might have placed me in a decided fix if he had told all he knew." Of course Richard reported the interview to Frank. Indeed the two were now deep in each other's confidence, and no such thought as keeping the matter to himself would have crossed Richard's mind. "Perhaps it will teach him a lesson," said Frank. "But I doubt it. Better keep an eye on him." Later in the day Mr. Mann came up to the stock-room, looking very black. He asked a number of questions about some books that had been sent to Troy four days before. "The party that received them says there were five or six sets of Irving's works badly damaged. Do you know anything about it?" "No, sir," replied Frank promptly. "Those we packed up were all in first-class order." "Well, there was some damaged stock here." "Yes, sir, quite a good deal that was soaked by that water-pipe bursting three weeks ago. But Mr. Williams ordered us to sort it out, and it was all sent to the second-hand dealer's last week." "Are you sure?" "Positive, sir. Dare, here, helped me ship it off." Mr. Mann turned to Richard. "That's so, Mr. Mann," put in the latter. "And I remember well that before the last box went down we hunted high and low to see that nothing that was damaged in the least should be left behind." "Well, it's mighty queer how those people in Troy should get twenty odd volumes of damaged stock. We'll have to make a reduction in their bill, I suppose. Be careful of the goods shipped in the future." And with this retort Mr. Mann took the elevator and went below. "I can't see how those people could have got a single damaged volume," said Richard when the head of the firm had departed. "I remember that box well, and every volume in it was perfect." On returning to the Massanets' that evening Frank heard bad news. An aunt had died over in Port Richmond, on Staten Island. His mother had gone to the place at once, and wished her son to come to the funeral, on the following afternoon. "Of course I'll have to go," said Frank to Richard. "I'll stop at the store on my way down and let the firm know, and also help you enough to get along while I am gone." This Frank did. He readily obtained permission from Mr. Williams to be absent, and at ten o'clock Richard found himself in sole charge of the stockroom. There were a number of important orders to fill, and the boy worked like a beaver to get them done in time. "I'm so glad for the chance to do something for Frank; he has been so kind," said Richard to himself. "Besides, some day I may wish him to do me a like favor." Richard was careful that there should be no mistakes, and it is perhaps needless to state that he had both eyes wide open for damaged books. While hard at work, with his coat off and his sleeves rolled up, Mr. Williams appeared. He was quite an old man, and in many respects much pleasanter than his partner. "I came up to see how you were making out," he said. "You will have your hands full, trying to do two men's work." "Oh, I guess I can manage it," replied Richard pleasantly. "I wouldn't want to do it very long, though," he added. "I'll give you a hand," said Mr. Williams. "This used to be my work years ago, and I still like it." "Here is an order from Pittsburgh I can't read very well," said Richard. "I'd be much obliged if you will help me on that." "All right. Give it to me." In a few minutes employer and employee were hard at work together. Mr. Williams had not intended to stay very long, but he became interested, both in the work and in Richard, and it was only when, two hours later, a message came for him, that he went below. "He is a nice man," thought Richard, when Mr. Williams had gone. "I am sure he would not have treated Mr. Mann with more consideration than he did me. No wonder Mr. Joyce called for him first the day he brought me here." A little later Earle Norris came up. "Hello! alone?" he exclaimed. "Yes." "How's that?" Thought Massanet was as steady as clockwork. Richard told him why Frank was absent. "Oh, that's all right," said Norris. "What brought you up?" asked Richard. "I came up to see if Martin's order from Pittsburgh was filled yet. It's got to go first thing in the morning." "There it is; been done half an hour ago," replied Richard. He did not think it necessary to add that Mr. Williams had filled it. "All right; send it down at once," replied Norris. "Rather tough, making you do all the work," he added. "I'd strike for higher pay." "I am very well satisfied with the way I am treated," returned Richard. Norris disappeared, and a moment later Richard sent the crate containing the goods down on the elevator to be packed up below. After that he worked steadily until six o'clock, at which time he had the satisfaction of knowing that every order sent up had been promptly and correctly filled. Richard found Frank and his mother already at home when he reached there in the evening. The funeral of Mrs. Massanet's sister had been a quiet, but sad affair, and Richard saw that no one was in humor for much talking, and all retired early. Frank was not a little astonished in the morning to find that Richard had done all the work so well, and also that Mr. Williams had helped. "I declare, between you, you'll soon be cutting me out of a job," he laughed. "Oh, I hope not," returned Richard. "If I'd thought that, I surely would not have worked so hard." "Oh, it's all right," replied Frank. "If I ever go into business for myself," he thought, "Richard Dare is just the clerk I want to help me. He is bright, and not afraid of work, and those are the fellows who get along." Frank Massanet's one idea was to some day own a bookstore of his own. He understood the trade thoroughly, and with the proper location and a fair amount of cash he was tolerably certain that he could make such a place pay. His savings amounted to several hundred dollars now; he was only waiting for the time to come when they would be at least a thousand. Then he intended to strike out for himself. The two worked on steadily through most of the day. Late in the afternoon a boy came up from below. "Mr. Mann would like to see you in his private office," he said to Richard. The latter was surprised at the announcement. Since he had gone to work he had not been called for once before. "What does he want of me?" "I don't know," replied the boy. "He is awful mad about something, and has sent for several of the others." "I can't understand it," said Richard to Frank, as he put on his coat. "I don't know of anything that has gone wrong." And considerably worried, Richard descended to the ground floor, and knocked on the door of the private office. CHAPTER XXI. RICHARD IN TROUBLE. Richard found Mr. Mann alone. The gentleman was seated at his desk and greeted the boy coldly. "You sent for me, I believe," began Richard. "Yes," replied Mr. Mann, "I want to have a little talk with you." He gazed at Richard sharply. "How long have you lived in New York?" he asked. "Two weeks, sir. I was only here two days before I came to work for you." "But you are pretty well acquainted with the place?" "Not very well, sir. I was never here before. But I think I can find my way anywhere quick enough, if you wish to send me on an errand," he added, thinking Mr. Mann might possibly have some commission for him to execute. "No doubt you could," replied the gentleman dryly. "But I don't wish to send you anywhere. You are an orphan, I believe. Where do you live?" "I board with the Massanets." "Does Norris board with them, too?" "No, sir." "Where does he live?" "I don't know." "You don't know?" "No, sir." Mr. Mann gazed at Richard severely. "I thought you two were good friends," he said. "I hardly know Norris," replied Richard. "He is certainly no friend of mine." Richard felt that the present would have been a good time to tell what he knew about the shipping-clerk, but remembering his half promise to the latter he remained silent. "You may go," said Mr. Mann, briefly; "but stop. Have you any keys belonging to this place in your possession?" "Keys? No, sir." "Oh, all right." "But--what made you ask that?" began Richard, considerably perplexed. "I wanted to know, that was all." "We have no keys of anything up in the stock-room," continued the boy. "I know _that_. You can go to work," Mr. Mann snapped. And Richard passed out. "Either that boy is perfectly honest or else he is the most accomplished actor I ever saw," thought the merchant when left alone. "Well, what's the trouble?" asked Frank, when Richard reached the stock-room. "I hope you haven't been discharged." "No, it's not as bad as that, but I--I don't know what to make of it, and that's a fact." The stock-clerk listened carefully to the story Richard had to tell. "Depend upon it there is something in the wind. You had better watch Norris; he may be getting you into trouble." "I half wish I had told the firm of Norris's actions," said Richard. "Perhaps it would have been best," replied Frank. On the way home that night the two met Pep. The urchin had evidently been waiting for Richard, for he ran up at once. "I've got something for you, Mr. Dare," he exclaimed, and shifting his bundle of papers he drew out a silver dollar from his ragged clothes. "Here is one of de dollars I owes yer. I'll have de odder one in a few days, I guess." "Did you earn it?" asked Richard, without taking the proffered coin. "Yes, sir, honestly too, sellin' papers." "And how is your father? Any better?" "Not much, sir. That pneumony hangs on so." "Perhaps you had better keep this money. You may need it for medicine." "No, sir, I'm earning enough to buy that now. I want you to take this. I'd feel better if yer did. If it wasn't fer dad I a-given it to yer long ago." "All right then." Richard slipped the coin in his pocket. "I'd like to see your father once, and see how you live. Maybe I and my friend here, Mr. Massanet, can help you a bit. Can I come?" Pep hung his head. "We live in a garret, and you'd find it mighty dirty. Nobody with good clothes has got any right there." "We won't mind the dirt," put in Frank eagerly. "Only let us come. I'm sure we can help you some." "Where can we meet you, Pep?" asked Richard, seeing that the little Arab wavered. "I suppose we can't find your home alone very well." "Guess you can't. We're in a heap down our way. I dunno," the last in reference to the meeting. "Just wherever you two gentlemen says. You was so kind I guess dad won't mind my bringin' you." "Suppose you come up to our house," suggested Frank. "Will you do that?" "Yes, sir, if yer want me." "I do. Come to dinner at one o'clock, and we'll take something along for your father." Frank described the location and the house in which he lived. "Do you think you can find it?" he concluded. "Walk right in de front door wid me eyes shet," laughed Pep. "You're mighty kind," he added soberly. "Will you come?" "Yes, sir." "Sure?" put in Richard. "I will, 'ceptin' dad's so sick I can't" replied Pep. In the evening Richard and Frank took a walk, first up town and then down Broadway. On the way the boy pointed out to his friend the building in which the meetings of the Laurel Club were held. "I wonder if Norris is up there to-night," observed Frank. "Suppose we stand here in the shadow for a while and watch who goes in and comes out." Richard agreed to this, and crossing the street they took a stand directly opposite the entrance to the place. Here they waited for perhaps fifteen minutes. At the end of that time along came Norris, arm in arm with another member of the club. "There he goes!" exclaimed Richard, as the two went up the stairs. "There is a man watching them?" added Frank, as another individual, who had come close behind the others stopped at the corner. "Wonder who it is?" "He's coming over here," said Richard. "We'll get in this hallway and see him as he passes. I suppose he's a stranger to us." Near by was a dark hallway, partly open. Both of the boys stepped into it, and an instant later the stranger went by. When he was gone Frank uttered an exclamation. "I saw that fellow talking to Mr. Mann in the post-office only a few days ago! I think he is a private detective." Richard gave a start. "Then I see it all," he groaned. "That man knows of Norris's doings, and as he has seen me in his company he thinks I'm in with that crowd, and has probably told Mr. Mann so." "Very likely that's the case," admitted Frank, after a moment's thought. "It's an awful fix to be in," continued Richard. "I don't know how I can ever clear my name. Even if I tell what I know about Norris I have no proofs to show that I didn't go to that place willingly." "That's true. You're in a bad light at the best. It's a shame! I'll tell you what you do." "What?" "There is no reason why you should suffer on Norris's account. He is no friend of yours, and has been trying to lead you astray. Who knows but what, if he is left alone, he may not try some day to get you in even deeper? I'd go to Mr. Williams and tell him the whole truth." At first Richard demurred. He did not wish to "tattle" on anybody, and, besides, not having a forward nature, he shrank from the exposure. But Frank soon talked him out of this, and by the time they reached the Massanets' home Richard decided to "have it out" the first thing in the morning. But upon reaching the store the following day a disappointment awaited him. Mr. Williams had gone to Boston, and would not be back for several days. "I hate to tell Mr. Mann," said Richard. "I guess I'll wait till Mr. Williams returns." "I wouldn't," replied Frank. "I'd have it off my mind at once." But the thought of facing Mr. Mann was not a pleasant one, and the boy hesitated. While deliberating upon what to do the office boy appeared. "Mr. Mann wants you down in his office right away," he said to Richard. "What, again?" "Yes, sir. Told me to tell you to come right down." "Oh, Frank, I'm sure something is wrong!" cried Richard, when the boy was gone. "It looks so," replied the stock-clerk. "Never mind. Remember you are in the right, and keep a stiff upper lip." Much troubled in mind, Richard slowly descended the steps, and entered Mr. Mann's office. As before the gentleman was alone. "You wish to see me, sir?" began Richard, and somehow his voice trembled in spite of himself. "Yes, I do," replied Mr. Mann coldly. "I wish to tell you that your services are no longer required. Here is your salary for this week. You can leave at once." Had Richard been struck in the face he would not have been more taken aback than he was by this short and cold speech. "But--Mr. Mann--I--" he began. "I want no words with you," interrupted the merchant. "You understand why you are discharged as well as I do." "Yes, but I'm sure--" "No words, sir. Don't you understand me? I wish you to leave instantly," cried Mr. Mann irascibly. Richard colored. "I'll go," he said. "But let me say that I consider you are treating me very unfairly." And with tears of indignation in his eyes, Richard left the office. CHAPTER XXII. RICHARD VISITS MR. JOYCE AGAIN. "I'm discharged, Frank." Frank Massanet dropped the books he held in his hands. "Discharged!" he cried. "Surely, Dick, you don't mean it!" "I do," replied Richard. "Mr. Mann has given me my wages for this week, and says he wants me to leave at once." "But how--what did he have to say? What did he accuse you of?" "He had very little to say. He said I knew quite as well as he did why I was discharged." "But didn't he give you a chance to explain?" "No; he wouldn't let me say a word. I tried to, but he shut me right up." "It's a shame," exclaimed the stock-clerk, indignantly. "I never thought Mr. Mann could be so unfair." He hesitated a moment. "I'll do it; yes, I will," he went on, half to himself. "Do what?" asked Richard. "Go down and have a talk with him. He's in the wrong, and ought to be told so." "No, no, don't go down!" cried Richard in alarm. "I could plainly see that he was in a bad temper, and you'll only get yourself into trouble." "I don't care, it's--" began the stock-clerk with flashing eyes, that showed up well the force of character within. "No, no!" repeated Richard. He would not have his friend get into trouble on his account for the world. "I am much obliged to you for wanting to help me, indeed I am, but I'd rather leave the thing as it is." "What will you do?" "I hardly know yet. I'm completely upset and want time to think." "You're not going to sit down and calmly submit to it, I hope?" "Indeed I'm not. Mr. Mann has cast a slur on my character, and I'm going to remove that, no matter what happens afterwards." Richard washed his hands and put on his coat in silence. Frank Massanet sat on the edge of a packing case and watched the boy thoughtfully. "I wonder if Earle Norris has been discharged?" he remarked. "If any one was to go he should have been the person." "I don't know," replied Richard. "I'll try to find out as I go down." "Where are you going?" "I don't know that either. I must think it over." "Never mind; remember what I said before; you're in the right, so keep a stiff upper lip," returned Frank. When Richard went down he passed through the shipping-room. Earle Norris was hard at work, sending off orders. He looked surprised, or pretended to, as the boy entered. "Hello!" he exclaimed, "Off early?" "Yes, I am," returned Richard briefly. "How's that? Got a vacation?" "Yes." The boy did not care to be further questioned, and so quickly left the building. "Reckon he's discharged," muttered Norris under his breath. "So far Harrison's scheme works well. Now I must use my wits to clear myself." "Norris does not act as if he had received bad news," thought Richard, with a shake of his head. "I can't make it out. There is something behind it all, but what it is, still remains to be seen." Richard walked down Beekman Street and then turned the corners of several other streets. He had no definite plan in mind, and time seemed at that particular moment of no great value. Finally he found himself in the neighborhood of the leather district, and determined to call upon Mr. Joyce. He was not long in reaching the latter's warehouse, and a moment later found himself in the merchant's office. As usual Mr. Joyce was hard at work at his desk. He looked surprised at Richard's entrance, but finished the letter he was writing before he turned around and spoke. "Well, Dare, dropped in to see me?" he said pleasantly. "Have a chair." "Thank you, Mr. Joyce. Yes, I--I have come to see you," said Richard, hardly knowing how to begin. "I want your advice," he added. "Yes? Well, you can have that, I'm sure. How are you making out at Williams & Mann's?" "I was discharged this morning." "What!" Mr. Joyce's face betrayed resentment, anger, pity and curiosity, all in one. "But believe me, sir, I am not to blame," went on Richard hastily. "I have done my work, and more, faithfully, and Mr. Mann would give no reason for discharging me." "But there must have been some reason," exclaimed the leather merchant flatly. "No one sends away an efficient clerk without cause." "Well, I can't make it out," replied the boy. "That's the reason I came to you. I'm sure I haven't done anything wrong, and I haven't been negligent." Richard's earnest manner had its full effect upon Mr. Joyce. "Well, tell me your story," he said. "Tell me every word of the plain truth. Unless you do that I can't help you a bit." So Richard told of everything that had happened since he had gone to work--of his intimacy with the Massanets, his acquaintanceship with Earle Norris, the adventure at the Laurel Club, and all. Mr. Joyce listened in silence until the boy's story was concluded. Then he put a number of questions, to make sure that nothing had been left out or covered up. "I can't see how you are to blame," he said at the last. "You did wrong not to let some one know how this Norris had treated you, but you have done nothing, as far as I can make out, to warrant dismissal. I will go up and see Mr. Mann in a little while--just as soon as I finish my morning's work. Will you go along?" "If you think I ought to. Mr. Mann wanted me to get out though, and talked as if he didn't want to see me again." "Never mind. Everybody is entitled to a hearing, and Mr. Mann is probably laboring under a false impression." In half an hour the two were on the way. Richard's heart beat quickly as they walked along, for in some manner Mr. Joyce's presence inspired him with confidence. When they reached the store Mr. Mann had gone out for lunch. In a few minutes, however, he returned. He greeted Mr. Joyce with cold politeness, and then frowned openly upon Richard. "Say, Mel, what's the trouble here?" began Mr. Joyce, diving right into the subject at hand. "My young friend says he has been discharged without warning." "We have paid him his week's wages," replied Mr. Mann stiffly. "So he says, but he wants to know why you discharged him. He says you acted as if something was wrong." "Well, something _is_ wrong," admitted the book-merchant; and then he added in an undertone: "I meant to send you word about it. I don't care to have the boy aware how much or how little I do know. Send him out, and I'll tell you the whole affair. The boy is not so innocent as he looks." "Bosh! I told you before I knew an honest face when I saw it, and I'll wager he's as honest as the day is long. Dare," continued Mr. Joyce, turning to Richard, "just go outside in the store and wait for me." "Yes, sir." Richard went out as directed. In the short time that he had been with Williams & Mann he had come but little in contact with the clerks downstairs, and they hardly knew him, and now allowed him to stand around as though he was a stranger. The dismissal made him feel strange, too. He wished he could go upstairs to Frank, but he did not know how soon Mr. Joyce might want him. He wondered how Frank was getting along, and who the firm would get to help him. A short half hour passed. It seemed like an age to Richard. Then the private office door opened and Mr. Joyce called for him to come in. Hardly knowing what to expect, the boy entered. Mr. Joyce closed the door carefully behind him. "Well, Dare," began Mr. Mann, "we have talked your case over pretty thoroughly, and while there are some things in your conduct that I don't like, yet I admit that perhaps I was hasty in judging you. I did not care to explain all I know for reasons you may learn later. You may go to work again if you wish." "Thank you, sir," replied the boy, nearly as much surprised at this sudden turn as he had been at the first. "But I--" "Never mind, now. I know there are many things you would like to know, and which, perhaps, I ought to explain; but for the present you will have to let that pass." "I'm willing to, as long as it comes out right in the end," replied the boy. "Thank you, Mr. Joyce, for your kindness," he added, turning to the leather merchant, and then withdrew. CHAPTER XXIII. STRANGE DISCOVERIES. Frank Massanet was surprised and delighted to have Richard come to work again. "You have indeed a good friend in Mr. Joyce," he remarked when the boy had told him what the leather merchant had done. "One such is worth a thousand of the common sort." During the afternoon Earle Norris had occasion to come up to the stock-room. He started back upon seeing Richard at work. "Why, I thought you had taken a vacation!" he exclaimed. "So I did--for an hour," replied Richard, and without further words went on with his work. "Why, I thought--" began the shipping-clerk. "What did you think?" demanded Frank, coming forward. "Why I--I----" stammered Norris. "What business is it of _yours_?" he added rudely. "You thought he was discharged," went on Frank. "You've been trying your best to get him discharged." "Who says so?" demanded Norris, but he turned slightly pale as he uttered the words. "I say so. I don't understand your scheme, but that's what you are trying to do; and I warn you that you had better quit it." It was seldom that Frank Massanet spoke in such an arbitrary way, yet it was plain to see that he meant every word he said. "You're mistaken," returned Norris, hardly knowing how to reply. "But it's only natural that you should stick up for your mother's boarders. They help support the family, I suppose." And with this parting shot the shipping-clerk hurried below. In the middle of the afternoon Mr. Mann sent for Richard and asked the boy to accompany him to an office on lower Broadway. "I wish you to keep our visit to the place a secret," he said. "I might as well tell you something is going wrong at our place. Goods are missing from several departments and we cannot trace them. They are taken by some one in our employ, but there must be a confederate outside." "Did Mr. Joyce tell you about----" "Norris? Yes; but I knew that. I thought you were in collusion with him, because you were seen in his company." "By that detective, I suppose." "Do you know him?" asked the book merchant, in much surprise. "Not much; Frank Massanet told me of him." And Richard related the particulars. "But did not Norris try to get me out of a position?" he added. "Yes--no--I don't know." Mr. Mann contracted his brow, and then a light seemed to break in upon him. "He did cast suspicion upon you, but I thought that was only done for effect--I couldn't exactly understand it." "Perhaps he wished to get some one in my place--some one who would aid him--that is, if he is the guilty party. Who had my place before?" "A tall young man named Springer. He was discharged for incompetency. "Springer!" exclaimed Richard. "That was the name of the doorkeeper at the Laurel Club. He and Norris are great friends." "Ah! Then I see it. Hold up! We received two applications for your position only last week." "What were the names?" asked the boy, deeply interested. "I have them here in my note-book," replied Mr. Mann, feeling in his pocket. "Do you remember the names of those you met at that club?" Richard thought a moment. "Harrison, Foley, Nichols and Springer, I think. I'm pretty good at remembering names," he returned. Mr. Mann got out his notebook. "Here they are!" he cried. "Andrew S. Foley is one, and Henry Nichols the other." He jammed the volume back into his pocket. "It's as clear as day. There is no necessity for your going with me now. You can return to the store; but remember, not a word of this, even to Massanet." "I'll remember, sir." When Richard returned to the stock-room, his friend, of course, wanted to know what was up, but the boy only replied that it was all right, and that Mr. Mann had requested him to keep silent. Throughout the entire establishment there appeared to be the feeling that something was about to happen--what, no one knew. As the two boys were returning home that evening, they met the street urchin Pep, who greeted them politely. He had a bigger bundle of papers than ever, and seemed to be prospering in his street trade. Nevertheless, he had a sober, earnest look upon his countenance that caught Richard's eye immediately. "What's up, Pep?" he asked kindly. "Dad's worse, sir," replied the boy. "I don't think I can come up Sunday, 'ceptin' he gets better." "Wouldn't you like us to come down, any way?" asked Frank. "I would, yes; but he wouldn't. His head ain't right, and he don't want no one around 'ceptin' me." "Well, will you come up to the house, and get some nice stuff I will give you? Some eating and the like?" continued Frank. "Yes, sir; thank you." "I'll expect you. Good-by." "Good-by, sir. Good-by, Mr. Dare," cried Pep. "Oh, say," he added, running back, "I reckon I can give you that other dollar by Monday." On Saturday afternoon, as they were starting home early, Frank unfolded his scheme of one day going into business for himself. "I would like to see you do it," cried Richard, "and make a big success of it, too. You deserve it, Frank--such a good fellow as you are!" A few minutes later a funeral of some old soldier passed. There were several coaches, and then a post of Grand Army men. The sight was a sad one to Richard. "My father was a soldier," he said to his companion. "He was shot, too," he added, with a sigh. "Yes?" said Frank. "Then your mother gets a pension," he added, after a pause. "No, she does not. She ought to have one, but we cannot get our claim passed. My father let it rest so long that when he did try he could find no witness." And Richard related the full particulars of the case. Frank Massanet listened attentively. "I think, as your sister Grace says, I'd turn the whole country upside down before I'd give up the hope of finding a witness," he said. "Why, it would amount to several thousand dollars! A small fortune!" "I'm going to try as soon as I get settled," replied Richard. "I haven't any money to do anything with yet." "I'd advertise as soon as I could afford it," suggested Frank. "And I'd write to the secretaries of all these old soldiers' organizations, too, giving your father's full name and what he belonged to." "That's a good idea," exclaimed Richard. "I'll do that this week. I have plenty of time in the evening, and can get the addresses from the directory." CHAPTER XXIV. PEP'S HOME. Sunday morning dawned clear and bright. Richard was naturally an early riser, but the unaccustomed sounds in the streets awoke him at an even earlier hour than he usually arose, and when seven o'clock came, and the Massanets assembled for breakfast, they found that their boarder had had quite a delightful walk. By ten o'clock the Massanets were all ready and bound for church. When the congregation was dismissed, Richard and Frank hurried home ahead, wishing to see if Pep had come. They found the street urchin waiting for them at the door. He was very pale and nearly out of breath. "I was thinkin' you'd never come!" he gasped. "I run all de way, and went upstairs, but couldn't find nobody." "What's the matter?" cried Richard. "Is your father worse?" "Yes, indeed; a heap worse. I was thinkin' he was goin' to croak last night." "I'll go right down with you." "Shall I go, too?" put in Frank hesitatingly. "I'll go willingly if you want me." "I dunno," replied Pep slowly. "Dad don't want no visitors. I was only going to get Mr. Dare. But I reckon you can come. Dad won't know de difference. He ain't right here." And the street urchin tapped his forehead significantly. Rushing upstairs, Frank got out a basket and filled it with a number of things that Mrs. Massanet and Mattie had prepared. He was down again in a moment, and then the three, guided by Pep, hurried off. It was far down on the east side, through streets that are narrow, dirty and notorious for crimes of all kinds, that the boy led them. "'Tain't no nice walk to take," he said, "and you're dressed too good to go through here after dark. If you come ag'in put on yer old clo'es; da won't notice you so much." "I'm glad that your sister isn't along," said Richard to Frank, with a shudder. "I never dreamed of a place as wretched as this." "Mattie knows how bad it is," returned Frank. "In her mission class she has several children from the Italian quarter, and that's every bit as bad as this." "Here we are," remarked Pep, as they came to a narrow court. "Dis is my street. Da calls it de Fryin' Pan, 'cause one of de houses took fire last year and ten people were burnt up." On this Sunday morning the Frying Pan was alive with people, Jewish tailors and cloakmakers, who were enjoying a bit of needed rest. They filled the doorways and the steps, and down on the pavement the children ran around, shouting and playing games. Picking their way among the latter and the heaps of dirt and streams of filthy water on all sides, the two boys followed Pep to the end of the court. Curious eyes gazed after them, and open remarks concerning their presence in that locality were not wanting. But to these the two paid no attention, though both were glad enough to escape into the hallway of the tenement to which the street boy led them. "Look out for de stairway," cautioned Pep, as they ascended the first flight. "It's mighty rotten, and you kin break a leg widout half tryin'." Up and up they went, until finally they stopped at the door of a room on the top floor and in the rear. "Here we are," whispered Pep. "Let me go in alone first, and see how he is." The street urchin opened the door and went inside. In a moment he reappeared. "He's asleep," he said. "You can come in." The room was part of a garret, with a sloping side and a dormer window. Opposite was a large brick chimney with an open fireplace. Near it lay a mattress on the floor, and upon this rested a man. He was apparently nearly fifty years of age. His face and form were terribly shrunken, and his untrimmed hair and beard and generally untidy appearance made him a repulsive object indeed. "That's him," whispered Pep. "Glad he's asleep. Hope he don't raise no row when he wakes up." Just then the man turned and moaned to himself. "Water! Water!" he cried. "Have you any?" asked Richard. "Yes, but 'tain't fresh," replied Pep. "I'll get some." And catching up a pail, he ran out of the room and down the stairs. "That man has a raging fever," declared Frank, after a careful look at the sufferer. "There ought to be more ventilation here," said Richard, "I'm going to open that window." For the dormer window, the only one in the place, was tightly closed. It was no easy job. The window had probably not been opened for some time, and stuck obstinately. Finally it went up with a bang, and a draught of fresh air swept into the place. "It's a pretty stiff breeze," remarked Frank; "but too much is certainly better than too little." The noise had aroused the sick man, and, opening his eyes, he stared at the two boys. "Ah, I've caught you!" he cried. "Pep! Pep! Bind them--don't let 'em get away. Where's the water?-- "Water, water everywhere, Upon the deep blue sea; Water, water, here and there, But not a drop for me! "That used to be Doc's favorite song. Why don't you give poor Tom a drink? Where's Betty? She'll give her brother what he wants. Oh, Pep, Pep, don't leave your dad to die of thirst!" Richard uttered an exclamation, and grasped Frank's arm. "That man is Tom Clover!" he gasped. "He is Doc Linyard's lost brother-in-law!" CHAPTER XXV. TOM CLOVER. For a moment Richard could not realize the discovery that he had made. Could this weak, delirious man be Doc Linyard's brother-in-law, the one for whom the old sailor had been searching so diligently and so unsuccessfully? If such was the fact then his visit to Frying Pan Court would undoubtedly be productive of more than one good result. "What makes you think he is the man?" asked Frank Massanet, with considerable astonishment. "Because he mentioned his own name as Tom, and I know Betty is the sailor's wife's name," replied Richard. "He doesn't look very respectable," went on Frank. "He isn't a relative for even a man like Mr. Linyard to be proud of." "He may look better after he's shaved and washed and fixed up a bit," returned Richard; "that is, if he gets well," he added, in sudden alarm. "Pep, Pep," went on the sufferer, "where's the water?" "Here you are, dad, nice and fresh," and Pep entered with his pail full. "Whew! but he does drink a pile!" he added to the two, as he held a cup to his father's lips. "I've brought something you can give him," said Frank, going to his basket and depositing the articles upon a rickety table that stood in a corner. "And we'll send a doctor around here, too," he added. "You haven't had one lately, I guess." "Not this week. He charged too much, and he wouldn't come if I didn't pay aforehand," replied the street urchin. "Pep, what is your full name?" asked Richard abruptly. The boy was silent. "Why won't you tell me? I don't want to hurt you." "Dad said afore he got sick he didn't want people to know it; that's why," exclaimed Pep finally. "Why not? He's honest, I'm sure." "Honest? Bet yer he is! But he don't want his old friends to know how he's come down." "Oh!" exclaimed Richard, a new light breaking in upon him. "Then you were better off once?" "'Deed we were when marm was alive, and sister Mary. When they died dad went on a spree--the first and last one--and spent what money was left after the bills was paid. Then he sold our stuff and we came here, and I got into the streets." "How long ago is that?" "'Most three years. It's been tough times since then." And Pep suddenly raised his coat sleeve to wipe away two big tears that had started to come down his cheeks. "Did you ever know anything of an Uncle Doc?" asked Richard suddenly. Pep gave a cry. "What do you know of my Uncle Doc?" he exclaimed trembling. "Oh, Mr. Dare, did he--did he--" "What? Send me here? No; but he is looking all over for your father. Then your name is Pep Clover?" "Yes, sir. But how did you find it out?" "Your father's talking led me to think so. I'm glad I found you for there is money coming to your father. How much I don't know, but quite some." "Money coming to him?" Pep's eyes opened widely. Then suddenly his face fell. "Yer foolin' me." "No, I'm not. It's money from an uncle in England, left to your father and your Aunt Betty." Pep gave a whoop. "Hooray!" he cried, with a wild fling of his arms. "How much is it? As much as twenty--as fifty dollars?" "Yes, a good many fifty dollars," replied Richard with a smile. "And kin dad have a nuss and medicine? Maybe they'll let him in the hospital if he pays, hey? And I'll get some new clo'es, and then they'll let me come and see him." Pep rattled on as if the idea of sudden wealth had turned his head. "I'll go and tell your uncle," said Richard at length. "I know it will be a big surprise to him." "Kin you find the way from here and back?" asked Pep anxiously. "I don't know," replied Richard doubtfully. "I wish you could come along." "I would, only--" and the urchin pointed to the mattress. "Go ahead," put in Frank. "I'll tend to him while you are gone, I don't think I'll have any trouble." "Dad gets mighty cranky sometimes," returned Pep, with a doubtful shake of his head. "Never mind; I'll manage it. You won't be gone over an hour, I guess," added the stock-clerk to Richard. "I think not; that is, if we can find Doc Linyard. His place is no doubt shut up and he may be away." A moment later Richard, accompanied by Pep, went down into the court and made their way to the street beyond. The urchin was all eager expectation, and if it had not been for Richard, for whom it was hard work to keep up as it was, he would have run the entire way. In a few minutes they were down on the Bowery, and passing Park Row, the only lively spot in lower New York on Sunday, they crossed Fulton Street and so on down to West. As Richard had anticipated, the Watch Below was closed. Doc Linyard did not keep his place open on Sunday, excepting for an hour or two early in the morning. "I'll have to see if I can knock him up," he said to Pep. And raising his foot he kicked several times on the lower portion of the door. "Something like the first night, when I got lost," he thought to himself. "What changes have occurred since then!" Richard repeated his kicking, and presently there were sounds of footsteps within, the turning of a key in the lock, and then the door opened cautiously, revealing Mrs. Linyard. "Oh, it's you!" she exclaimed. "Come in! I was afraid it might be some drunken man; there's so many here of a Sunday, trying to get in." "Aunt Betty, don't you know me!" piped up Pep's voice, all in a tremble. Mrs. Linyard turned and surveyed the street urchin eagerly. "Mercy me! if it hain't Tom's boy!" she ejaculated. "Where in the world did you come from?" "Mr. Dare brought me," replied Pep. Mrs. Linyard caught him up in her arms. "Who'd a believed it!" she cried. "Mr. Dare a doing of it. Why, you're as dirty as a pig! Where's your dad and your marm and sister Mary?" "Dad's sick. We just left him. Marm and Mary are dead. Mr. Dare says you've got money for dad. I'm so glad, 'cause he's sick." "Mother and Mary dead!" The sad news brought the tears to the woman's eyes. "Poor dear! Poor Tom!" "Mr. Clover is very sick," said Richard. "He has no one to care for him but Pep. Is Mr. Linyard at home?" "Yes; taking his nap on the sofa. I'll call him--or no, come up. My, what a surprise 'twill be for him! He'd about given up." Taking Pep by the hand Mrs. Linyard led the way up to her "best room," where her husband lay sound asleep on a lounge. "Get up, Doc!" she cried, shaking him vigorously. "Get up! Here's your nevvy; and Mr. Dare has found Tom! Just think of it--he's found Tom! Wake up, Doc! Was ever there such a man! To keep on sleeping with such good news to hear!" CHAPTER XXVI. A SCENE IN THE STOCK-ROOM. But Doc Linyard did not sleep for any great length of time after his good wife began to shake him. A moment later he sprang up, rubbing his eyes. "Ship ahoy!" he cried heartily. "What's up, what's the trouble?" Then catching sight of Richard and Pep: "Hello, visitors! How are you, Dare?" "Here's Tom's son," repeated Mrs. Linyard. "Mr. Dare has found Tom." "_What!_" The old sailor looked at the street urchin. "Bless my heart if it _hain't_ Tom's son! Well, well, Dare; this is better than getting them letters back." And he took hold of Pep with both hands. Richard had it on his tongue's end to say that Pep was the one who had taken the letters in the first place, but a second thought made him keep silent. It would do no good to tell, and he would be willing to vouch for the boy's honesty in the future. Richard's story, as well as Pep's, was soon told, and then Doc Linyard and his wife prepared to accompany the two back to Frying Pan Court. "I'm glad I've got a little money saved," said the old sailor to Richard, as they hurried across town. "Poor Tom shan't want for anything while there's a shot left in the locker. It's funny he wouldn't let us know his condition." "He was allers sensitive," put in Mrs. Linyard, "and I suppose coming down made him more so." It was not long before the little party reached the dingy garret room where the sufferer lay. Frank received them with a warning for silence. He said he had had quite a turn with the sick man, but now Mr. Clover had dropped back exhausted and was dozing. Mrs. Linyard wept bitterly as she knelt beside the form of her sick brother. Yet she was thankful that he had been found, and her gratitude to Richard was outspoken and genuine. It was decided that the sick man should be at once removed to one of the private wards of a neighboring hospital, where Mrs. Linyard might see him daily; and then have him taken to her own home as soon as it was deemed safe to do so. Frank, who was somewhat acquainted with the methods of procedure, accompanied the old sailor to the institution and helped him to make the necessary arrangements. Half an hour later an ambulance drove into Frying Pan Court. Tom Clover was removed with the greatest of care, the garret room was locked up, and Pep, like one in a dream, went off with his newly-found uncle. It was nearly sundown when the two boys reached the Massanets' again. "How long you've been!" exclaimed Mattie, who let them in. "And we've had quite an adventure," replied her brother. "Ees zat so?" put in Mrs. Massanet. "You must tell ett, Francois." "I will, mother," replied Frank. "But Richard will have to help; it's really his story." "Then both go ahead," cried Mattie. "Only _do_ go ahead. I am dying to hear!" Of course Mrs. Massanet as well as Mattie was highly interested in the boys' story, and both were deeply touched at the account of Frying Pan Court and the scene in the little garret room. "I want to know little Pep," said Mattie. "He is too bright a chap to run the streets." "I guess Doc Lanyard won't let him do that any more," returned Richard. "Especially if he gets that money he's expecting from England." "That sailor didn't lose anything by being kind to you," remarked Frank. "I declare you deserve a reward." "If only some old soldier would turn up, so that you could get your father's pension," went on Mattie, "that would be better than a reward." "You're right," replied Richard. "Even if we only got a thousand dollars it would help along wonderfully at home." Monday morning found the two hard at work in the stock-room. About ten o'clock Mr. Mann came up, and beckoned to Richard to come to one corner. "I want to find out about an order that was shipped on the tenth to Pittsburgh," he said, when they were alone. "There is something wrong about it. You were here by yourself on that day. Do you remember it?" "To Pittsburgh?" repeated Richard slowly. "Yes, I do. Mr. Williams filled that order." "Mr. Williams!" Mr. Mann looked surprised. "I don't understand." "Mr. Williams came up here while I was alone and offered to help me. I said that the Pittsburgh order I couldn't read very well; so he took it and filled it. He will probably remember it." "Probably he will," replied Mr. Mann, "and in that case the trouble is certainly _all_ downstairs. You need not mention this occurrence to any one." Mr. Mann went below; and there were no more interruptions for that day. But trouble was in the air, and on the following day the climax came. Richard was alone in the stock-room, Frank having just gone below on business. There was a clatter on the stairs, and turning to see what was the matter Richard confronted Earle Norris. The shipping-clerk was pale, but his manner showed that he was also angry, whether reasonably or not remained to be seen. "You little greenhorn, you!" he cried. "What do you mean by getting me into trouble?" "I don't know as I have," replied Richard, as coolly as he could; and, not wishing to engage in a personal encounter, he very wisely placed several cases between himself and his angry accuser. "Yes, you have!" roared Norris. "You told Mr. Mann that that order from Pittsburgh was sent down all right, and that if any of the goods were changed they were changed downstairs." "I told no one anything of the kind," replied Richard briefly, though he could readily understand the mistake under which Norris was laboring. "Yes, you did." "No, I did not." "Oh, come, I know better. If you didn't, who did? Massanet wasn't here." "That's true, too; but, nevertheless, I didn't tell Mr. Mann." "You're a--" began the shipping-clerk passionately. "Here! here! Stop that, Norris!" came a voice from the elevator; and the next instant Mr. Williams stepped into the room. "What do you mean by creating such a disturbance?" "Dare is trying to put up a job on me," began the shipping-clerk. "He told Mr. Mann that that order for Pittsburgh was sent down O.K. and--" "And so it was," replied Mr. Williams calmly. "No, sir; it was--" "Hold up, Norris; there is no use of further words," said Mr. Williams sharply. "You were discharged half an hour ago, and you had better leave. It was I that told Mr. Mann that the order had gone down all right, because I filled it myself. I suspected you for a long time, and I wanted to find out the truth. Dare and Massanet are entirely innocent in the matter. I have much more information against you--and also a book-dealer who has sold you old books and bought your new ones--but we will let that drop. I have learned that your family is quite a respectable one. For their sake, as well as your own, I advise you to turn over a new leaf. You can go." For an instant Norris hesitated. Then he turned, and without a word of reply hurried down the stairs. Richard breathed a sigh of relief when he was gone. "I am sorry he placed you two up here in such a false position," said Mr. Williams to Richard. "Please tell Massanet of it, too. Neither of you shall lose anything by it." CHAPTER XXVII. A FIRE AND ITS RESULT. As one proof of Williams & Mann's good intentions towards Richard, the boy found his salary on the following week increased to eight dollars, and Frank received a proportionate addition to his pay. In the middle of the week a new shipping-clerk, a German by the name of Bretzwartz, was engaged, and, though everybody in the establishment found it hard at first to understand the young man's broken English, yet he was such a jolly fellow--as well as an honest and capable one--that he was soon on good terms all around. During the evenings of this week Richard wrote a great number of letters to the Grand Army and other military organizations, in the hope of finding some one who had known his father during the war or immediately after it. On Thursday evening Frank accompanied him to the neighborhood in which Mr. Dare had once resided; but, though the two spent nearly three hours in the search, no trace of any former acquaintance was found. "You see it's different here from what it is in the country," said Frank, when they were returning. "Here you often find that people don't know who lives next door, or even in the same house with them. It sounds queer, but it's true. No one is introduced, no one is sociable, and the majority are continually moving, in the hope of finding a better dwelling or cheaper rent." "Yes, I noticed that," replied Richard, with something like a sigh. "Out in the country everybody knows everybody else, and outside of a few prim people all are as sociable as can be. But I suppose if one wants to make money one must expect to give up some comforts." "You're right there," replied Frank. During the week Pep met them twice on the Bowery. He was cleanly washed, had his curly hair brushed, and wore a brand-new suit. In his altered appearance Richard hardly knew him. "Dad's better," was the urchin's reply to the boy's question. "Uncle Doc is going to take him out of de hospital next week, so as Aunt Betty can nurse him herself. She's awful kind, she is." "And how do you like the change?" asked Frank. "I feel like I was dreamin'," was Pep's answer. "It don't seem natural--these clo'es and that nice home. It's like de times long ago." "Are you selling papers yet?" asked Richard. "No, sir. Uncle Doc says I'm to go to school in a week or so. He says I must have an eddication, and he's going to help dad get his money and invest it so it's safe, and all that. Here's yer dollar." As Pep concluded, he suddenly dived into one of the pockets of his new trousers, and, after considerable difficulty, extricated a silver dollar. "Never mind, Pep, you can keep it," said Richard, yet well pleased to see the urchin's evident desire to right the wrong he had done. "No, no, it's yours," exclaimed Pep earnestly. "I won't keep it nohow. And say," he added in a whisper, "I'm awful glad you didn't say nothin' to me uncle of it. It's de first time I stole anything, and it's the last, too, and I wouldn't have Uncle Doc or Aunt Betty know it for de world." "You can make sure they shall never hear of it," returned Richard, as, after more urging, he took the coin. "I can understand how desperate you felt that morning we met at the newspaper office, and we'll let the whole matter drop." "Thank you, sir." And Pep felt much relieved. "You must come up Sunday," put in Frank. "Come up to dinner, same as you were going to." "Thank you, Mr. Massanet, I will," replied Pep. "My uncle expects both of you down soon, too." And they separated, Pep being on his way to Frying Pan Court to get a few treasured belongings that still remained there. Early the following morning Richard and Frank started for the store together. It was a clear, but windy day, thick clouds of dust flying in all directions. As they passed the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge, a fire engine dashed past, on its way down the street. "Hello! there's a fire somewhere!" exclaimed Frank. "Can we go to it?" cried Richard. He had not yet seen a conflagration in the city, and was anxious to see how such a thing would be handled. Frank looked at his watch. "We've got twenty-five minutes," he replied. "Come on; if it's in the neighborhood we can take a look at it." Both boys started off on a run. They reached Spruce Street, and followed the engine around the corner. A dense volume of black smoke greeted them. The crowd was thick, and the two had hard work making their way forward. "_It's our place!_" cried out Frank suddenly. "And the whole store is afire, too!" "Our place!" ejaculated Richard. "Oh, I hope not!" But it was only too true, and in a moment they stood opposite the establishment of Williams & Mann, now all blaze from top to bottom. "Stand back there!" exclaimed a burly policeman, waving his club at both boys. "Stand back." "We work in the place," explained Frank. "Can't help it," was the reply. "The insurance patrol has charge of the goods. You'll have to get out of the way. Lively, there!" added the officer, as a hook and ladder truck came dashing up the street. So Richard and Frank fell back into the crowd, and were immediately joined by Bretzwartz, the German shipping-clerk. "I guess the place is a goner," remarked Frank, as the flames shot out of the upper windows. "Wonder how it caught?" said Richard. "Der poiler in der pasement busted," put in Bretzwartz. "I chust come, and vos putting on mine odder coat ven I heard an explosion vich knock me mine feets off, and I rund out like I vos killed, and der whole place was on fire in two seconds already." "Was Larry killed?" asked Frank. Larry was the engineer and porter around the place. "No, he vos out, getting a pite to eat," replied the shipping-clerk. Despite the efforts of the firemen, the flames made rapid progress, and in an hour the "fireproof" building was known to be doomed. Both of the heads of the firm had been sent for, and Mr. Williams soon put in an appearance. He was pale and excited, and shook his head sadly when his many employees offered their services in any way they could be used. "We can do nothing at present," he said. "The insurance companies have entire charge." "I hope you are covered, Mr. Williams," said Richard earnestly. "Very nearly so," was the reply. "The stop to business will be our worst loss. There is no telling when we will be able to resume. I only trust the accounts in the safes are all right." By noon the fire was under control. It had burnt itself out, and all that remained of the establishment was its four scorched walls, and the mass of half burned stock and fixtures within. Part of the stock had been saved, and this was transferred to an empty store near by. The boys assisted in this work until late in the evening, and also all day Saturday. In the middle of Saturday afternoon Mr. Mann came to them and paid them their week's wages. "You had both better find other places," he said. "We have got into difficulty with the insurance companies, and it may be some time before our claim is adjusted. Besides, Mr. Williams speaks of retiring, and in that case I will probably join some other firm." This was dismaying news. Yet neither could blame Mr. Mann, though it threw them both out of employment without notice. "You may help us here next week," went on Mr. Mann. "But next Saturday will finish the job. I will give both of you first-class recommendations, and if I hear of any openings will let you know." And Mr. Mann went away to carry his news to the other clerks. "It's too bad," said Frank, when he was gone. "It won't be an easy job to find another place." "No, indeed," replied Richard. "Still, we can't complain of the way they have treated us." Both of the boys wore sober faces that night. To Richard came the ever-recurring, thought, what next? CHAPTER XXVIII. A LUCKY RESOLVE. "Well, Richard, we are gentlemen of leisure now." It was Frank who spoke, and the occasion was the Monday morning following their final week with Williams & Mann. "Yes; but it doesn't suit me in the least," returned Richard. "To be idle is the hardest work I can do. Have you anything in view?" "Not a thing. I put in twelve applications last week to as many different houses, but as yet I haven't heard from a single one." "What do you intend to do?" "I hardly know. I don't think it will pay to make any personal applications." "I'm going to try it," returned Richard, resolutely. "They can't say any more than no, and each no will save just two cents in postage if nothing else." "When do you intend to start out," asked Frank, who could not help admiring Richard's pluck. "In about an hour. It is too early yet to catch the heads of the firms." "Going to start at any particular place?" "Yes." "Where?--or perhaps you don't care to tell," added Frank hastily. "Yes, I do," replied Richard, smiling quietly. "I am going to try the stationer on the corner." "Who? Martin? Why, he has such a small store I'm sure he doesn't need help. He and his son and a boy do all the business." "Never mind. I made up my mind to stop at every place, and his is the first on the route; so I'll call, if only for the principle of the thing." "That's an idea!" cried Frank. "You are bound to have a place if there is a single one vacant. Well, Dick, I trust with all my heart that you'll succeed," he added warmly. "You had better start out, too, Frank." "Oh--I--I don't think it's much use," said the other hesitatingly. "Oh, yes, it is, and you know it. Now confess that it is only your lack of 'nerve' that keeps you from it." Frank colored slightly. "Well, I guess it is," he admitted. "I never was a good hand at approaching people." "Then you ought to break yourself in at once. Just break the ice and you'll have no further trouble. I remember just how bad I felt when I first came to New York to look for work. But I'm over it now, thank goodness!" And truth to tell in the past few weeks Richard had lost much of his former shyness. Frank Massanet was silent for a moment. "I guess I will," he said finally. "I'll start out and have the thing over at once. Which way do you intend to go--up or down?" "I thought I would try down town first." "Then I'll go up. We can compare notes at supper-time." "So we can. I hope we both have luck," said Richard. But he did not feel particularly elated over the prospects. His former search for employment had convinced him that desirable situations were rarely to be had--there was always some one on hand to fill a vacancy as soon as it occurred. He felt, however, that he must obtain employment of some kind, and that quickly. The small amount of money he had in hand would not last him long, and though kind-hearted Mrs. Massanet might be willing to let him remain awhile without paying board, he knew that now, with her son idle, the good woman could not afford so generous a course. Richard had not gone to see Mr. Joyce as yet. He hesitated for several reasons. In the first place the leather merchant had been so kind to him that the boy felt it would be encroaching upon good nature to solicit further aid, and in the second place, Mr. Joyce must know he was out of a place, and would help him if he could, without being bothered about it. "I won't go to him until after I've done all I can for myself," had been Richard's conclusion. "I would rather show him that I can help myself." Richard had written home about the fire, and had added that he would probably lose his place in consequence, but he had not sent word home that he was now idle, thinking it would be time enough to do so when he found himself unable to obtain another situation. The store to which Richard had referred was a small but neat one, situated upon the corner of the street in which the Massanets lived and Second Avenue. It was kept by Jonas Martin, an elderly man, and his son, James. The stock consisted principally of books and stationery, although the proprietors also kept papers and magazines, for which there was a steady daily demand. "I suppose there is hardly any use in striking him," thought Richard, as he entered the store. "But I said every place, so here goes." He found the elderly Mr. Martin behind a desk, writing a letter. The storekeeper's face wore a troubled look. "Good-morning," began Richard. "Is this Mr. Martin?" "That's my name," was the reply. "What can I do for you?" "I am looking for a place, sir. I worked for Williams & Mann, but they burned out, as, no doubt you know, and that threw me out of work. Have you anything open? I can furnish good recommendations." Richard had carefully rehearsed this little speech, and now delivered it so that his hearer might understand every word that was uttered. Mr. Martin looked at him sharply, and then rubbed his chin reflectively. "What made you think I needed help?" he asked. "Oh, I don't know, sir. Every proprietor needs help at one time or another, and I've made up my mind to find a place if there is any open." "You have recommendations, you say?" "Yes, sir." And Richard handed over those he had received from Williams & Mann. Mr. Martin read them carefully. "It seems to be all right," he said, as he handed back the paper. "If I thought you would answer my purpose I would look you up." "Then you need help?" asked Richard, quickly, glad to think he had struck an opening with so little trouble. "Yes, I do. My son James who helps me is sick in Philadelphia, and consequently I have only the errand boy to relieve me. It is too much for me and I must get a clerk." "I would like you to try me," said Richard eagerly. "I would do my best to suit, even if the place was only a temporary one." "It might be permanent. The business is growing. But of course when my son came back I could not pay a clerk so much." "How much would you pay now?" "How much do you expect?" asked Mr. Martin cautiously. "I was getting eight dollars a week at my last place." "I would be willing to pay that. But I want some one who is trustworthy and willing to learn. Have you other recommendations?" "I can refer you to Mr. Timothy Joyce," replied Richard; and he wrote down the leather merchant's name and address on a bit of wrapping paper. Mr. Martin looked at the neat handwriting. "Come round to-morrow morning this time," he said. "I will look up the references this afternoon and if I find them satisfactory you can come to work at once." "Thank you, sir. Good-morning." By this time there were two customers waiting, so not wishing to detain the storekeeper longer. Richard nodded pleasantly and left the place. CHAPTER XXIX. FRANK'S IDEA. "That's what I call luck!" thought Richard, as he hurried back to the Massanets' home. "I'm mighty glad I called on Mr. Martin. He seems to be a gentleman and will no doubt do what is right. I hope Frank has been equally fortunate." Mrs. Massanet was surprised to see him returning so soon. "What ees eet?" she asked, anxiously. "I hope you no deesheartened a'ready?" "No, indeed!" returned the boy; and he told her of his good fortune. "Zat ees nice!" exclaimed the Frenchwoman. "I hope you gits zee place widout trouble." And then she gave a little sigh as she thought of her son's uncertain search. "Maybe Frank will be as lucky," said Richard, who fancied he could read her thoughts. "I sincerely hope so," returned Mrs. Massanet. Not having anything special to do for the rest of the day, Richard sat down and wrote a long letter home. He intended not to send it until the following day, when he could add a postscript that the new place was positively his. Five weeks in the great metropolis had worked wonders in the boy. He no longer looked or felt "green," and he was fast acquiring a business way that was bound, sooner or later, to be highly beneficial to him. In these five weeks he had received several letters from friends and not a few from home, the most important news in all of them being the announcement of his sister Grace's engagement to Charley Wood, and baby Madge's first efforts to master her A B C's. "I wish I could afford to bring them all to New York," had been Richard's thought. "Or else near enough so that I could go home to them every night. It would be so pleasant to have them around me. Perhaps some day I can afford to get a little cottage right near the city, which would be nicest of all; for I am sure mother would like to have a garden, even if it was a small one." His letter for home finished, Richard spent an hour or more in the preparation of an advertisement which he intended to insert in one of the army journals on the following week. The advertisement gave his father's full name, company, regiment and so forth, and asked for the address of any one who had known him during the war, with promise of reward for information. By the above it is easy to see that Richard was now in earnest about getting his father's pension money. Not only was he satisfied that they were entitled to it, but just now when his mother and sisters were struggling in Mossvale to make both ends meet, it was actually needed. During the time that he had been working Richard had sent home every cent that he could spare. To be sure, the total amount had not been large--only a few dollars--but in the country this went a long way, and for it, as well as for the fact that it showed the son and brother's willingness to help, those at home were extremely grateful. It was dinner-time when Richard had finished writing out the advertisement. Mrs. Massanet had prepared only a lunch, reserving a regular meal for the evening. After he had eaten the time hung heavy upon Richard's hands. He put on his hat and sauntered down the street, and finally concluded to pay a visit to his friends at the Watch Below. He had not seen Doc Linyard since that visit to Frying Pan Court, and he was curious to know how Tom Clover was, and if the property in England had been heard from further. It being the middle of the afternoon, trade at the small restaurant was slack, and Richard found both the old sailor and his wife glad to see him. "Tom's mendin' fast," was the old sailor's reply to Richard's question concerning the sick man. "We are goin' to bring him down here to-morrow or the day after. He's in his bearings again--right mind, you know--and I think as how the worst is over." "And where is Pep?" "Pep's to school; I sent him last week. He's got to have an eddication, no two ways on it. Betty's goin' to manage it with Tom when he is well." "I am glad to hear that. And how about your property?" "Oh, it's safe. Last week I run afoul of an old lawyer friend of mine--saved his life onct in a blow off Cape Hatteras--and he's taken it in tow. He's written to the lawyers on the tudder side and we're to fix it up just as soon as Tom's strong enough to sign articles." "Goods enough," said Richard, heartily. During the course of the conversation which followed he told Doc Linyard of his hopes of finding some one who had known his father during the war. "Tom is an old soldier!" exclaimed Doc. "He took to the army and I took to the navy." "Is that so? What regiment was he in?" "I don't know. He was in Boston at the time, and was drafted from there." "My father went from here. But he might be able to put me on some sort of a track," added Richard, who was unwilling to let even the smallest chance escape him. "I'll ask him about it when he's strong enough. How much would the pension money amount to?" "Not less than a thousand dollars--perhaps twice that." "Phew! It's worth workin' for." "Yes, indeed!" put in Mrs. Linyard. "I hope you get it, Mr. Dare; you deserve it." When Richard returned to his boarding-place he met Frank Massanet at the door. He could see by his friend's face that he had not met with success. "I tried twenty-six places," reported Frank. "Every one had all the help needed. One man offered to put me on the road, selling goods on commission, but I was to pay my own expenses. The offer didn't appear good and I declined it. How did you make out?" Richard told him. Of course Frank was surprised. "It wasn't luck though," he said, "it was sticking to the principle you started out on. I trust it is a sure thing. It will give you an insight into the retail trade, so that you may start for yourself some day. I would start in for myself to-morrow, if I had the capital." "Do you understand the retail business?" asked Richard, with much interest. "Pretty well. Last year and around the holidays I tended during the evenings for a firm on Fourteenth Street, and I had a good chance to learn all the ins and outs. Besides, I was in the business when I went to school--carrying papers and parcels between school-hours." "How much would you need to start?" "I've got six hundred dollars saved. If I had twice that I wouldn't be afraid to hire a store and try it." "Can't you raise the other?" "I haven't tried yet. I would rather use my own money--or take a partner, if I could find the right fellow." "I'd like to go in with you," said Richard. "I think we would get along first-rate together." "I know we would," cried Frank, enthusiastically. "Can't you raise the money?" "I don't think I can. I'll think of it though." CHAPTER XXX. MR. MARTIN'S CLERKS. The idea of some day going into partnership with Frank Massanet was an attractive one to Richard. He felt that the stock-clerk would not venture into business on his own account unless he was moderately certain of success, and that would mean more money and a certain feeling of independence. Richard was up early on the following morning and on hand at Mr. Martin's store long before that gentleman put in an appearance. He found the place in charge of the boy, who was busy sorting out the morning papers and folding them. "I'm waiting for Mr. Martin," said Richard, by way of an explanation for standing around. "Are you the new clerk?" asked Philip Borne, for such was the boy's name. "I expect to be," replied Richard. "Did Mr. Martin say anything about me?" "Said he expected to see you this morning. He'll be here in about half an hour. He's terribly worried over his son Jim, who's sick in Philadelphia. The doctors telegraphed last evening that they were afraid he couldn't live." "It's too bad. I trust, for Mr. Martin's sake, they are mistaken." In less than half an hour the proprietor put in an appearance. He looked even more worried than the day previous. "I am glad you are here, Dare," he said. "I saw Mr. Williams last night and he gave you a good recommendation. But he was almost afraid you had not had enough experience in the retail trade to take charge, which just at present you would have to do, because I must go to Philadelphia by the first afternoon train by the latest." Richard's hopes fell. "I will do the best I can, Mr. Martin," he said, earnestly. "Although I'll admit I thought to come here only to help, and--" "Yes, yes, I understand; and that is all right," interrupted the storekeeper, hastily. "I expected to stay, up to last night, but now I must go. If I could only get some one here besides you, some one who understood customers. Phil can help some, but he is too young." "I know the very person!" exclaimed Richard. "He has had just the experience you desire, and I can get him at once, too." And Richard told Mr. Martin about Frank Massanet. "Ah, yes, Mr. Williams mentioned him to me. Do you think he can come to-day?" "Yes, sir. I'll go at once and find out." "Do so; I'll promise that you shall lose nothing by it," returned Mr. Martin. In a moment Richard was on his way back to the house. He found Frank just finishing breakfast. "Why, what's up?" asked the stock-clerk. "What brings you back?" "Nothing only--I've got a situation for you," replied Richard as coolly as he could, although he could not suppress a hearty smile. "A situation for me!" ejaculated Frank, in undisguised wonder. "Surely you don't mean it!" "Don't I though? Just come along and see." "Where?" "At Martin's." "But I thought you had accepted--" "One position. So I have, but there is another for you. Come along, I'll tell you all about it on the way." And Richard got Frank's hat and put it on his friend's head and had him out on the street almost before he could realize it. At Mr. Martin's store a general explanation followed, and Richard and Frank were hired at a joint salary of sixteen dollars per week. They were to have entire charge of the business, and with the aid of Phil were to do the best they could until they heard from Mr. Martin again, which the storekeeper hoped would be in a few days. The proprietor spent an hour in giving all the instructions he could in that limited time, and then, half distracted, hurried off to catch an early train for Philadelphia. "Well, this is a queer go, to say the least," exclaimed Richard, after Mr. Martin had gone. "It's more like a dream than anything else." "He would never do as he has--leave two entire strangers in charge of his place--if he was not distracted by this bad news about his son," returned Frank; and he hit the exact truth. "Well, now we are here, we must make the most of the opportunity," said Richard. "Let us consider ourselves partners and push _our_ business for all it is worth." Both boys started in with a will. The first customer was a little girl, and both Richard and Frank desired the honor of waiting upon her. But the girl wanted a cent's worth of red chalk, and as neither could find the article in demand the would-be purchaser was turned over to Phil, who in turn handed the cash to Frank, while Richard gravely made the entry upon the daily sales-book. But the two set diligently at work, and by evening had the stock fairly well located in mind and also the prices. During the day trade had been fairly brisk, and when closing up time came they found they had taken in twenty-eight dollars. "I don't know if that's good or bad," said Richard. "We certainly sold goods to all who wished them." "The thing is to sell to those who don't know whether they want to buy or not," observed Frank. "Still I guess twenty-eight dollars is fair enough for Tuesday." Both were on hand early next morning. According to Mr. Martin's instructions the show-windows were emptied, and after they had been cleaned, Frank, assisted by Richard, dressed them again. Now, Mr. Martin's window dressing had always been of the plain, old-fashioned kind, not altogether suited to the present times. He only put in a few staple articles and left them unchanged for a long time. But Frank Massanet proceeded on different lines, and when he and Richard had finished the improvement was apparent. Nearly every class of goods in the store was represented, and anything new or special was given a prominent place. "That looks hot," said Phil, who was given to slang. "Never saw it so showy before." And the many people who stopped to gaze at the display seemed to justify his statement. "How often should a window like that be cleaned?" asked Richard. "At least once a week," replied Frank. "And twice a week is not too much, if you have the time to spare." Both Richard and Frank worked diligently all day. Of course many things were strange to them, and they made some laughable blunders; but they invariably took things so pleasantly that none of the customers seemed to mind. When night came they found that they had taken in five dollars more than the day previous. "It's on account of fixing up the window," said Richard. "Partly that, and partly getting used to customers and the run of stock," replied Frank. They were soon on the way home. Richard had sent his letter to his mother the day previous, and was now expecting one in return. "Here is your usual letter," said Mattie Massanet, appearing at the door. "Thank you," replied Richard. "Excuse me if I look at it at once. I want to see if it contains anything important." Richard tore the letter open and began to read. His eyes had glanced over scarcely a dozen lines when he uttered a cry of dismay. And no wonder, for the communication contained the startling intelligence that fire had visited Mossvale, the Dare cottage was burned to the ground, and his mother and sisters were left without a home. CHAPTER XXXI. TOM CLOVER'S STATEMENT. The news from Mossvale was certainly a cruel blow to Richard, and, as he read the letter written by his sister Nancy, his cheeks paled. "What is it?" asked Frank, seeing that something was wrong. "No one dead, I hope." "No, not as bad as that," replied Richard faintly; "but bad enough. Read it." Frank took the letter and glanced at it hastily. The important passages ran as follows: "It is awful news. Our home is burned to the ground, and I am writing this at Mrs. Wood's where we are all staying. The fire started in the barn (we think a tramp must have done it), and the wind carried the sparks over to the house, and in ten minutes it was all ablaze. It was one o'clock at night, and no one was around to help us. Mother, Grace and I saved all we could, but that was not much, because we did not have time, and it got so awfully hot. When the fire was out, Charlie made us all go over to his house, and sent a team over for what stuff we had saved. "Mother is awfully excited, and Grace is sick over it. Madge is all right, and so am I. But I think it's awful, and I don't know what we are going to do. Mrs. Wood and Charley, are very kind, but we can't stay here very long, even if Grace is engaged to Charley. "Mother says there is an insurance on the house and furniture for nine hundred dollars, but she hasn't been able to find the papers yet, and maybe they have been burned, too. If you can, come down right away. I suppose they don't like to let clerks off in New York, but they ought to make an exception in a case like this." Frank handed the letter over to his sister Mattie. "I'm sorry for you and your folks, Dick," he said earnestly. "Of course you'll go at once." "How can I?" replied Richard helplessly. "Mr. Martin will--" "Never mind Mr. Martin," interrupted Frank. "Your first duty is to your family. I'll get along as best I can, and I'll explain to Mr. Martin if he gets back before you do." "But what will you do for meals? You must have time to get them?" went on Richard, anxious lest his friend should be assuming too much. "He can take lunch along, and I'll bring him his dinner," put in Mattie. "You go, Dick; your mother and your sisters need you." Richard needed no further urging. Whatever Mattie said must certainly be right. He glanced at the clock. "Quarter to ten. I wonder when I can get a train?" he cried. A consultation of a time-table showed that no train for Mossvale could be had until nine-thirty the next morning. "It's too bad!" he groaned. "I could have taken one just an hour ago if I had known." There was nothing to do, however, but wait, and so Richard retired with the rest. He passed a sleepless night, thinking over what had happened, and trying to form some plan for the future. But he could arrive at no conclusion, and found that he must wait until he had talked the matter over with the others. He was the first one up in the morning, and, having over three hours yet to wait, took a walk around to the store to see what Phil was doing. "There is a telegram for you; just came," said the boy, and he handed it over. "More news from home," thought Richard. "But we have no telegraph office. Wonder what it means?" And he tore the telegram open. It ran as follows: "PHILADELPHIA, _June_ 28. "RICHARD DARE: "My son is dead. Close store until further orders. "JONAS MARTIN." Richard had just finished reading the dispatch when Frank came up. "You are ahead of me," said Frank. "What have you there?" "Word from Mr. Martin. His son is dead, and we are to close the store until further notice." Here was more sad news. Phil, who had known young Mr. Martin well, and liked him, felt it the most. "It will break old Mr. Martin all up," he said sadly. "He thought a heap of his son. The two were alone in the world." "I can get away easily enough now," said Richard, with a sorry little laugh. "I won't hurry back as soon as I intended. You must write me if anything turns up." In less than an hour the store was closed up, a death notice pasted on the door, and then Frank accompanied Richard down to the ferry. On the corner of Liberty Street they met Pep, who started back in surprise. "I was just comin' up to see you!" he exclaimed to Richard. "My uncle wants you to come right down!" "Wants me to come down?" queried Richard. "What for?" "Don't know exactly. Dad's there, and they both want to see you. You'd better go right away; but maybe you _was_ going," added Pep suddenly. "No, I wasn't. I was going to take a train home," replied Richard. "Perhaps it's nothing in particular." He had an hour before train time, and, accompanied by Frank, walked down to the Watch Below. Doc Linyard greeted him cordially. He was surprised to see Richard dressed up, and grieved to learn of the cause. "Well, I'm glad as how _I_ ain't got no bad news to tell you," said the old sailor with a grin. "Tom Clover is upstairs, in his right mind, and wants to see you." "What about?" "Never mind, just go up," replied Doc. On a comfortable bed, in an upper chamber, lay Tom Clover. Good care and nursing had done wonders for the man, and when Richard looked at him he could hardly realize that this was the miserable wretch he had visited in the garret at Frying Pan Court. "Here's Mr. Dare come to see you," said Doc Linyard, by way of an introduction. Tom Clover grasped Richard's hand tightly. "Betty and Doc have told me all about you," he said in a somewhat feeble voice. "I thank you more than I can put in words. Sit down; I want to talk to you." "I would like to, Mr. Clover, but I've got to catch a train for home in three quarters of an hour," replied Richard. "I'll call as soon as I get back." "Just stay a little while," urged Doc Linyard. "Tom's got something to say to you." "Doc tells me your father was a soldier in the late war?" went on Tom Clover. "Yes, sir." "Did he once live in Brooklyn?" "Yes, sir. But--" and Richard paused, while his heart beat rapidly. "And was his first name John?" "Yes, sir--John Cartwell Dare. But why do you ask, Mr. Clover? Is it possible that you knew him?" Tom Clover raised himself up to a sitting position. "Know him?" he cried. "We were bosom companions for eighteen months! Why, I caught him in my arms the day he was shot!" CHAPTER XXXII. THE FIRM OF MASSANET AND DARE. Tom Clover's unexpected statement was a revelation to Richard, and subsequent questioning convinced the boy that all that Doc Linyard's brother-in-law had said concerning the acquaintance with his father was perfectly true. It was a fact that Clover had been drafted in Boston, but during the second year of his service his time had expired, and then he had enlisted in a Brooklyn regiment, and become a member of the same company to which Mr. Dare belonged. "It seems too good to be true," cried Richard finally. "Perhaps Doc has already told you of the pension we are trying to get." "Yes, and I can witness the papers easily enough, and get several others to, too, if it's necessary. Have you got them here in the city?" "No; they are home. But I can soon get them, and either bring them or send them on." This was agreed to, and it was with a much lighter heart that Richard, a quarter of an hour later, bade Frank good-by at the ferry. "Send the papers to me," said Frank at parting. "I haven't anything to do at present, and will attend to the affair with pleasure." "Thank you, Frank, I will," was Richard's reply. The journey to Mossvale was an uneventful one. When Richard reached the Wood cottage all the family ran out to meet him, and in a second his mother's arms were about his neck. "I'm so glad you have come, Richard!" she cried. "We need you sadly." Presently he was seated in the doorway, with little Madge on his knee, and the others gathered around, and there he listened to all they had to tell. The insurance papers had been found, but Mrs. Dare was undecided whether to rebuild or accept the cash. "We could not get back such a nice home as we had for nine hundred dollars," she said. "And, besides, Sandy Stone has offered me two hundred dollars for the land, and that's a good price, Mr. Wood says." "Did you save father's pension papers?" "Yes. But why do you ask?" inquired Mrs. Dare, her curiosity aroused. For reply Richard told the little party all about his strange meeting with Tom Clover. "He tells the truth!" cried Mrs. Dare. "I have heard your father mention his name. Thank heaven for having brought you two together!" And that night, even with all their troubles, the whole Dare family rested without much worry beneath their kind neighbor's roof. In the morning Richard sent the pension papers to Frank by the first mail. Then he helped get what was left of their furniture into shape, and took a walk over to what had been the old homestead. Nothing remained but a heap of charred timbers and fallen stones. "It's the ending of our life here in the country," he whispered to himself. "God grant it may be the beginning of a more prosperous one in the city." At the close of the week came visitors--Frank, Doc Linyard, and a strange gentleman, who was introduced as Mr. Styles, the old sailor's lawyer friend. "Mr. Styles says your claim is all right," said Doc Linyard, when introductions all round were over. "He says as how you'll get twenty-five hundred dollars afore three months are up." It was glorious news. "Sure?" asked Mrs. Dare, with tears in her eyes. "Positive, madam," replied Mr. Styles. "I will buy the claim for two thousand dollars if you need the money," he whispered. "No, thank you; I can wait," she replied. "But I will pay you well for what you have done for us," she added hastily. "Avast there!" cried the old sailor. "Tom and I are going to settle his claim. We're going to get our money in one month--two thousand dollars each!" A little while later Frank drew Richard to one side. "I've heard from Mr. Martin," he said. "Since his son died he has lost all interest in his business, and he wants to sell out and go back to his family in England." "Sell out?" repeated Richard in surprise. "It would be a good chance for us." "So I thought; a chance that may not happen again in a lifetime. He has been established twelve years, and has a good run of trade. Last year his sales amounted to twelve thousand dollars. The rent is only seven hundred dollars a year, and he has a three years' lease." "How much does he ask?" "If he can sell out before the first he will do so at the cost of the stock--fifteen hundred dollars. Now, by hard scraping I can raise half of that, and if you can raise the other half, and a little extra besides, I believe it will prove a good venture." Richard thought a moment. "If my mother will advance the money I'll do it," he replied. * * * * * Two years have passed. As Mr. Styles had predicted, at the end of three months Mr. Dare's pension money was in the widow's possession. Long before this, however, Mrs. Dare sold her land in Mossvale, and removed with her family to New York, having apartments adjacent to Mrs. Massanet, with whom she was soon on intimate terms. She advanced the necessary money to Richard, and he and Frank Massanet immediately bought out Mr. Martin's store and set up business on their own account. Doc Linyard and Tom Clover now run a prosperous hotel and restaurant in the lower part of the city, where their old friends are always welcome. Pep attends school regularly, and thoroughly appreciates his improved condition in life. Grace Dare has gone back to the country, and in her Charley Wood has found an affectionate wife and a good housekeeper. Next month Nancy is to become Mrs. Massanet. As for Mattie Massanet, she is often seen to blush when Richard's name is mentioned, and rumor has it that she will some day give her heart into the keeping of her brother's partner. And Mr. Timothy Joyce? Only last week I met him at a Third Avenue Elevated Station, looking as stout and hearty as ever. "Just come down on the train," he replied, in answer to my question. "Been making a call on Massanet & Dare, the stationers and booksellers. They are young friends of mine, Dare especially, and I take a great interest in them. Since they fixed up this spring they've got a fine store, and I know they're doing first-rate. They deserve it, too--working as hard as they do. They've got my best wishes for success." And ours, too; eh, reader? THE END. 
22607	----	and the booksmiths at http://www.eBookForge.net Transcriber's Note: Some typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected. A complete list follows the text. Words in Greek in the original are transliterated and placed between +plus signs+. Words italicized in the original are surrounded by _underscores_. THE BOOK-HUNTER IN LONDON. [Illustration] [Illustration: '_His soul was never so staked down as in a bookseller's shop._' ROGER NORTH.] THE BOOK-HUNTER IN LONDON Historical and other Studies of Collectors and Collecting _WITH NUMEROUS PORTRAITS AND ILLUSTRATIONS_ BY W. ROBERTS _Author of 'The Earlier History of English Bookselling,' 'Printers' Marks,' etc._ LONDON ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C. 1895 CONTENTS. PAGE PREFACE xiii INTRODUCTION xv EARLY BOOK-HUNTING 1 BOOK-HUNTING AFTER THE INTRODUCTION OF PRINTING 12 FROM THE OLD TO THE NEW 44 BOOK-AUCTIONS AND SALES 98 BOOKSTALLS AND BOOKSTALLING 149 SOME BOOK-HUNTING LOCALITIES 168 WOMEN AS BOOK-COLLECTORS 259 BOOK THIEVES, BORROWERS, AND KNOCK-OUTS 274 SOME HUMOURS OF BOOK-CATALOGUES 293 SOME MODERN COLLECTORS 299 INDEX 323 [Illustration] LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE 'HIS SOUL WAS NEVER SO STAKED DOWN AS IN A BOOKSELLER'S SHOP.'--ROGER NORTH _Frontispiece_ IN A SCRIPTORIUM 2 LAMBETH PALACE LIBRARY 5 ROMAN BOOKS AND WRITING MATERIALS 11 EARL OF ARUNDEL'S BADGE 16 SIR ROBERT COTTON 21 SIR JULIUS CÆSAR'S TRAVELLING LIBRARY 22 ARCHBISHOP USHER 26 WOTTON HOUSE IN 1840 28 MAGDALEN COLLEGE, OXFORD 29 SIR HANS SLOANE'S MONUMENT 30 LITTLE BRITAIN IN 1550 33 CHARLES, THIRD EARL OF SUNDERLAND 37 LONDON HOUSE, ALDERSGATE STREET, 1808 40 ST. BERNARD'S SEAL 43 MR. AUSTIN DOBSON 45 WILLIAM BECKFORD, BOOK-COLLECTOR 48 GEORGE JOHN, EARL SPENCER 51 JOHN, DUKE OF ROXBURGHE, BOOK-COLLECTOR 52 A CORNER IN THE ALTHORP LIBRARY 53 MICHAEL WODHULL, BOOK-COLLECTOR 57 GEORGE NICOL, THE KING'S BOOKSELLER 60 THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN, BIBLIOGRAPHER 63 REV. C. MORDAUNT CRACHERODE, M.A., BOOK-COLLECTOR 65 J. O. HALLIWELL-PHILLIPPS 71 CANONBURY TOWER, GEORGE DANIEL'S RESIDENCE 73 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 76 LAMB'S COTTAGE AT COLEBROOK ROW, ISLINGTON 77 WILLIAM HAZLITT 78 THOMAS HILL, AFTER MACLISE 79 SAMUEL ROGERS'S HOUSE IN ST. JAMES'S PLACE 81 SAMUEL ROGERS 82 ALEXANDER DYCE, BOOK-COLLECTOR 83 W. J. THOMS, BOOK-COLLECTOR 88 HOLLINGBURY COPSE, THE RESIDENCE OF THE LATE MR. HALLIWELL-PHILLIPPS 91 JOHN DUNTON, BOOK-AUCTIONEER IN 1698 101 SAMUEL BAKER, THE FOUNDER OF SOTHEBY'S 102 SAMUEL LEIGH SOTHEBY 104 MR. E. G. HODGE, OF SOTHEBY'S 105 A FIELD-DAY AT SOTHEBY'S 106 KEY TO THE CHARACTERS IN THE 'FIELD-DAY AT SOTHEBY'S' 107 R. H. EVANS, BOOK-AUCTIONEER, 1812 109 JOHN WALKER, BOOK-AUCTIONEER, 1776 112 STAIRCASE AT PUTTICK AND SIMPSON'S 113 THE LATE HENRY STEVENS, OF VERMONT 115 MR. JAMES CHRISTIE, 'THE SPECIOUS ORATOR' 117 BENJAMIN HEATH, BOOK-COLLECTOR, 1738 123 SPECIMEN OF TYPE OF THE MAZARIN BIBLE 125 A CORNER IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM 127 ALDUS, FROM A CONTEMPORARY MEDAL 129 THE FIFTY-SEVEN ALTHORP CAXTONS 134 FROM 'GAME AND PLAY OF CHESSE,' BY CAXTON 135 SPECIMEN OF THE TYPE OF 'THE BOKE OF ST. ALBANS' 137 SPECIMEN PAGE OF TYNDALE'S TESTAMENT, 1526 138 JOHN MURRAY, OF SACOMB, BOOK-HUNTER 139 TITLE-PAGE OF THE FIRST EDITION OF 'THE COMPLEAT ANGLER' 144 FROM THE 'PILGRIM'S PROGRESS,' PART II. 145 CORNELIUS WALFORD, BOOK-COLLECTOR 152 THE SOUTH SIDE OF HOLYWELL STREET 153 EXETER 'CHANGE IN 1826 154 A BARROW IN WHITECHAPEL 155 A BOOK-BARROW IN FARRINGDON ROAD 158 A FEW TYPES IN FARRINGDON ROAD 159 HENRY LEMOINE, AUTHOR AND BOOKSELLER 161 THE LATE EDMUND HODGSON, BOOK-AUCTIONEER 164 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD, 1606. FROM THE CRACE COLLECTION 169 THOMAS BRITTON, 'THE SMALL-COAL MAN,' COLLECTOR OF MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS AND MSS. 173 DUKE STREET, LITTLE BRITAIN, FORMERLY CALLED DUCK LANE 175 CHARLES LAMB, AFTER D. MACLISE 177 OLD HOUSES IN MOORFIELDS 178 JONES AND CO. (SUCCESSORS TO LACKINGTON) 180 INTERIOR OF LACKINGTON'S SHOP 181 LACKINGTON'S HALFPENNY 182 THE POULTRY IN 1550 184 THE OLD MANSION HOUSE, CHEAPSIDE 185 GILBERT AND FIELD'S SHOP IN COPTHALL COURT 186 E. GEORGE'S (LATE GLADDING'S) SHOP, WHITECHAPEL ROAD 188 MIDDLE ROW, HOLBORN, 1865 195 WILLIAM DARTON, BOOKSELLER 197 INTERIOR OF DARTON'S SHOP, HOLBORN HILL 198 JAMES WESTELL'S, 114, OXFORD STREET 200 SALKELD'S SHOP--'IVY HOUSE'--IN CLAPHAM ROAD 203 JOHN BAGFORD, SHOEMAKER AND BOOK-DESTROYER 204 MR. TREGASKIS'S SHOP--'THE CAXTON HEAD'--IN HOLBORN 205 DAY'S CIRCULATING LIBRARY IN MOUNT STREET 207 PATERNOSTER ROW ON A BANK HOLIDAY 209 JOHN EVELYN, BOOK-COLLECTOR 212 NEWBERY'S SHOP IN ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD 213 CHARLES TILT'S SHOP 221 BUTCHER ROW, 1798 224 CHARLES HUTT'S HOUSE IN CLEMENT'S INN PASSAGE 226 MR. WILLIAM D. REEVES, BOOKSELLER 227 MESSRS. HILL AND SON'S SHOP IN HOLYWELL STREET 231 MESSRS. SOTHERAN'S SHOP IN PICCADILLY 233 HONEST TOM PAYNE 239 HENRY G. BOHN, BOOKSELLER 243 JOHN H. BOHN 244 MR. F. S. ELLIS 245 A CORNER AT ELLIS AND ELVEY'S 246 WESTMINSTER HALL WHEN OCCUPIED BY BOOKSELLERS AND OTHERS 247 JOHN HATCHARD (1768-1849) 252 JAMES TOOVEY, BOOKSELLER 253 JAMES TOOVEY'S SHOP, PICCADILLY 254 BERNARD QUARITCH, THE NAPOLEON OF BOOKSELLERS 256 QUEEN ELIZABETH'S GOLDEN MANUAL OF PRAYERS (FRONT COVER) 262 QUEEN ELIZABETH'S GOLDEN MANUAL OF PRAYERS (BACK COVER) 263 THE FRONTISPIECE TO 'THE LADIES' LIBRARY' OF STEELE 266 ELIZABETH PINDAR'S BOOKPLATE 267 THE ESHTON HALL LIBRARY 269 'EARNING HIS DINNER' 275 THE KING'S LIBRARY, BRITISH MUSEUM 276 'STEALS A BOOK, PLACES IT IN A NOVELETTE, AND WALKS AWAY' 280 'HE HAD PLACED THE BOOK IN HIS POCKET. SOMEONE HAD RELIEVED HIM OF IT' 282 THE LATE HENRY HUTH, BOOK-COLLECTOR 300 MR. HENRY H. GIBBS, BOOK-COLLECTOR 302 MR. R. COPLEY CHRISTIE, BOOK-COLLECTOR 303 THE LATE FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON 312 PORTRAIT BOOKPLATE OF MR. JOSEPH KNIGHT 313 'AN ORDER FROM MR. GLADSTONE' 315 PORTRAIT BOOKPLATE OF MR. H. S. ASHBEE 316 MR. T. J. WISE, BOOK-COLLECTOR 317 MR. CLEMENT SHORTER'S BOOKPLATE 318 MR. A. BIRRELL, BOOK-COLLECTOR 319 FACSIMILE OF TITLE-PAGE, 'PILGRIM'S PROGRESS,' FIRST EDITION 321 [Illustration: _Roman Book-box._] PREFACE. _'THE Book-hunter in London' is put forth as a contribution to the fascinating history of book-collecting in the metropolis; it does not pretend to be a complete record of a far-reaching subject, which a dozen volumes would not exhaust; the present work, however, is the first attempt to deal with it in anything like a comprehensive manner, but of how far or in what degree this attempt is successful the reader himself must decide._ _The task itself has been an exceedingly pleasant one to the author, and it only remains for him to thank, collectively, the large number of friends and acquaintances who have so cordially favoured him with advice and information on so many points. In only a couple of quite unimportant instances has he experienced anything approaching churlishness. The geniality and courtesy of the book-collector are proverbial, but specimens of a different type are evidently to be found here and there._ _As regards the chapter on Modern Collectors, the author's object has been to deal with a representative selection of the bibliophiles of to-day. To aim at anything like completeness in this section of the book would be highly undesirable, having regard to a proportionate representation of the subject as a whole. Completeness, moreover, would be an impossibility, even in a volume devoted entirely to modern men._ _The greatest possible care has been taken to prevent inaccuracy of any kind, but whilst freedom from error is a consummation which every author desires, it is also one of which few can boast. The reader will be doing the author a favour by informing him of any mistake which may be detected in the following pages. An omission in the account of Stewart, the founder of Puttick's, may be here made good: he had the privilege of selling David Garrick's choice library in 1823. The author regrets to learn that Purcell (p. 165), a very intelligent bookseller, died some months ago._ _'The Book-hunter in London' is the outcome not only of material which has been accumulating for many years past, from published and unpublished sources, but also of a long and pleasant intercourse with the leading book-collectors and booksellers in London, not to mention a vigorous and constant prosecution of one of the most pleasant and instructive of hobbies. The author has freely availed himself of the information in the works of Dibdin, Nichols, and other writers on the subject, but their statements have been verified whenever possible, and acknowledgements have been made in the proper places to the authorities laid under contribution._ _W. R._ 86, GROSVENOR ROAD, S.W. INTRODUCTION. IT would be quite as great a fallacy to assume that a rich man is also a wise one, as to take for granted that he who has accumulated a large library is necessarily a learned man. It is a very curious fact, but none the less a fact, that just as the greatest men have the shortest biographies, so have they been content with the smallest libraries. Shakespeare, Voltaire, Humboldt, Comte, Goethe had no collection of books to which the term library could fairly be applied. But though each preferred to find in Nature and in Nature's handiworks the mental exercise which less gifted men obtain from books, that did not prevent them from being ardent book-lovers. Shakespeare--to mention one only--must have possessed a Plutarch, a Stowe, a Montaigne, and a Bible, and probably half a dozen other books of less moment. And yet, with this poor show, he was as genuine a book-lover as Ben Jonson or my Lord Verulam. Lord Burleigh, Grotius, and Bonaparte are said to have carried their libraries in their pockets, and doubtless Shakespeare could have carried his under his arm. If all great men have not been book-collectors in the manner which is generally understood by the phrase, it is certain that they have, perhaps without a single exception, been book-lovers. They appear, for the most part, to have made a constant companion of some particularly favourite book; for instance, St. Jerome slept with a copy of Aristotle under his pillow; Lord Clarendon had a couple of favourites, Livy and Tacitus; Lord Chatham had a good classical library, with an especial fondness for Barrow; Leibnitz died in a chair with the 'Argenis' of Barclay in his hand; Kant, who never left his birthplace, Königsburg, had a weakness in the direction of books of travel. 'Were I to sell my library,' wrote Diderot, 'I would keep back Homer, Moses, and Richardson.' Sir W. Jones, like many other distinguished men, loved his Cæsar. Chesterfield, agreeing with Callimachus, that 'a great book is a great evil,' and with La Fontaine-- 'Les longs ouvrages me font peur Loin j'épuiser une matière Il faut n'en prendre que la fleur'-- hated ponderous, prosy, pedantic tomes. Garrick had an extensive collection on the history of the stage, but Shakespeare was his only constant friend. Gibbon was a book-collector more in the sense of a man who collects books as literary tools than as a bibliophile. But it is scarcely necessary just now to enter more fully into the subject of great men who were also book-lovers. Sufficient it is, perhaps, to know that they have all felt the blessedness of books, for, as Washington Irving in one of his most lofty sentences has so well put it, 'When all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these [the comforts of a well-stored library] only retain their steady value; when friends grow cold, and the converse of intimates languishes into vapid civility and commonplace, _these_ only continue the unaltered countenance of happier days, and cheer us with that true friendship which never deceived hope nor deserted sorrow.' It is infinitely easier to name those who have collected books in this vast and unwieldy London of ours, than it is to classify them. To adopt botanical phraseology, the _genus_ is defined in a word or two, but the species, the varieties, the hybrids, and the seedlings, how varied and impossible their classification! Most men have bought books, some have read a few, and others many; but beyond this rough grouping together we shall not attempt anything. One thing, however, the majority of book-collectors agree in, and that is in regarding their own generation as a revolution--they have, as Butler has described it in his picture of an antiquary, 'a great value for that which is past and gone, like the madman that fell in love with Cleopatra.' Differing in many, and often material, points as one book-collector does from another, the entire passion for collecting may be said to focus itself into two well-defined grooves. A man either collects books for his own intellectual profit, or out of pure ostentatious vanity. In the ensuing pages there will be found ample and material facts in regard to the former, so that we may say here all that we have to say regarding the latter. The second type of book-enthusiast has two of the most powerful factors in his apparently reckless career--his own book-greed, and the bookseller who supplies and profits by him. 'What do you think of my library?' the King of Spain once asked Bautru, the French wit, as he showed him the collection at the Escurial, at that time in the charge of a notoriously ignorant librarian. 'Your Majesty's library is very fine,' answered Bautru, bowing low; 'but your Majesty ought to make the man who has charge of it an officer of the Treasury.' 'And why?' queried the King. 'Because,' replied Bautru, 'the librarian of your Majesty seems to be a man who never touches that which is confided to him.' There are many varieties of the ignorant collector type. The most fruitful source is the _nouveau riche_. Book-collecting is greatly a matter of fashion; and most of us will remember what Benjamin Franklin said of this prevailing vice: 'There are numbers that, perhaps, fear less the being in hell, than out of the fashion.' The enterprising individual who, on receipt of a catalogue of medical books, wired to the bookseller, 'What will you take for the lot?' and on a price being quoted, again telegraphed, 'Send them along,' was clearly a person who wished to be fashionable. Another characteristically amusing illustration of this type of book-collector is related by an old-established second-hand bookseller, who had bought at a country sale some two or three hundred volumes in a fair condition. But they were principally old sermons, or, what is worse, theology and political economy. He placed a sample lot outside his shop, leaving the bulk of the stock untouched. The little parcel attracted the attention of a stylishly dressed man, who entered the shop and said, 'I'll take these books, and, say, have you any more of this kind with this shield onto them?' pointing to the bookplate attached, which bore the arms and name of a good old county family. 'That box, sir, is full of books from the same house, and probably every book has the same bookplate, but I have not yet had time to examine them.' 'What's yer figger for them, any way? See here, I start back to Chicago to-morrow, and I mean to take these books right back along. I'm goin' to start a libery thar, and these books will just fit me, name and all. Just you sort out all that have that shield and name, and send them round to the Langham at seven sharp. I'll be round to settle up; but see, now, don't you send any without that name-plate, for that's my name, too, and I reckon this old hoss with the daggers and roosters might have been related to me some way.' 'I remember,' says the Marquis d'Argenson, in his 'Mémoires,' 'once paying a visit to a well-known bibliomaniac, who had just purchased an extremely scarce volume, quoted at a fabulous price. Having been graciously permitted by its owner to inspect the treasure, I ventured innocently to remark that he had probably bought it with the philanthropic intention of having it reprinted. "Heaven forbid!" he exclaimed in a horrified tone; "how could you suppose me capable of such an act of folly! If I were, the book would be no longer scarce, and would have no value whatever. Besides," he added, "I doubt, between ourselves, if it be worth reprinting." "In that case," said I, "its rarity appears to be its only attraction." "Just so," he complacently replied; "and that is quite enough for me."' Another type which borders dangerously near to that which we have been describing is the collector who, not necessarily ignorant, collects for himself alone. The motto which Grolier adopted and acted upon--'Io Grolierii et amicorum'--might have been a very safe principle to go upon in the sixteenth century, but it would most certainly fail in the nineteenth, when one's dearest friends are the most unmitigated book-thieves. But perhaps even the too frequent loss of books is an evil to be preferred to the egoistical meanness of the selfish collector. Balzac gives in his 'Cousin Pons' a vivid delineation of such a person. The hero is a poor drudging music-teacher and orchestra-player, who has invested every franc of his hard-won earnings in the collecting of exquisite paintings, prints, bric-à-brac, and other rare mementoes of the eighteenth century. Despised by all, even by his kindred, trodden upon as a nobody, slow, patient, and ever courageous, he unites to a complete technical knowledge a marvellous intuition of the beautiful, and his treasures are for him pride, bliss, and life. There is no show in this case, no desire for show, no ambition of the despicable shoddy-genteel sort--a more than powerful creation of fiction. A strikingly opposite career of selfishness is suggested by the fairly well-known story of Don Vincente, the friar bookseller of Barcelona, who, in order to obtain a volume which a rival bookseller, Paxtot, had secured at an auction, set fire one night to Paxtot's shop, and stole the precious volume--a supposed unique copy of the 'Furs e ordinacions fetes per los gloriosos reys de Arago als regnicoes del regne de Valencia,' printed by Lambert Palmart, 1482. When the friar was brought up for judgment, he stolidly maintained his innocence, asserting that Paxtot had sold it to him after the auction. Further inquiry resulted in the discovery that Don Vincente possessed a number of books which had been purchased from him by customers who were shortly afterwards found assassinated. It was only after receiving a formal promise that his library should not be dispersed, but preserved in its integrity, that he determined to make a clean breast of it, and confess the details of the crimes that he had committed. In cross-examination, Don Vincente spurned the suggestion that he was a thief, for had he not given back to his victims the money which they had paid him for the books? 'And it was solely for the sake of books that you committed these murders?' asked the judge. 'Books! yes, books! Books are the glory of God!' Vincente's counsel, in defence of his client, in this desperate strait maintained that there might exist several copies of the books found in his possession, and that it was out of the question to condemn, on his own sham avowal, a man who appeared to be half cracked. The counsel for the prosecution said that that plea could not be urged in the case of the book printed by Lambert Palmart, as but one copy of that was in existence. But the prisoner's counsel retorted by putting in evidence attested affirmation that a second copy was in France. Up to this moment Vincente had maintained an imperturbable calm; but on hearing his counsel's plea he burst into tears. In the end, Don Vincente was condemned to be strangled, and when asked if he had anything more to urge, all he could utter, sobbing violently, was, 'Ah! your worship, _my copy was not unique_!' Cousin Pons and Don Vincente are extreme instances of bibliomaniacs to whom the possession of a book was the supreme happiness of life. The man of Fiction and the man of Fact were at one in this passion of acquisitiveness. Don Vincente was compelled by hunger--_mala suada fames_--to become a book _seller_; and if it became a general rule for book-collectors to become booksellers there would, we venture to think, be a very material increase in police-court and, perhaps, criminal cases generally. Mr. G. A. Sala tells us an amusing story of the late Frederick Guest Tomlins, a historian and journalist of repute. In the autumn of his life Tomlins decided to set up as a bookseller. He purposed to deal chiefly in mediæval literature, in which he was profoundly versed. The venture was scarcely successful. A customer entered his shop one day and asked for a particular book, as marked in the catalogue. 'I had really no idea it was there,' meditatively remarked Mr. Tomlins, as he ascended a ladder to a very high shelf and pulled out a squabby little tome. Then he remained about five-and-twenty minutes on the ladder absorbed in the perusal of the volume, when the customer, growing impatient, began to rap on the counter with his stick. Thereupon Mr. Tomlins came down the ladder. 'If you think,' he remarked, with calm severity, to the intending purchaser, 'that any considerations of vile dross will induce me to part with this rare and precious little volume, you are very much mistaken. It is like your impudence. Be off with you!' A not altogether dissimilar anecdote is related by Lord Lytton in that curious novel 'Zanoni,' in which one of the characters is an old bookseller who, after years of toil, succeeded in forming an almost perfect library of works on occult philosophy. Poor in everything but a genuine love for the mute companions of his old age, he was compelled to keep open his shop, and trade, as it were, in his own flesh. Let a customer enter, and his countenance fell; let him depart empty-handed, and he would smile gaily, oblivious for a time of bare cupboard and inward cravings. _À propos_ of a literary man turning bookseller, the experiment has often been tried, but it has generally failed. Second-hand bookselling seems to be a frequent experiment after the failures of other trades and callings. We have known grocers, greengrocers, coal-dealers, pianoforte-makers, printers, bookbinders, cheap-jacks, in London, adopt the selling of books as a means of livelihood. Sometimes--and several living examples might be cited--the experiment is a success, but frequently a failure. The knowledge of old books is not picked up in a month or a year. The misfortune which seems to dog the footsteps of many men in every move they make, does not fail to pursue them in bookselling. Some of them might almost say with Fulmer, in Cumberland's 'West Indian' (1771): 'I have beat through every quarter of the compass . . . I have blustered for prerogatives, I have bellowed for freedom, I have offered to serve my country, I have engaged to betray it . . . I have talked treason, writ treason. . . . And here I set up as a bookseller, but men leave off reading, and if I were to turn butcher I believe they'd leave off eating.' There can be no doubt about the fact that Englishmen as a rule do not attach sufficient importance to book-buying. If the better-class tradesman, or professional man, spends a few pounds at Christmas or on birthday occasions, he feels that he has become a patron of literature. How many men, who are getting £1,000 a year, spend £1 per month on books? The library of the average middle-class person is in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the cruelest possible commentary on his intelligence, and, as a matter of fact, if it contains a couple of volumes worthy of the name of books, their presence is more often than not an accidental one. A few volumes of the _Sunday at Home_, the _Leisure Hour_, _Cassell's Magazine_, or perhaps a few other monthly periodicals, carefully preserved during the twelve months of their issue, and bound up at the end of the year--with such stuff as this is the average Englishman's bookcase filled. Mark Pattison has gone so far as to declare that while the aggregate wealth of the United Kingdom is many times more than it was one hundred and fifty years ago, the circle of book-buyers, of the lovers of literature, is certainly not larger, if it be not absolutely smaller. It may be urged that a person with £1,000 per annum as income usually spends £100 in rent, and that the accommodation which can be got for that amount does not permit of one room being devoted to library purposes. This may be true, but this explanation is not a valid excuse, for a set of shelves, 13 feet by 10 feet 6 inches, placed against a wall will accommodate nearly one thousand octavo volumes--the genius of the world can be pressed into a hundred volumes. An American has advised his readers to 'own all the books you can, use all the books you own, and as many more as you can get.' The advice is good, and it is well to remember that by far the majority of great book-collectors have lived to a ripe old age. The companionship of books is unquestionably one of the greatest antidotes to the ravages of time, and study is better than all medical formulas for the prolongation of life. The man who has resolved upon getting together a collection of first-class books may not unreasonably be appalled at the difficulties which stand in the way. And what, indeed, it may be asked, will become of the hundreds and thousands of books which are now all the fashion? How many will survive the levelling process of the next half a score of years, and how few will be known, except to bibliographers, half a century hence? The lessons of the past would aid us in arriving at some sort of conclusion as regards the future, if we were inclined to indulge in speculation of this vain character. It will, however, be interesting to point out that of the 1,300 books printed before the beginning of the sixteenth century, not more than 300 are of any importance to the book-collector. Of the 50,000 published in the seventeenth century, not more than perhaps fifty are now held in estimation; and of the 80,000 published in the eighteenth century not more than 300 are considered worth reprinting, and not more than 500 are sought after. In a curious little book, 'L'An 2440, rêvue s'il en fut jamais,' published in Paris a century ago, there is a very quaint description of the process by which, in an improved state of society, men would apply themselves not to multiply books, but to gather knowledge. The sages of the political millennium exhibited their stores of useful learning in a cabinet containing a few hundred volumes. All the lumber of letters had perished, or was preserved only in one or two public libraries for the gratification of a few harmless dreamers that were tolerated in their laborious idleness. This pleasant little picture, drawn by M. L. S. Mercier, of the state of things five centuries hence, is in strong contrast to the painful plethora of books of the present day. Dr. Ingleby, the famous Shakespearian scholar, is credited with the idea of establishing a society for the purpose of procuring books which no one else would buy; but this society (the 'Syncretic Book-club') could not have had any success if the vast quantities of unsaleable rubbish which one meets with on every hand are to be taken into account. Doubtless Dr. Ingleby would have included in his scope such books as Lord Lonsdale's 'Memoir of the Reign of James II.,' 1803, which fifty years ago sold for 5-1/2 guineas, but which, within the past few months, has declined to two shillings! There was a time when even old and unsaleable books had a commercial value. Before the cheapening of paper, a second-hand bookseller had always the paper-mill to fall back on, and the price then paid, £1 10s. per cwt., was one inducement to dispose of folios and quartos which remained year in and year out without a purchaser. The present price of waste-paper is half a crown a hundredweight, so that the bookseller is now practically shut out of this poor market. Indeed, an enterprising bibliopole was lately offering 'useful old books,' etc., at 3s. 6d. per cwt., free on the rails, provided not less than six hundredweight is bought. 'To young beginners,' he states, 'these lots are great bargains'; but whether he means young beginners in literature or young beginners in trade, is an open question. In either case, 'useful old books' at the price of waste-paper are a novelty. There is a certain amount of danger in the wholesale destruction of books, for posterity may place a high value, literary and commercial, on the very works which are now consigned to the paper-mill. Unfortunately, posterity will not pay booksellers' rent of to-day. Just as those books which have the largest circulation are likely to become the rarest, so do those which were at one time most commonly met with often, after the lapse of a few decades, become difficult to obtain. In one of his 'Echoes' notes, Mr. G. A. Sala tells us that, in the course of forty years' bookstall-hunting, he has known a great number of books once common become scarce and costly--_e.g._, Lawrence's 'Lectures on Man'; Walker's 'Analysis of Beauty'; Millingen's 'Curiosities of Medical Experience'; Beckford's 'Vathek' in French; Jeremy Bentham's works; and Harris's 'Hermes.' Possibly the disappearance of these and many other books may be attributed to certain definite causes. For example, in the early years of this century one of the commonest books at 1s. or 1s. 6d. was Theobald's 'Shakespeare Restored'; but fifty years later it was a very rare book. The interest in Shakespeare and his editors had become quite wide-spread in literary circles, and literature in any way bearing on the subject found ready purchasers. Just as the disappearance of certain books sends their prices up considerably in the market, so the unexpected appearance of others has just the reverse effect. Until quite recently one of the scarcest of the first editions of the writings of Charles Dickens was a thin octavo pamphlet of seventy-one pages, entitled 'The Village Coquettes: a Comic Opera. In two Acts. London: Richard Bentley, 1836.' So rare was this book that very few collectors could boast the possession of it, and an uncut example might always be sold for £30 or £40. About a year before his death, Dickens was asked by Mr. Locker-Lampson whether he had a copy; his reply was: 'No, and if I knew it was in my house, and if I could not get rid of it in any other way, I would burn the wing of the house where it was'--the words, no doubt, being spoken in jest. Not long since, a mass of waste-paper from a printer's warehouse was returned to the mills to be pulped, and would certainly have been destroyed had not one of the workmen employed upon the premises caught sight of the name of 'Charles Dickens' upon some of the sheets. The whole parcel was carefully examined, and the searchers were rewarded by the discovery of nearly a hundred copies of 'The Village Coquettes,' in quires, clean and unfolded. These were passed into the market, and the price at once fell to about £5. The most curious things turn up sometimes in a similar manner. A little sixpenny bazaar book ('Two Poems,' by Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning, 1854) was for a long time extremely rare, as much as £3 or £4 being paid for it when it occurred for sale. Suddenly it appeared in a bookseller's catalogue at 2s., and as every applicant could have as many as he wanted, it then leaked out that the bookseller, Mr. Herbert, had purchased about 100 copies with books which he purposed sending to the mill. Even 'remainders' sometimes turn out to be little gold-mines. The late Mr. Stibbs bought the 'remainder' of Keats's 'Endymion' at 4d. per copy. We do not know what he realized by this investment, but their value for some years has been £4 and upwards. [Illustration: _The late Henry Stevens, of Vermont._] The subject of book-finds is one about which a volume might be written. Every 'special' collector has his fund of book-hunting anecdotes and incidents, for, where the rarity of a well-known book is common property, there is not usually much excitement in running it to earth. The fun may be said to begin when two or three people are known to be on the hunt after a rare and little-known volume, whose interest is of a special character. To take, as an illustration, one of the most successful book-hunters of modern times, the late Henry Stevens, of Vermont. Until Mr. Stevens created the taste for Americana among his fellow-countrymen, very few collectors considered the subject worth notice. And yet, in the space of a quarter of a century, he unearthed more excessively rare and unique items than the wildest dreamer could have supposed to exist. Books and pamphlets which were to be had for the proverbial old song when he first came to this country quickly became the objects of the keenest competition in the saleroom, and invariably found buyers at extravagant prices. As an illustration, although not an American item, we may mention that when a copy of the Mazarin Bible was offered at Sotheby's in 1847, the competitors were an agent of Mr. James Lenox (Stevens' client) and Sir Thomas Phillipps in person; the latter went to £495, but the agent went £5 better, and secured the prize at the then unheard-of price of £500. At first Mr. Lenox declined to take the book, but eventually altered his mind, wisely as it proved, for although at long intervals copies are being unearthed, the present value of Mr. Lenox's copy cannot be much short of £4,000. During 1854 and 1855 Mr. Stevens bought books to the value of over 50,000 dollars for Mr. Lenox, and on reviewing the invoices of these two years, 'I am confident,' says Mr. Stevens, 'that, if the same works were now' (1887) 'to be collected, they would cost more than 250,000 dollars. But can so much and so many rare books ever be collected again in that space of time?' In December, 1855, Mr. Stevens offered Mr. Lenox in one lump about forty Shakespeare quartos, all in good condition, and some of them very fine, for £500, or, including a fair set of the four folios, £600, an offer which was accepted, and it may be doubted whether such a set could now be purchased for £6,000. Mr. Lenox was for over ten years desirous of obtaining a perfect copy of 'The Bay Psalter,' printed by Stephen Daye at Cambridge, New England, 1640, the first book printed in what is now the United States, and had given Mr. Stevens a commission of £100 for it. After searching far and wide, the long-lost 'Benjamin' was discovered in a lot at the sale of Pickering's stock at Sotheby's in 1855. 'A cold-blooded coolness seized me, and advancing towards the table behind Mr. Lilly, I quietly bid, in a perfectly neutral tone, "Sixpence"; and so the bids went on, increasing by sixpences, until half a crown was reached and Mr. Lilly had loosened the string. Taking up this very volume, he turned to me and remarked, "This looks a rare edition, Mr. Stevens; don't you think so? I do not remember having seen it before," and raised the bid to 5s. I replied that I had little doubt of its rarity, though comparatively a late edition of the Psalms, and at the same time gave Mr. Wilkinson a sixpenny nod. Thenceforward a "spirited competition" arose between Mr. Lilly and myself, until finally the lot was knocked down to Stevens for 19s.' The volume had cost the late Mr. Pickering 3s. It became Mr. Lenox's property for £80. Twenty-three years later another copy was bought by Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt for 1,200 dollars. In a letter to Justin Windsor, the late J. Orchard Halliwell-Phillipps gave some very curious and interesting information respecting book-collecting in the earlier half of the present century. 'About the year 1836,' he wrote, 'when I first began hunting for old books at the various stalls in our famous London city, black-letter ones and rare prints were "plenty as blackberries," and I have often found such things in unlikely places and amidst a mass of commonplace rubbish, exposed for sale in boxes labelled, "These books and pamphlets 6d. or 1s. each," outside an old bookseller's window, where another notice informed the passer-by that "Libraries were purchased or books bought;" and thus plainly showed how such now indeed rarities came into the possession of an ignorant bibliopole. It was not, however, till about 1840 that I turned my attention to the more special work of collecting Shakespeare quartos, in which, I may say, I have been very successful. It was at one of George Chalmers' sales that I first bought one or two, and after that I hunted for them in all parts of the country, and met with considerable success, often buying duplicates, and even triplicates, of the same edition and play. At one time I possessed no less than three copies of the very rare quarto edition of "Romeo and Juliet," 1609, and sometimes even had four copies of more than one of the other quartos. Not so very long before this period, old Jolley, the well-known collector, picked up a Caxton at Reading, and a "Venus and Adonis," 1594, at Manchester, in a volume of old tracts, for the ignoble sum of 1s. 3d. Jolley was a wealthy orange-merchant of Farringdon Street, London, and entertained me often with many stories of similar fortunate finds of rare books, which served to whet my appetite only the more. But I was soon stopped in my book-hunting career by the appearance all at once on the scene of a number of buyers with much longer purses than my own, and thus I was driven from a market I had derived so much pleasure from with great regret. Some time afterwards circumstances rendered it desirable that I should part with a large number of my book-treasures by auction and to the British Museum; but even then I retained enough to be instrumental in founding the first Shakespearian library in Scotland, by presenting to the University of Edinburgh, amongst other rarities, nearly fifty copies of original quartos of Shakespeare's plays, printed before the Restoration, and to keep sufficient myself of the rarest and most valuable examples.' Sometimes the notes of a former possessor have a considerable literary interest, as, for example, the copy of Stowe's 'Survey of London,' 1618, presented to the Penzance Library by the late J. O. Halliwell-Phillipps, who has written, under date December 24, 1867, the following note: 'This is a favourite book of mine. I like to read of London as it was, with the bright Thames crowded with fish, and its picturesque architecture. . . . I should not have discarded this volume for any library, had I not this day picked up a beautiful _large paper_ copy of it, the only one in that condition I ever saw or heard of.' As an illustration of the enhanced value possessed by books having notes written in them by their owners, it may be mentioned that when the great Mr. Fox's furniture was sold by auction after his death in 1806, amongst the books there happened to be the first volume of Gibbon's 'Decline and Fall,' which apparently had been given by the author to Fox, who wrote on the fly-leaf this note: 'The author at Brooks' said there was no salvation for this country, until six heads of the principal persons in the administration were laid on the table. Eleven days after, this same gentleman accepted a place of "lord of trade" under those very ministers, and has acted with them ever since.' This peculiarly nasty little note sent the value of the odd volume up to £3 3s. Gibbon, writing in his 'Autobiography' of Fox, says, 'I admired the powers of a superior man, as they are blended in his attractive character with the softness and simplicity of a child,' an opinion which he might have modified if he had lived to read the foregoing note. When Canning's books, for the most part of an exceedingly commonplace and uninteresting character, came under the hammer at Christie's in 1828, the competition was extremely keen for all volumes which bore the great statesman's autograph, and as most of the books contained more or less elaborate indications of Canning's proprietorship, his executors received nearly double the sum which they could reasonably expect. Similar illustrations occur every year at book-auctions. The idiosyncrasies of collectors might make quite as long a chapter as that of books which have belonged to famous persons, and it is for the same reason that we have to deal briefly with each. It is curious that almost as soon as book-collecting became at all general, the 'faddy' man came into existence. Dr. John Webster, of Clitheroe, who died June 18, 1682, aged seventy-two, for example, had a library which was rich in books of romance, and what was then termed 'the black art'; but Webster was the author of a rare volume on witchcraft, so that his books were his literary tools--just as, a century later, John Rennie, the distinguished civil engineer, made a speciality of mathematical books, of which he had a collection nearly complete in all languages. Dr. Benjamin Moseley's library, which was sold by Stewart in March, 1814, was composed for the most part of books on astrology, magic, and facetiæ. The Rev. F. J. Stainforth, whose library was sold at Sotheby's in 1867, collected practically nothing but books written by or relating to women; he aimed to secure not only every book, but every edition of such books. He was a most determined book-hunter, and when Holywell Street was at its lowest moral ebb, this eccentric gentleman used to visit all the bookshops almost daily, his inquiry being, 'Have you any women for me to-day?' Mr. Stainforth, who died in September, 1866, was for many years curate of Camden Church, Camberwell, and was from 1851 incumbent of All Hallow's, Staining, the stipend of which was about £560, and the population about 400. 'Bless my books--all my Bible books, all my _hocus pocus_, and all my _leger-de-main_ books, and all my other books, whether particularly mentioned at this time or not,' was the prayer of a Scotsman of about a century and a quarter ago, and so perhaps the Rev. Mr. Stainforth thought, if he did not utter occasionally some such petition.[xxix-A] Half a century ago one of the most inveterate frequenters of book-auctions was a certain Dr. G., of diminutive stature, on account of an awkward deviation of the spine. At that time the appearance of a private purchaser at a sale was a very rare event, and one which, when it occurred, invariably met with a more or less hostile reception from the fraternity. Dr. G.'s first appearance produced a good deal of sensation. The hunchback, it is true, was rather shabbily dressed, but 'l'habit ne fait pas le moine,' and is certainly no trustworthy index to the pockets of the wearer. Excitement reached fever-heat when a Wynkyn de Worde was put up and persistently contested for by the doctor, who ran it up against the booksellers present (some of whom quickly desisted from the fun for fear of burning their fingers), one of whom, far exceeding his commission, obstinately refused to give in until the book was knocked down to him to his own dismay, and the delight and ironical compliments of his colleagues. After this _contretemps_ the doctor had it pretty much his own way; his name was duly entered on the sale catalogue, and his address was known. The next day our bookseller, sobered by reflection, called on the doctor, confessed his sin of the previous day, humbly asked for absolution, and offered him the book at an immense loss on the sale price. 'If you were,' replied the doctor, 'to bring the book at my door for nothing, I would take it with a pair of tongs and drop it into the gutter.' It was a puzzle to everyone what the little doctor did with all his purchases, which were limited chiefly to classical books. At his death, however, it transpired that he bought for the various Universities of the United Kingdom. The doctor's son, a poor curate, entered his late father's library for the first time, and found there a mass of books, which occupied nearly a month in selling, and realized, to his delight, a large sum of money. The contempt with which Dr. G. received the bookseller's proposal is peculiarly typical of the book-collector. If he cannot obtain what he wants just exactly when he wants it, he does not care about it. The book-collector is doubtless too prone to despise everything which is not quite in his line, forgetting that all branches of literature contribute in some degree, greater or lesser, to the bulk of human knowledge. No man can be universal, even if he had the wealth of a dozen Rothschilds, or the mental vigour and versatility of a hundred Gladstones. The book-hunter has, however, his good traits, which sometimes require a good deal of finding, it is true. We need not dwell at great length on his apparently unconquerable habit of beating down the prices, for the custom is too well known to require much explanation; but a view of the other side of the picture is only fair. A few years ago a well-known bookseller catalogued a copy of the 'Book of Job' at a very low figure. A wealthy collector, whose purchases were generally closed on the judgment of a distinguished bookman, asked to have the copy sent on approval. It was despatched; but came back within a few days. No explanation was volunteered: when, however, the collector came into the shop a short time after, he was asked why he had returned the book. His answer was to the effect that he could not persuade himself that the illustrations were really by Blake, particularly as the price asked was so low. A week or so after this a distinguished art-critic, hearing of the whereabouts of this copy, asked to have it on approval: in sending it the bookseller enclosed a note to the effect that some doubt had been expressed as to the genuineness of the plates. In a few days came a cheque from the man of art for £10 over and above the catalogue price, and a note to the effect that the illustrations were not only unquestionably by Blake, but in the finest possible state. Last summer a certain bookseller sold, after some considerable amount of haggling, a very fine Missal for £65, which was £5 less than its catalogue price. A few weeks after the purchaser called and paid the additional £5, explaining that a friend of his had taken a violent fancy to the book, and begged to be allowed to possess it at £70. Another honest book-collector, discovering that he had bought a book considerably cheaper than an example had been sold at Sotheby's, and £2 less than Mr. Quaritch had asked for a similar copy, sent his bookseller a present of a parcel of books to make up the difference in the two amounts. With these few introductory and perhaps desultory pages, the reader is invited to the more solid feast provided for his delectation in the following pages. FOOTNOTES: [xxix-A] Mr. Stainforth's collection ranged over 300 years, and, amid much utter rubbish, there were a few things of considerable rarity, notably one of only three complete copies known of T. Bentley's 'Monument of Matrones,' 1582, formerly in the libraries of Herbert, Woodhouse, Heber and Bliss. It included two autograph letters of the Right Hon. T. Grenville, and realized £63; Anne Bradstreet's 'Tenth Muse lately sprung up in America,' 1650, £12 10s.; and a copy of Dame Juliana Berners' 'Booke of Hauking,' etc., £13. Nearly fifty items appear under the name of Aphra Behn; whilst there are twenty-one editions of Jane Porter's 'Poems,' which realized the grand total of 14s. The library comprised 3,076 lots (representing, perhaps, twenty times that number of volumes), and realized the total of £792 5s. [Illustration] THE BOOK-HUNTER IN LONDON EARLY BOOK-HUNTING. THOSE who have studied the earlier phases of English history will readily understand that the terms book-hunting in England and book-hunting in London are by no means synonymous. The passion for books had manifested itself in various and remote parts of this country long before London had developed into a place of importance; when, indeed, it was battling from without and within with conflicts which seemed to predict complete annihilation. But the growth of London is essentially typical of the growth of the nation, and of the formation of the national character. When it was laying the foundation of its future greatness London had no thought of intellectual pursuits, even if Londoners themselves had any conception of an intellectual life. For any trace of such unthought-of, and perhaps, indeed, unheard-of, articles as books, we must go to localities far remote from London--to spots where, happily, the strife and din of savage warfare scarcely made themselves heard. The monasteries were the sole repositories of literature; to the monk alone had the written book any kind of intelligence, any species of pleasure. To him it was as essential as the implements of destruction to the warrior, or the plough to the husbandman. The one had no sympathy, no connection, with the other, only in so far that the events which transpired in the battlefield had to be recorded in the _scriptorium_. Although London was a place of importance at a very early stage of the Roman occupation, it was not in any sense an intellectual centre for centuries after that period. [Illustration: _In a Scriptorium._] Indeed, it might be laid down as a general principle that the farther the seeker went from London the more likelihood there was of meeting with books. To Northumbria, from the end of the sixth to the end of the seventh century, we shall have to look for the record of book-buying, for during that period books were imported in very considerable quantities; abbeys arose all along the coast, and scholars proportionately increased. In a letter to Charlemagne, Alcuin speaks of certain 'exquisite books' which he studied under Egbert at York. At Wearmouth, Benedict Biscop (629-690) was amassing books with all the fury of half a dozen ordinary bibliomaniacs. He collected everything, and spared no cost. At York, Egbert had a fine library in the minster. St. Boniface, the Saxon missionary, was a zealous collector. There were also collections--and consequently collectors--of books at places less remote from London--such as Canterbury, Salisbury, Glastonbury, and even St. Albans; but of London itself there is no mention. Scarcely any such thing as book-hunting or book-selling could possibly have existed in London before the accession of Alfred, who, among the several ways in which he encouraged literature, is said to have given an estate to the author of a book on cosmography. Doubtless, it was after the rebuilding of the city by Alfred that, in the famous letter to Wulfseg, Bishop of London, he takes a retrospective view of the times in which they lived, as affording 'churches and monasteries filled with libraries of excellent books in several languages.' Bede describes London, even at the beginning of the eighth century, as a great market which traders frequented by land and sea; and from a passage in Gale we learn that books were brought into England for sale as early as 705. With the reconstruction of London, the wise government, and the enthusiastic love for letters which animated the great Saxon King, the commerce of the capital not only increased with great rapidity, but the commerce in books between England and other countries, particularly from such bibliopolic centres as Paris and Rome, began to assume very considerable proportions. If, as is undoubtedly the case, books were continually being imported, it follows that they found purchasers. By the beginning of the eleventh century there were many private and semi-private collections of books in or near London. The English book-collectors of the seventh century include Theodore, Archbishop of Canterbury, Benedict, Abbot of Wearmouth, and Bede; those of the eighth century, Ina, King of the West Saxons, and Alcuin, Abbot of Tours; whilst the tenth century included, in addition to Alfred, Scotus Erigena, Athelstan, and St. Dunstan, Archbishop of Canterbury. But it cannot be said, with due regard to truth, that London was in any sense a seat of learning, or a popular resort for learned men, until well on into the thirteenth century. Doubtless many consignments of books passed through the city on the way to their respective destinations. Edward I. may be regarded as the first English monarch who took any interest in collecting books; most of his, however, were service books. They are mentioned in the Wardrobe Accounts (1299-1300) of this King, and are only eleven in number. These he may have purchased in 1273 in France, through which he passed on his way home from Palestine. But it is much more probable that he had no thought of books when hurrying home to claim the crown of his father. Contemporary with Edward was another book-collector of a very different type, an abbot of Peterborough, Richard of London, who had a 'private library' of ten books, including the 'Consolation of Philosophy,' which he may have formed in London. But quite the most interesting book-collector (so far as we are concerned just now) of this period is Richard de Gravesend, Bishop of London. A minute catalogue of this collection is among the treasures of St. Paul's Cathedral, and has been privately printed. In this case, the price of each book is affixed to its entry; the total number of volumes is one hundred, their aggregate value being £116 14s. 6d., representing, according to Milman's estimate, £1,760 of our present money. Twenty-one Bibles and parts of Bibles were valued at £19 5s. Twenty-two volumes in this collection deal with canon and civil law, four with ecclesiastical history, and about an equal number with what may be designated science and arts, the rest being of a theological character. The entries run thus: 'Tractatus fr'is Dertti'i de proprietatibus rerum. Libellus instructionum. Liber Avicennæ. Liber naturalis.' The two last-named are respectively the highest and lowest priced items in the list--for books of a single volume only--the 'Liber Avicennæ' being valued at the very high figure of £5, and the 'Liber Naturalis' at 3s. A Bible in thirteen volumes is valued at £10; and a 'little Bible' at £1. The total value of the property of this Bishop was scheduled at about £3,000. In spite of civil strife and foreign complications, the taste for literature made great strides during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, with the very natural consequence of an increased demand for, and supply of, books. And the curious thing is that book-collecting was gradually passing away from the monks, and becoming exceedingly popular with the laity. 'Flocks and fleeces, crops and herds, gardens and orchards, the wine of the winecup, are the only books and studies of the monks.' The Franciscans, who (like the Dominicans) came to England in 1224, were expressly forbidden 'the possession of books or the necessary materials for study.' When Roger Bacon joined this order, he was deprived of his books. St. Francis himself, it seems, was once 'tempted to possess books'--by honest means, let us hope, although the point is not quite clear--and he almost yielded to the temptation, but finally decided that it would be sinful. The plague of books seems to have troubled this poor saint's soul, for he hoped that the day would come when men would throw their books out of the window as rubbish. [Illustration: _Lambeth Palace Library._] In proof of the theory that laymen at a very early period became book-collectors, the most interesting example which we can quote is that of Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, who died in 1315, and who bequeathed his library to Bordesley Abbey, Worcestershire, where it had already been deposited during his lifetime. Beginning with this preamble, 'A tus iceux qe ceste lettre verront ou orrount. Guy de Beauchamp, Comte de Warr. Saluz en Deu. Nous avoir bayle e en lagarde le Abbé e le covent de Bordesleye, lesse a demorer a touz jours les Romaunces de souz nomes; ces est assaveyr,' the bequest recites, with great minuteness, a remarkably interesting list of books. This list ('escrites ou Bordesleye le premer jour de may, le an du regñ le Roy Edw{d} trentime quart') is in the Lambeth Library, but it is reprinted by Todd in his 'Illustrations of Gower and Chaucer,' pp. 161, 162. This list is of more than ordinary interest, chiefly because the collection formed by a layman gives us a very good insight into the class of books which the early nobility of England read, or, at all events, collected. Religious books, of course, formed the background of the library, but there were many romances, such, for instance, as those of King Arthur, of 'Josep alb Arimathie e deu Seint Grael,' of 'Troies,' etc. There was also a book 'De Phisik et de Surgie.' This collection contained between forty and fifty volumes, in which was included pretty nearly the entire range of human knowledge as it then extended. It is well to remember in connection with this bequest that, at the same time, or, more correctly, in 1300, the academical library of Oxford consisted of a few tracts kept in chests under St. Mary's Church. With the greatest book-collector of this period, Richard de Bury (1287-1345), the author of the 'Philobiblon,' unfortunately, we have little to do, as his book expeditions appear to have been confined almost entirely to foreign countries. He collected books from every source open to him, and wrote of his passion with a warmth of eloquence of which even Cicero might have been proud. His most important book transaction, which comes within the purview of the present volume, relates to the gift by an Abbot of St. Albans of four volumes to De Bury, then Clerk of the Privy Seal, viz., Terence, Virgil, Quintilian, and Hieronymus against Rufinus. In addition to these, the Abbot sold him thirty-two other books for fifty pounds of silver. When De Bury became Bishop this 'gift' troubled his conscience, and he restored several of the books which had come into his possession in a perfectly honest and legitimate manner, whilst others were secured from the Bishop's executors. One of the volumes acquired in the latter manner is now in the British Museum. It is a large folio MS. on the works of John of Salisbury, and bears upon it a note to the effect that it was written by Simon (Abbot of St. Albans, 1167-1183), and another to the following effect: 'Hunc librum venditum Domino Ricardo de Biry Episcopo Dunelmensi emit Michael Abbas Sancti Albani ab executoribus predicti episcopi anno Domini millesimo ccc{o} xlv{to} circa purificationem Beate Virginis.' The catalogue of the library of the Benedictine monastery of Christ Church, Canterbury, in the Cottonian Collection, British Museum, and printed for the first time at length in Edward's 'Memoirs of Libraries' (i. 122-235), is a remarkable list of the most extensive collection of books at that time in this country. It was formed at the end of the thirteenth and beginning of the fourteenth century. This library was well furnished with works in science and history, and particularly so with the classics--Aristotle, Cicero, Lucan, Plato, Suetonius, Seneca, Terence, and Virgil. The extreme probability is that London was the highway through which the greater part of this and other early libraries passed. If, early in the fifteenth century, the book-hunter in London possessed few opportunities of purchasing books, he would have found several very good libraries which were open to his inspection. There was, for example, a very considerable collection in the Franciscan monastery, which once stood on the site now occupied by Christ's Hospital, Newgate Street. The first stone of this monastery was laid in October, 1421, amid much pomp, by the then Lord Mayor, Sir Richard Whittington, who gave £400 in books. It was covered in before the winter of 1422, and completed in three years, and furnished with books. From Stow's 'Survey' we learn that one hundred marks were expended on the transcription of the works of Nicholas de Lira, to be chained in the library, and of which cost John Frensile remitted 20s. One of the chained books, 'The Lectures of Hostiensis,' cost five marks. From another source we learn that a Carmelite friar named John Wallden bequeathed to this library as many MSS. as were worth 2,000 pieces of gold. Anthony à Wood refers to the oft-repeated charge of the book-covetousness of the mendicant friars, which, in fact, was carried to such an extreme 'that wise men looked upon it as an injury to laymen, who therefore found a difficulty to get any books.' Of the same period, there is a very curious anecdote in Rymer's 'Foedera' about taking off the duty upon six barrels of books sent by a Roman cardinal to the Prior of the conventual church of St. Trinity, Norwich. These barrels, which lay at the Custom-house, were imported duty free. Neither the book-hunger of the mendicant friars, nor the difficulties which surrounded the importation of books, appears to have militated greatly against the growing passion. We have the name, and only the name, of a very famous book-hunter--John of Boston--of the first decade of the fifteenth century, whose labours, however, have been completely blotted out of existence by the dispersed monasteries. But there were many other collectors whose memories have been handed down to us in a more tangible form, even if their collections of books are almost as abstract and indefinite as that of John of Boston. During the first quarter of the fifteenth century, we have quite a considerable little group of royal book-collectors--Henry IV., Henry V., and his brothers, John, Duke of Bedford, and Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester. The last-named was undoubtedly the most enthusiastic bibliophile of the four, but whilst his extensive gifts of books to the University of Oxford may be said to have formed the foundation of the library there, they were in the following century destroyed by the mob. A few examples of his gifts are now preserved in the British Museum and at Oxford. His books were estimated at a very high figure, the value placed on 120 of them (out of the total of 600) being no less than £1,000. The memory of the Duke of Bedford's library is best perpetuated by the famous Bedford Missal, or Book of Hours, perhaps the most splendid example of fifteenth-century illustration. It is now in the British Museum, where it has been since 1852. The history of this missal, perhaps the most interesting in existence, is too well known to be dealt with here (see p. 109). Henry V. was undoubtedly fond of books. Rymer refers to two petitions to the Council after the King's death for the return of valuable books of history, borrowed by him of the Countess of Westmoreland, and of the priory of Christ Church, Canterbury, and not returned, though one of them had been directed to be delivered to its owner by the King's last will. The elegantly illuminated copy of Lydgate's 'Hystory, Sege, and Destruccion of Troye,' 1513, in the Bodleian, is doubtless the copy which Lydgate gave to Henry V. At Cambridge there is the MS. of a French translation of Cardinal Bonaventure's 'Life of Christ,' with the note 'this wasse sumtyme Kinge Henri the fifeth his booke,' etc. Henry VI. does not appear to have cared for books, and it is not surprising, what with wars abroad and excessive taxation, plague and famine at home, that literary tastes received a severe check. We get several glimpses of the dearth of books. In the MS. history of Eton College, in the British Museum, the Provost and Fellows of Eton and Cambridge are stated, 25 Henry VI., to have petitioned the King that he would be pleased to order one of his chaplains, Richard Chestre, 'to take to him such men as shall be seen to him expedient in order to get knowledge where such bookes [for Divine service] may be found, paying a reasonable price for the same, and that the sayd men might have the choice of such bookes, ornaments, and other necessaries as now late were perteynyng to the Duke of Gloucester, and that the king would particular[ly] cause to be employed herein John Pye--his stacioner of London.' Book-importation by the galleys that brought the produce of the East to London and Southampton had assumed very considerable proportions during the fifteenth century; but the uncertainties which attended it were not at all favourable to its full development. Book-production was still progressing in the immediate neighbourhood of London. At St. Albans, for example, over eighty were transcribed under Whethamstede during this reign, a number which is peculiarly interesting when the degeneracy of the monasteries is remembered. Neither Edward IV. nor Richard III. seems to have availed himself of the increasing plenty of books. The library of the former was a very unimportant affair. From the Wardrobe Account of this King (1480) we get a few highly interesting facts concerning book-binding, gildings, and garnishing: 'For vj unces and iij quarters of silk to the laces and tassels for garnysshing of diverse Bookes, price the unce xiiij_d._--vij_s._ x_d._ ob.; for the making of xvj laces and xvj tassels made of the said vj unces and iij of silke, price in grete ij_s._ vii_d._' These moneys were paid to Alice Claver, a 'sylk-woman.' And again 'to Piers Bauduyn, stacioner, for bynding, gilding and dressing of a booke called "Titus Livius," xx_s._; for bynding, gilding and dressing of a booke of the Holy Trinitie, xvj_s._; for bynding, gilding and dressing of a booke called "Frossard," xvj_s._; for bynding, gilding and dressing of a booke called the Bible, xvj_s._; for bynding, gilding and dressing of a booke called "Le Gouvernement of Kinges and Princes," xvj_s._; for bynding and dressing of the three smalle bookes of Franche, price in grete vj_s._ viiij_d._; for the dressing of ij bookes whereof oon is called "La Forteresse de Foy" and the other called the "Book of Josephus," iij_s._ iiij_d._; and for bynding, gilding and dressing a booke called the "Bible Historial," xx_s._' The only incident which calls for special mention in the two next short reigns is a law, 1 Richard III., 1483, by which it was enacted that if any of the printers or sellers of printed books--the 'great plenty' of which came from 'beyond the sea'--'vend them at too high and unreasonable prices,' then the Lord Chancellor, Lord Treasurer, or any of the chief justices of the one bench or the other, were to regulate the prices. [Illustration: _Roman Books and Writing Materials._] [Illustration] BOOK-HUNTING AFTER THE INTRODUCTION OF PRINTING. I. THE introduction of printing into this country by Caxton during the latter half of the fifteenth century had very little immediate effect on book-collecting. The operations of the press were slow, its patrons few, and its work controlled by one man. The reproduction of MSS. was essentially a slow process, but when these transcriptions were finished, they rarely failed to find a purchaser. Caxton, like Sweynheim and Pannartz at Subiaco, soon learned the seriousness of over-printing an edition. Collectors were few, and the introduction of printing did not very materially add to their number. London, however, soon became a recognised centre of the trade in books, and Henry VII. patronized, in his curious fashion, the collecting of them. He read, according to Bacon, 'most books that were of any worth in the French tongue,' and one of the most commendable actions of this King was the purchase of the noble series of vellum copies of the works printed at Paris by Antoine Vérard, now in the British Museum--an act by which he may be said to have laid the foundation of our great national library. The value of books at this period is not without interest; but we must confine ourselves to one or two facts relating to Caxton's books. At his death in 1492, a copy of the 'Golden Legend' was valued at 6s. 8d. in the books of the Westminster churchwarden. From a note by Dibdin, it would seem that the price of Caxtons towards the end of the reign of Henry VII. was as follows: 'Godfray of Boulogne' (imperfect), ii_s._ Virgil's 'Æneid' (perfect), xij_d._ 'Fait of Arms and Chivalry' (perfect), ij_s._ viij_d._ 'Chastising of God's Children,' viij_d._ Henry VIII. was undoubtedly a book-lover as well as a book-collector. He established a library at St. James's. But perhaps it is rather as a book-disperser that Henry is entitled to notice in this place. The dissolution of the monasteries is the genesis of book-collecting in London. The first move in this respect is entitled 'An Act that all religious houses under the yearly revenue of £200 shall be dissolved and given to the King and his heirs,' and is dated 1535 (27 Henry VIII., cap. 28, ii. 134). The second is dated 1539. Whatever advantages in a general way the dissolution of the monasteries may have had, its consequences, so far as regards the libraries, which the monks considered as among their most cherished possessions, were disastrous beyond measure. Indeed, we have no conception of our losses. Addressing himself to Edward VI. in 1549, John Bale, afterwards Bishop of Ossory, who had but little love for Popery of any description, writes in this strain: 'Avarice was the other dispatcher which hath made an end both of our libraries and books . . . to the no small decay of the commonwealth. A great number of them who purchased those superstitious mansions [monasteries], reserved of these Library-books, some . . . to scour their candlesticks, and some to rub their boots; some they sold to the grocers and soap-sellers, and some they sent over sea to the bookbinders, not in small numbers, but at times whole shipsfull, to the wondering of the foreign nations. Yea, the universities of this realm are not all clear in this detestable fact. But cursed is that belly which seeketh to be fed with so ungodly gains, and so deeply shameth his natural country. I know a merchantman, which shall at this time be nameless, that bought the contents of two noble Libraries for forty shillings price: a shame it is to be spoken. This stuff hath he occupied in the stead of gray paper by the space of more than these ten years; and yet he hath store enough for as many years to come. . . . Our posterity may well curse this wicked fact of our age, this unreasonable spoil of England's most noble antiquities, unless they be stayed in time.' Fuller, in his 'Church History of Britain,' quotes Bale's lamentation, and adds his own testimony on the same subject: 'As brokers in Long Lane, when they buy an old suit buy the linings together with the outside, so it was considered meet that such as purchased the buildings of monasteries should in the same grant have the Libraries (the stuffing thereof) conveyed unto them. And now these ignorant owners, so long as they might keep a ledger-book or terrier by direction thereof to find such straggling acres as belonged unto them, they cared not to preserve any other monuments. The covers of books, with curious brass bosses and clasps, intended to protect, proved to betray them, being the baits of covetousness. And so many excellent authors, stripped out of their cases, were left naked, to be buried or thrown away. . . . What soul can be so frozen as not to melt into anger thereat? What heart, having the least spark of ingenuity, is not hot at this indignity offered to literature? I deny not but that in this heap of books there was much rubbish; legions of lying legends, good for nothing but fuel . . . volumes full fraught with superstition, which, notwithstanding, might be useful to learned men; except any will deny apothecaries the privilege of keeping poison in their shops, when they can make antidotes of them. But, beside these, what beautiful Bibles, rare Fathers, subtile Schoolmen, useful Historians--ancient, middle, modern; what painful Comments were here amongst them! What monuments of mathematics all massacred together; seeing every book with a cross was condemned for Popish; with circles for conjuring.' The calamities bewailed in such picturesque language by Bale and Fuller would have been much more serious but for the labours of one of our earliest antiquaries and book-lovers, John Leland. 'The laboryouse Journey and serche of Johan Leylande for Englandes Antiquities geven of hym as a newe yeares gyfte to kynge Henry the viii in the xxxvij yeare of his Reygne,' 1549, is a remarkable publication, of great interest to the book-hunter and the antiquary. But the fruits of Leland's researches cannot now be fully known, for he was too intent on accumulating material to draw up an adequate inventory. Much that he preserved from destruction is now in the British Museum, and some is in the Bodleian at Oxford. Some of the fragments which he had saved from the general destruction had been placed in the King's own library in Westminster. The dissolution of the monasteries had among its many effects the creation, so to speak, of a large number of collectors. One of the most famous of the early sixteenth-century collectors, Sir Thomas More, however, died (in 1535) before he could have availed himself of the many treasures scattered to all quarters of the earth. Dibdin records a bibliomaniacal anecdote which is well worth repeating here, as it shows how More's love of books had infected even those who came to seize upon him to carry him to the Tower, and to endeavour to inveigle him into treasonable expressions: 'While Sir Richard Southwell and Mr. Palmer weare bussie in trussinge upp his bookes, Mr. Riche, pretending,' etc., 'whereupon Mr. Palmer, on his deposition, said, that he was soe bussie ab{t} the trussinge upp Sir Tho. Moore's bookes in a sacke, that he tooke no heed of there talke.' Henry, Earl of Arundel, was not slow to seize upon the advantages which the dissolution placed before everyone. At Nonsuch, in Surrey, he formed a library, which is described in a biography of him, written shortly after his death, as 'righte worthye of remembrance.' Besides his numerous MSS. and printed books, he acquired a considerable portion of the library of Cranmer, which was dispersed at the death of the Archbishop. His books passed to his son-in-law, Lord Lumley, at whose decease they were purchased by Henry, Prince of Wales, and are now in the British Museum. The Earl of Arundel's books are handsomely bound, and are known by his badge of the white horse and oak branch which generally occurs on the covers. [Illustration: _Earl of Arundel's Badge._] In Jeremy Collier's 'Ecclesiastical History' (vol. ii. 307) we get a glimpse of book-matters in London in the middle of the sixteenth century. At the end of February, 1550, we learn that the Council book mentions the King's sending a letter for the purging of the library at Westminster. The persons are not named, but the business was to cull out all superstitious books, as missals, legends, and such-like, and to deliver the garniture of the books, either gold or silver, to Sir Anthony Archer. These books were many of them plated with gold and silver and curiously embossed. This, as far as we can collect, was the superstition that destroyed them. 'Here avarice had a very thin disguise, and the courtiers discovered of what spirit they were to a remarkable degree.' Here is another picture of an almost contemporaneous event, equally vivid in its suggestiveness: 'John Tyndale, the translator's brother, and Thomas Patmore, merchants, were condemned to do penance by riding with their faces to their horses' tails, with their books fastened thick about them, pinned, or tacked, to their gowns or clokes, to the Standard in Cheap; and there with their own hands to fling them into the fire, kindled on purpose to burn them.' As a book-collecting period the sixteenth century, from the accession of Henry VIII.--when books became the organs of the passions of mankind--to the death of Elizabeth, is full of intense interest. The old order had changed; the world itself had made an entirely fresh start. Men and events of the previous two or three centuries were almost as antique then as they are to-day, and perhaps in many respects they were infinitely less clearly understood. As the century grew in age, so the number of book-collectors increased. The hobby became first a passion with the few, and then the fashion with the many. Henry VIII. was perhaps a passive rather than an active collector, with a distinct leaning in favour of beautiful books. His three children, who followed him on the throne of England, were collectors of books, and the majority of their purchases must have been made in London. Many of these books have, at some time or other, drifted from private hands into the sale-rooms, but perhaps the majority of those now existing are to be found within the walls of our public institutions. For example, at the sale of Dr. Askew's MSS., in 1775, a very interesting item was purchased by a Mr. Jackson, a Quaker, and a dealer in wine and spirits, with whom book-collecting was a passion. The MS. proved to be in the handwriting of Edward VI.; it was in French, and dealt with his opinion of his right to the title of Supreme Head of the Church. At Jackson's sale the MS. became the property of the British Museum. As another illustration, we may refer to the copy of the 'Flores Historiarum per Matthæum Westmonasteriensem,' etc., 1570, in the British Museum (Cracherode Collection) which is the identical one presented by Archbishop Parker (by whose authority it was published) to Queen Elizabeth. It afterwards fell into the hands of Francis, Earl of Bedford, who bequeathed it, with the furniture of a little study, to his secretary. It was subsequently in the possession of Ritson. And yet again, in the Eton College Library, there is a copy of the 'Missale Romanum,' printed at Paris by Hardouyn, 1530, which belonged to Mary, with a sentence in her handwriting; this volume afterwards came into the possession of Mary of Este, Queen of James II., and subsequently into the hands of a London bookseller, from whom it was purchased for fifty-three shillings by Bishop Fleetwood, and presented to the college library. Indeed, a large volume might be compiled on the Adventures of Some Famous Books. Interesting and important as is the phase of book-collecting which relates to royal personages, it falls into insignificance beside that of men who have achieved greatness through their own abilities. The books collected by Thomas Cranmer, for example, quite overshadow in interest anything which the whole reign of the Tudors could produce. It has been well said that his knowledge of books was wide, and his opportunities for acquiring them unrivalled. Cranmer was a generous collector, for his library was quite open for the use of learned men. Latimer spent 'many an hour' there, and has himself told us that he met with a copy of Dionysius 'in my Lord of Canterbury's library.' We have already seen that many of Cranmer's books passed into the possession of the Earl of Arundel, but many were 'conveyed and stolen awaie.' Cranmer's books have found an enthusiastic historian in Prebendary Burbidge, who has almost rehabilitated the great ecclesiastic's library in the first part of Mr. Quaritch's 'Dictionary of English Book-collectors.' Another book-collector of a very different type was amassing an extensive library at a somewhat later period than Cranmer: Dr. Dee, the famous necromancer, had collected '4,000 volumes, printed and unprinted, bound and unbound, valued at 2,000 lib.,' of which one Greek, two French and one High Dutch volumes of MSS. alone were 'worth 533 lib.' It occupied forty years to form this library. Most of his books passed into the possession of Elias Ashmole--who was another collector with an insatiable appetite--and now form a part of the Ashmolean Museum. Some of Dee's singular MSS. were found, long after his death, in the secret drawer of a chest, which had passed through many hands undiscovered. Reverting for a moment to Ashmole, he himself tells us that he gave 'five volumes of Mr. Dugdale's' works to the Temple Library. And further: 'My first boatful of books, which were carried to Mrs. Tradescant's, were brought back to the Temple.' In May, 1667, he bought Mr. John Booker's study of books, and gave £140 for them. In 1681 he bought 'Mr. Lilly's library of books of his widow, for £50.' A very distinguished book-collector of the Elizabethan period was Sir Francis Drake, the great Admiral. It did not seem to be at all known that the distinguished naval hero was also a bibliophile until 1883, when the collection of books was brought from the old residence of the Drakes, Nutwell Court, Lympstone, Devon, to Sotheby's. The sale comprised 1,660 lots, representing several thousand volumes, the total being £3,276 17s. 6d. It was especially rich in books and old tracts of the early seventeenth century relating to the English voyages to America, and some of these realized very high figures. Although the library was undoubtedly founded by Drake, it was evidently continued by his descendants. Bacon, Baron of Verulam, was a distinguished book-collector, as the shelves of his chambers in Gray's Inn would have testified. Archbishop Parker, than whom 'a more determined book-fancier never existed in Great Britain,' and Gabriel Harvey, the friend of Spenser, and the object of Tom Nash's withering scorn, were among the most inveterate book-collectors of Elizabethan London. Had Harvey--whose books usually contain his autograph on the title-page, and not a few of which were given him by Spenser--studied his books less, and the proper study of mankind a little more, he might have shown his talents off to a better advantage than in his conflicts with Nash. In the Bodleian there is a set of old tales and romances which Spenser lent Harvey, taking as a hostage, apparently, Harvey's copy of Lucian in four volumes. Harvey had a very poor opinion of such 'foolish' books, but he does not seem to have returned them to their rightful owner. The fire which destroyed Ben Jonson's MSS. undoubtedly consumed many of his printed books, but examples from his library, with 'Sum Ben Jonson' inscribed, are sometimes met with. Shakespeare may have had a library, but we have no evidence that he possessed even a copy of his own plays in quarto. The Elizabethan poets and dramatists were prodigious contributors to the press, but very poor patrons of booksellers. From various sources we get some highly-coloured and unflattering pictures of the typical booksellers of the period. Tom Nash has limned for us a vivid little portrait in 'Pierce Penilesse' (1592), in which he declares that if he were to paint Sloth, 'I swear that I would draw it like a stationer that I know, with his thumb under his girdle, who, if ever a man come to his stall to ask him for a book, never stirs his head, or looks upon him, but stands stone still, and speaks not a word, only with his little finger points backward to his boy, who must be his interpreter; and so all day, gaping like a dumb image, he sits without motion, except at such times as he goes to dinner or supper, for then he is as quick as other three, eating six times every day.' II. From start to finish the Stuart dynasty ruled England for close on three-quarters of a century. That book-collecting should have existed at all under it is a marvel. But the hobby no longer depended upon the patronage of courts and courtiers. From the Wise Fool, James I., to the Foolish Fool, the second James, collectors pursued their hobby in London and out of it. James I. began to collect books at a very early age, and a list of his library was published for the first time in the _Athenæum_ in 1893. It has, however, but little interest to us in this place, for doubtless most of the books were imported into Scotland from the great book centre, Paris. The library which he acquired after his accession to the throne of England is of little consequence, for he was not the person to purchase books when he had the means, and doubtless many of his bookish possessions were gifts. In the library at Eton College there is his copy of Captain John Smith's 'History of Virginia,' 1624, which was rescued by Storer from a dirty bookseller's shop in Derby, and the existence of many others might be traced. It is certain that 'he gave them shabby coverings, and scribbled idle notes on their margins.' Had his son Henry lived, he might have developed into a respectable book-collector. We know for certain that he 'paid a Frenchman that presented a book, £4 10s.'; and that he paid 'Mr. Holyoak for writing a catalogue of the library which the Prince had of Lord Lumley, £8 13s. 4d.' Charles II., like his forbears, was not a book-buyer, and so far as he is concerned we must content ourselves with repeating a little anecdote after Dibdin, who refers to an 'old and not incurious library at Workingham, in Suffolk,' where there was a very fine ruled copy of Hayes's Bible, published at Cambridge, 1674, in two volumes folio; on the fly-leaf it contains the following memorandum: 'N.B.--This Bible belonged to K. Charles IId. and [was] given by him to Duke Lauderdale and sold by auction w{th} y{e} rest of his Books.' In a comparatively modern hand, below, is written in pencil: 'Hark ye, my friends, that on this Bible look, Marvel not at the fairness of the Book; No soil of fingers, nor such ugly things, Expect to find, Sirs, for it _was the King's_.' [Illustration: _Sir Robert Cotton._] The most distinguished Metropolitan book-collector of the period was Sir Robert Cotton, who began as early as 1588, and who had assistance from such antiquaries as William Camden and Sir Henry Spelman. This library, after being closed on account of the treasonable character of the documents contained in it, passed into the possession of Cotton's son, Sir Thomas, whose house was almost adjoining Westminster Hall. Anthony à Wood gives a curious account of a visit he paid it, when he found its owner practising on the lute. The key of the library was in the possession of one Pearson, who lodged with a bookseller in Little Britain. Wood was 'forced to walk thither, and much ado there was to find him.' This library was removed to Essex Street, and again back to Westminster to Ashburnham House in Little Dean's Yard, where it suffered greatly from a fire in 1731, and what remains of it is now in the British Museum. Sir Thomas Bodley was another collector, but few of his accumulations appear to have come from London. The extraordinary collection of pamphlets got together by Tomlinson, and now stored in the British Museum, is too well known to need more than a passing reference. It is not so generally known that Narcissus Luttrell was a very voracious collector of broadsides, tracts, and so forth. To nearly every one of the items he affixed the price he paid for it. In 1820, at the Bindley sale, this extraordinary collection, ranging in date from 1640 to 1688, and comprising twelve volumes, realized the then large amount of £781. [Illustration: _Sir Julius Cæsar's Travelling Library._] Sir Julius Cæsar, Master of the Rolls under James I., was a book-collector of the right sort, and his box of charming little editions of the classics, with which he used to solace himself on a journey, is now in the safe keeping of the British Museum. Sir Julius was born in 1557, and died in April, 1636; he possessed a fine collection of highly interesting manuscripts, which had the narrowest possible escape from being destroyed at the latter part of the last century. The collection was rescued in time by Samuel Paterson, the auctioneer, and it is now in the British Museum. Robert Burton (the author of the 'Anatomy of Melancholy') was, like Luttrell, also a great collector of tracts, and his library, now in the Bodleian, is peculiarly rich in historical, political, and poetical pamphlets, and in miscellaneous accounts of murders, monsters, and accidents. He seems to have purchased and preserved a copy of everything that came out. 'There is no nation,' says Johnson, 'in which it is so necessary as in our own to assemble the small tracts and fugitive pieces.' 'The writers of these' frequently have opportunities 'of inquiring from living witnesses, and of copying their representations from the life, and preserve a multitude of particular incidents which are forgotten in a short time, or omitted in formal relations, and yet afford light in some of the darkest scenes of state.' 'From pamphlets,' says the same writer, 'are to be learned the progress of every debate, and of every opinion.' And he compares the impression produced on the mind of him who shall consult these tracts, and of another that refers merely to formal historians, to the _difference of him who hears of a victory, and him who sees the battle_. Archbishop Laud collected from far and wide. John Selden, like Laud, had a distinct weakness for learned books, and consequently could have found little to satisfy his cravings in London. Selden, when disturbed, put his spectacles into the book he was busy with by way of marking the place; and after his death numbers of volumes were found with these curious book-markers. John Felton, who murdered Buckingham, was also a book-collector in a small way. In Lilly's catalogue for 1863 there was a copy of Peacham's 'Compleat Gentleman,' 1622, with the following on the fly-leaf: 'John Felton, vicessimo secundo die Junii, 1622.' A few glances, at this point, at the more material phases of book-collecting may not be without interest. The following is one of the earliest bookseller's statements of accounts with which we are acquainted. It was rendered to 'the Right Honourable the Lord Conway,' on May 31, 1638, by Henry Seile, whose shop was at the sign of the Tiger's Head, Fleet Street: 1 Nash's Ha' wee you to Saffron Walden 00 02 06 1 Greene's Arcadia } { 1 Farewell to Folly } { 1 Tullies' Love } These nine Bookes { 1 Lady Fitzwater's Nightingale } were delivered to { 00 10 0 1 Mamilia } your Lordship at { 1 Never too Late } Xs. { 1 Groatesworth of Wit } { 1 Mourning Garment } { 1 Peers pennylesse supplication } { In a letter addressed to Evelyn by Dr. Cosin (afterwards Bishop of Durham) during his exile, and dated July 18, 1651, we get a delightful glimpse of two book-lovers doing 'a deal.' Mr. Evelyn was apparently a man who could drive a bargain with Hebraic shrewdness. 'Truly, sir,' expostulated mildly the excited ecclesiastic, 'I thought I had prevented any further motion of abatement by the large offer that I made to you. . . . If you consider their number, I desire you would be pleased to consider likewise, that they are a choice number, and a company of the best selected books among them all. . . . There is in your note Pliny's "Natural History" in English, priced at 36s., which is worth £3; Camden's "Errors," priced at 5s. 6d., for which I have seen £1 given; Paulus Jovius at £1, which sells now in Paris at 4 pistoles; and Pol. Virgil at 10s., which sells here for £10; William of Malmesbury at 15s., for which they demand here £30, and Asser Menev, etc., at 14s., which they will not part with here nor elsewhere abroad for £20.' It is highly probable that the book-market was never so bad in London as during this period; for, in addition to the above illustration, and at about the same time, Isaac Vossius came over to this country with a quantity of literary property, some of which had belonged to his learned father, in the hopes of selling it; but he 'carried them back into Holland,' where 'a quicker mercate' was expected. III. [Illustration: _Archbishop Usher._] _Sic transit gloria mundi_ might well be the motto of a History of Book-Collectors, for in by far the majority of cases great private libraries have been formed in one generation by genuine bookworms, only to be scattered in the next by needy legatees or in consequence of impoverished estates. There can be no doubt that several famous libraries have derived their origin from the mere vanity of emulating a fashionable pursuit. Into this matter, however, it is not necessary for us to enter, except to hazard the suggestion that if the money had not been spent in that direction it would doubtless have been squandered in some less worthy and enduring manner. One of the most interesting and valuable contributions to the history of private collections of the seventeenth century is embedded in the long and entertaining letter which John Evelyn addressed to Mr. Pepys in August, 1689. This letter is so accessible that it may seem superfluous to quote any part of it; but a few of the leading points are necessary to the proper sequence of our story. 'The Bishop of Ely has a very well-stored library, but the very best is what Dr. Stillingfleet has at Twickenham, ten miles out of town. . . . Our famous lawyer, Sir Edward Coke, purchased a very choice library of Greek and other MSS., which were sold him by Dr. Meric Casaubon, son of the learned Isaac; and these, together with his delicious villa, Durdens, came into the possession of the present Earl of Berkeley from his uncle, Sir Robert Cook. . . . I have heard that Sir Henry Savill was master of many precious MSS., and he is frequently celebrated for it by the learned Valesius, almost in every page of that learned man's Annotations on Eusebius, and the Ecclesiastical Historians published by him. The late Mr. Hales, of Eton, had likewise a very good library; and so had Dr. Cosin, late Bishop of Duresme [and afterwards of Durham], a considerable part of which I had agreed with him for myself during his exile abroad, as I can show under his own hand; but his late daughter, since my Lady Garret, thought I had not offered enough, and made difficulty in delivering them to me till near the time of his Majesty's restoration, and after that the Dean, her father, becoming Bishop of that opulent See, bestowed them on the library there. But the Lord Primate Usher was inferior to none I have named among the clergy for rare MSS., a great part of which, being brought out of Ireland, and left his son-in-law, Sir Timothy Tyrill, was disposed of to give bread to that incomparable Prelate during the late fanatic war. Such as remained yet at Dublin were preserved, and by a public purse restored and placed in the college library of that city. . . . I forbear to name the late Earl of Bristol's and his kinsman's, Sir Kenelm Digby's, libraries, of more pompe than intrinsic value, as chiefly consisting of modern poets, romances, chymical, and astrological books. . . . As for those of Sir Kenelm, the catalogue was printed and most of them sold in Paris, as many better have lately been in London. The Duke of Lauderdale's[27:A] is yet entire, choicely bound, and to be sold by a friend of mine, to whom they are pawned; but it comes far short of his relation's, the Lord Maitland's, which was certainly the noblest, most substantial and accomplished library that ever passed under the speare, and heartily it grieved me to behold its limbs, like those of the chaste Hippolytus, separated and torn from that so well chosen and compacted a body. The Earl of Anglesey's, and several others since, by I know not what invidious fate, passed the same fortune, to whatever influence and constellation now reigning malevolent to books and libraries, which can portend no good to the future age.' [Illustration: _Wotton House in 1840._] It is interesting to note that of the several libraries enumerated by Evelyn three have become, partly or wholly, public property. That of Dr. John Moore, Bishop of Ely, was purchased after his death by George I. for £6,000, and presented to the University of Cambridge, where it now is.[27:B] Evelyn himself was, as will have been gathered, an ardent book-collector. He began forming a library very early in life, whilst that of his brother came to him by bequest. At the time of his death he had a very extensive collection of books at Wotton, which has been considerably augmented by his successors. In the early part of the present century William Upcott, of the London Institution, drew up a complete catalogue. Upcott's appearance on the scene synchronized with the disappearance of a number of volumes from the Evelyn Library; it has been suggested that Lady Evelyn presented them to him 'or something of that sort,' although the circumstance has never been officially explained. Certain it is that a large number of books formerly in the possession of the diarist have at times appeared in the auction-room. The most important which occurred during the last few years are two beautifully-written MSS., the work of Richard Hoare, one having the title 'Instructions Oeconomiques,' 1648, with a dedication 'To the present mistress of my youth, the hopeful companion of my riper years, and the future nurse of my old age, Mrs. May Evelyn, my deare wife,' etc. The second was a book of Private Devotions, 1650. Evelyn was also unfortunate in his lifetime, inasmuch as the Duke of Lauderdale 'came to my house, under pretence of a visit,' but in reality to borrow 'for a few days' certain valuable MSS., which this aristocratic thief never returned. So, too, he lent Burnet a quantity of MS. material for his 'History of the Reformation,' which, like other borrowed books, never came back. A large number of first editions of the works of J. Evelyn, together with some books from his library, illustrated with his autograph notes, occurred in the sale of the library of the late Arthur Davis, of Deptford and East Farleigh, July, 1857, many of which were doubtless purloined at some time or other. [Illustration: _Magdalen College, Oxford._] Of all the seventeenth-century book-collectors, perhaps the most interesting is that other diarist, Samuel Pepys. Samuel was not a man of great learning, but his wit, his knowledge of the world, and his humanity were unbounded. He welcomed almost anything in the shape of a book, from a roguish French novel to a treatise on medals, from a loose Restoration play to a maritime pamphlet, and from lives of the saints to books on astrology or philosophy. Not a great man, perhaps, but one of the most delightful and entertaining that one could wish. The Secretary's 'Diary' is full of allusions to men and events of bookish interest, and gives frequent illustrations of his amiable passion for book-collecting. Fortunately, we have not to grope in the dark to get an accurate portrait of the genial Samuel as a book-collector, for his entire library is preserved, almost in the same state as he left it, at Magdalen College, Oxford, 'as curious a medley of the grave and gay' as any person of catholic tastes could wish for. The library consists of almost 3,000 volumes, preserved in eleven mahogany bookcases. The books are all arranged in double rows, the small ones in front being sufficiently low to permit of the titles of the back row of larger ones being easily read. The library is a remarkably accurate reflection of the tastes of the founder. In addition to what is termed ordinary useful books, there are many rarities, including no less than nine Caxtons, and several from the press of Wynkyn de Worde and Pynson. The celebrated collection of ballads, commenced by Selden and continued by Pepys, is second only in importance to the famous Roxburghe collection now in the British Museum. The manuscripts of various kinds form a very valuable part of this celebrated collection. [Illustration: _Sir Hans Sloane's Monument._] John Bagford, the biblioclast (1675-1716), also finishes us, like Evelyn, with a list of book-collectors who were contemporaneous with him. Besides Bishop Moore, already mentioned, there were Sir Hans Sloane, Lords Carbery (Duke of Kent), Pembroke, Somers, Sunderland, and Halifax. Among the commoners who emulated their 'betters' were Messrs. Huckle, Chichely, Bridges, Walter Clavell, Rawlinson, Slaughter, Topham, Wanley, Captain Hatton, 'Right Hon. Secretary Harley,' and Dr. Salmon, whose collection is said to have consisted of 1,700 folios. Edwards, in his most valuable work on libraries, mentions yet a third list, which is anonymous, and is apparently almost contemporaneous with Bagford's. The list is introduced with the remark that 'the laudable emulation which is daily increasing amongst the nobility of England, vying with each other in the curiosities and other rich furniture of their respective libraries, gives cheerful hope of having the long-hidden monuments of ancient times raised out of their present dust and rubbish,' and then makes special mention of the libraries of the Duke of Kent, Lords Derby, Denbigh, Longueville, Willoughby de Broke, Sunderland, Somers, and Halifax. When good Mr. Evelyn described Sir Kenelm Digby's library as 'of more pomp than intrinsic value,' and as 'chiefly consisting of modern poets, romances, chemical and astrological books,' he did not contemplate the future possibility of such despised trifles becoming fashionable and in greater request than the accumulations of the collectors to whom the classics were daily food. As Edwards has pointed out, the portion which Digby gave to the Bodleian was in reality the fruit of the researches of his tutor, Thomas Allen. The portion which was of his own collecting, and consequently the only portion which accurately mirrored his own tastes, he took with him to France when driven into exile. When he died there, it apparently passed into the possession of Digby, Earl of Bristol, on whose account it was sold in London in 1680, fifteen years after its owner's death. The catalogue enumerated 3,878 items, of which 69 were manuscripts, the total of the sale being £904 4s. Among the most famous of the seventeenth-century collectors were the two brothers Francis, Baron Guilford, Lord Keeper (1637-1685), and Dr. John North, master of Trinity College (1645-1683). Of these two there are some very entertaining facts in Roger North's 'Lives of the Norths' (1742-44). Dr. John North, we are told, 'very early in his career began to look after books and to lay the foundation of a competent library . . . buying at one lift a whole set of Greek classics in folio, in best editions. This sunk his stock [of money] for the time; but afterwards for many years of his life all that he could (as they say) rap or run went the same way. But the progress was small, for such a library as he desired, compared with what the pittance of his stock would purchase, allowing many years to the gathering, was of desperate expectation. . . . He courted, as a fond lover, all best editions, fairest characters, best-bound and preserved. . . . He delighted in the small editions of the classics by Seb. Gryphius, and divers of his acquaintance, meeting with any of them, bought and brought them to him, which he accepted as choice presents, although, perhaps, he had one or two of them before. . . . His soul was never so staked down as in an old bookseller's shop. . . . He was for the most part his own factor, and seldom or never bought by commission, which made him lose time in turning over vast numbers of books, and he was very hardly pleased at last. I have borne him company in shops for many hours together, and, minding him of the time, he hath made a dozen proffers before he would quit. By this care and industry, at length he made himself master of a very considerable library, wherein the choicest collection was Greek.' At his death the collection came to his brother, the Lord Keeper. As with Dr. John North, book-hunting was the consuming passion of the life of a very different man--Richard Smyth or Smith (of whom there is a very fine and rare engraving by W. Sherwin), one of the Secondaries or Under-Sheriffs from 1644 to 1655. Having sufficient wealth, he resigned his municipal appointment, which was worth £700 a year, in order to devote himself entirely to book-hunting. Anthony à Wood describes him as 'infinitely curious and inquisitive after books,' and states that 'he was constantly known every day to walk his rounds amongst the booksellers' shops (especially in Little Britain).' Richard Chiswell, the bookseller who drew up a catalogue of Smith's books, which subsequently came into his possession _en bloc_, tells us that his skill and experience enabled him 'to make choice of such books that were not obvious to every man's eye. . . . He lived in times which ministered peculiar opportunities of meeting with books that were not every day brought into public light, and few eminent libraries were bought where he had not the liberty to pick and choose. Hence arose, as that vast number of his books, so the choiceness and rarity of the greatest part of them, and that of all kinds, and in all sorts of learning.' This collection was sold by auction in May, 1682, the catalogue of it occupying 404 closely-printed pages in large quarto. There were fourteen Caxtons, 'the aggregate produce' of which was £3 14s. 7d.; the 'Godfrey of Bulloigne' selling for 18s., 'being K. Edwarde the IVth's owne booke,' and the 'Booke of Good Manners,' for 2s.; the highest price in the entire sale being given for Holinshed's 'Chronicle,' 'with the addition of many sheets that were castrated, being . . . not allowed to be printed,' £7. Smith left an interesting and valuable obituary list of certain of his bibliopolic friends (which is reprinted in _Willis' Current Notes_, February, 1853), one of whom, according to him, was 'buried at St. Bartholomew's, without wine or wafers, only gloves and rosemary.' [Illustration: _Little Britain in 1550._] Dr. Francis Bernard, chief physician to James II., was an indefatigable book-hunter; being 'a person who collected his books, not for ostentation or ornament, he seemed no more solicitous about their dress than his own, and, therefore, you'll find that a gilt back or a large margin was very seldom an inducement for him to buy. 'Twas sufficient for him that he had the book.' His library was sold in 1698, and realized the then enormous sum of £2,000. John Bridges, of Lincoln's Inn, the historian of Northamptonshire, was a collector who read as well as bought books; his collection was sold at auction in 1726, when 4,313 lots realized £4,001. Robert Harley, Earl of Oxford, was a collector with comprehensive tastes and almost unlimited means. His collection is now in the British Museum, and is computed to have numbered about 26,000 volumes, on the binding of only a portion of which he is said to have expended £18,000, besides a mass of 350,000 pamphlets. Thomas Baker (1625-1690) bequeathed a portion of his library to St. John's College, Cambridge, notwithstanding the fact that he was ejected therefrom. He was an unceasing collector, but his finances were scanty, and, worst of all, he had to contend with collectors of greater wealth, or 'purse-ability' as Bodley calls it. Writing to Humfrey Wanley, he says: 'I begin to complain of the men of quality who lay out so much for books, and give such prices that there is nothing to be had for poor scholars, whereof I have found the effects. When I bid a fair price for an old book, I am answered, the "quality" will give twice as much, and so I have done. I have had much ado to pick up a few old books at tolerable prices, and despair of any more.' About 2,000 of his books went to St. John's College, and the others were sold by auction, many bearing the inscription 'Thomas Baker, socius ejectus,' etc. The library of another collector who, like Baker, had more of the kicks than of the ha'pence of this life, Thomas Hearne (1678-1735), may be mentioned briefly in this paragraph, for both were men of great learning. Hearne's collection was sold in February, 1736, by Osborne the bookseller, 'the lowest price being marked in each book.' On the title-page of the catalogue, and beneath a poor portrait of Hearne, is the well-known couplet: 'Quoth Time to Thomas Hearne, "Whatever I forget, you learn."' Humphrey Dyson is another book-collector of this period, and is described by Hearne as 'a very curious man in collecting books.' The Wesleys were book-lovers and readers, but have perhaps but little claim to rank as collectors _pur sang_. However, it is interesting to point out that Lilly's catalogue for 1863 included a copy of Purcell's 'Orpheus Britannicus,' 1706, with an inscription on the fly-leaf: 'C. Wesley, junior. The valuable gift of his much-honor'd Father.' The Restoration poets, like those of the Elizabethan period, had a sufficiently hard fight to keep themselves in food; books were luxuries which they could only venture to enjoy at long and uncertain intervals. Dryden and Congreve, however, appear to have been addicted to the pleasant pastime. An exceedingly interesting copy of Spenser's 'Works,' folio, 1679, was once in the possession of Mr. F. S. Ellis. On the fly-leaf occurred this note: 'The corrections made in this book are of Mr. Dryden's own handwriting. J. Tonson.' The volume occurred in an auction, where its value was not detected. The 'corrections,' Mr. Ellis states, extend through the whole of the volume, and bear witness to the care and diligence with which Dryden had studied Spenser's poems. Several of the notes are in explanation of the text, but for the most part are careful and curious corrections of the text and press. The pedigree of this volume is well established by its having in the cover the bookplate of Thomas Barrett, of Lee, celebrated by Dibdin as a 'bibliomaniacal and tasteful gentleman.' Though Barrett died in 1757, his library was not dispersed till a few years since. Izaak Walton was a collector, and took the wise precaution of writing his autograph in each volume, as the very interesting score of examples now at Salisbury prove. His friend, Charles Cotton, of cheerful memory, was much more of a book-collector, although from the 'Angler' it would seem that his whole library was contained in his hall window. Like Walton, Cotton wrote his autograph in most of his books, which occur in the auction-room at irregular intervals. The extent or variety of the Cotton correction may be gathered from the following 'epigram' which Sir Aston Cokaine wrote (1658) 'To my Cousin, Mr. Charles Cotton the Younger': 'D'Avila, Bentivoglio, Guicciardine, And Machiavil, the subtle Florentine, In their originals I have read through, Thanks to your library, and unto you, The prime historians of later times; at least In the Italian tongue allow'd the best. When you have more such books, I pray vouchsafe Me their perusal, I'll return them safe. Yet for the courtesy, the recompense That I can make you will be only thanks. But you are noble-soul'd, and had much rather Bestow a benefit than receive a favour.' [Illustration: _Charles, Third Earl of Sunderland._] One of the most remarkable collections of books ever made by a private individual was that known as the Sunderland Library. It was formed, not only in the short space of twelve years, but at a time when many books, now of almost priceless value, and scarcely to be had at any price, were comparatively common, and certainly not costly. Neither money nor pains was spared, 'and the bibliographical ardour of the founder soon began to be talked of in the bookshops of the chief cities of Europe.' The founder, Charles, third Earl of Sunderland, lived at Althorp, his town house being in Piccadilly, on the site of which the Albany now stands. At the latter place this library was lodged for several years. In Macky's 'Journey through England,' 1724, Sunderland House is there described as being separated from the street of Piccadilly 'by a wall with large grown trees before the gate. . . . The greatest beauty of this palace is the library, running from the house into the garden; and I must say is the finest in Europe, both for the disposition of the apartments, and of the books. The rooms, divided into five apartments, are fully 150 feet long, with two stories of windows, and a gallery runs round the whole in the second story for the taking down books. No nobleman in any nation hath taken greater care to make his collection complete, nor does he spare any cost for the most valuable and rare books. Besides, no bookseller in Europe hath so many editions of the same book as he, for he hath all, especially of the classicks.' The founder of this famous library died on April 19, 1722. Evelyn has left a few very interesting facts concerning this collection. Under the date March 10, 1695, we read: 'I din'd at the Earl of Sunderland's with Lord Spencer. My Lord shew'd me his library, now again improv'd by many books bought at the sale of Sir Charles Scarborough, an eminent physician, which was the very best collection, especially of mathematical books, that was I believe in Europe, once design'd for the King's library at St. James's, but the Queen dying, who was the greate patroness of the designe, it was let fall, and the books were miserably dissipated.' Four years later, April, 1699, we have another entry, to the effect that Lord Spencer purchased 'an incomparable library,' until now the property of 'a very fine scholar, whom from a child I have known,' whose name does not transpire [? Hadrian Beverland], but in whose library were many 'rare books . . . that were printed at the first invention of that wonderful art.' In reference to Macky's incidental allusion to the Earl of Sunderland's indifference to cost in forming his library, Wanley confirms this. Writing in December, 1721, the diarist observes that the books in Mr. Freebairn's library 'in general went low, or rather at vile rates, through a combination of the booksellers against the sale. Yet some books went for unaccountably high prices, which were bought by Mr. Vaillant, the bookseller, who had an unlimited commission from the Earl of Sunderland.' Among the items was an edition of Virgil, printed by Zarothus _circa_ 1475: 'It was noted that when Mr. Vaillant had bought the printed Virgil at £46, he huzza'd out aloud, and threw up his hat, for joy that he had bought it so cheap.' When this famous book-collector died, Wanley observes that 'by reason of his decease some benefit may accrue to this library [Lord Oxford's], even in case his relations will part with none of his books. I mean, _by his raising the price of books no higher now_; so that, in probability, this commodity may fall in the market; and any gentleman be permitted to buy an uncommon old book for less than forty or fifty pounds.' The third son of this famous book-collector, Charles, fifth Earl of Sunderland, and second Duke of Marlborough, greatly enlarged the collection formed by his father; and it was removed to Blenheim probably in 1734. This famous library remained practically intact until it came under the hammer at Puttick and Simpson's, occupying fifty-one days in the dispersal at intervals from December 1, 1881, to March 22, 1883, the total being £55,581 6s. It is stated that the library originally cost about £30,000. Dr. David Williams, who from 1688 to the end of his life was minister of a Presbyterian congregation which met at Hand Alley, Bishopsgate Street, was a contemporary book-collector and book-hunter. His special line was theology, and his library, which absorbed that of Dr. Bates, once Rector of St. Dunstan's-in-the-East, is still preserved intact, and is now, to a certain degree, a free library. Archbishop Tenison was another great book-hunter of this period, and his library was preserved more or less intact until 1861, when it was dispersed at Sotheby's, under an order of the Charity Commissioners. The brothers Thomas and Richard Rawlinson were, probably, the most omnivorous collectors of the earlier part of the last century. Everything in the shape of a book was welcomed. The former (1681-1725), whose 'C. & P.' (collated and perfect) appears on the frontispiece, title-page, or fly-leaf of books, when he lived in Gray's Inn, had so filled his set of four rooms with books that he was obliged to sleep in the passage. He is said to be the original study for the 158th _Tatler_, in which 'Tom Folio' and other _soi-disant_ scholars are trounced. 'He has a greater esteem for Aldus and Elzevir than for Virgil and Horace.' It is very doubtful whether Addison (who wrote this particular _Tatler_) really had Thomas Rawlinson in mind, whom he describes as 'a learned idiot.' Swift has declared that some know books as they do lords; learn their titles exactly, and then brag of their acquaintance. But neither description is applicable to Rawlinson, who, for all that, may have known much more about Aldus or the Elzevirs than about Virgil or Horace. With a pretty taste for epithets, in which our forefathers sometimes indulged, Hearne has defended his friend from Addison's sarcasms by declaring that the mistake could only have been made by a 'shallow buffoon.' That Rawlinson was a bibliomaniac there can be no question, for if he had a score copies of one book, he would purchase another for the mere gratification of possessing it. When he removed to the large mansion in Aldersgate Street, which had been the palace of the Bishops of London, and which he shared with his brother, 'the books still continued to be better lodged than their owner.' He died, at the comparatively early age of forty-four, as he had lived, among dust and cobwebs, 'in his bundles, piles and bulwarks of paper.' The catalogue of his huge mass of books was divided into nine parts; the sale of the MSS. alone occupied sixteen days. Richard Rawlinson (died 1755) survived his brother thirty years, and continued to collect books with all his brother's enthusiasm, but without his sheer book-greed. His MSS. are at Oxford, and the extent and richness of his accumulations may be gathered from the fact that the collector laid nearly thirty libraries under contribution. His printed books were sold in 1756 by Samuel Baker (now Sotheby's), the sale occupying forty-nine days, and the total amounting to £1,155 1s.; a second sale included 20,000 pamphlets, and a third sale consisted of prints. [Illustration: _London House, Aldersgate Street, 1808._] Among the wisest and most distinguished book-collectors of the first half of the last century is Dr. Richard Mead (1673-1754), a physician by profession, but a bibliophile by instinct, and whom Dr. Johnson described as having 'lived more in the broad sunshine of life than almost any other man.' As Dr. Mead's fine library was 'picked up at Rome,' it scarcely comes within our purview; but it may be mentioned that so long as this fine collection remained intact in London, it was _ipso facto_ a free library; it was especially rich in the classics, sciences and history. The first part was sold by Samuel Baker in 1754, and the second in the following year, the 6,592 lots occupying fifty-seven days, the total of the books being £5,496 15s. Dr. Mead's mantle descended to his great friend and pupil, Dr. Anthony Askew (1722-1774), who had an exceedingly fine library; his career as a collector began in Paris in 1749, and nearly all his choicest treasures appear to have been gathered on the Continent, and chiefly it seems by Joseph Smith, the English Consul at Venice. Askew's first library was purchased by George III. in 1762, and now forms an integral part of the British Museum. His subsequent accumulations were dispersed in two sections, the books in 1775, and the MSS. ten years later. We shall have occasion to refer again to the Askew sale. Dr. Richard Farmer appears to have imbibed his taste for book-collecting from Askew, and became an indefatigable haunter of the London and country bookstalls, his special line being Early English literature, then scarcely at all appreciated; it is stated that the collection, which cost him less than £500, realized, when sold by auction by King in 1798, upwards of £2,000. Dr. Farmer is better remembered by posterity as a Shakespearian critic or commentator. He was a Canon Residentiary of St. Paul's, and appears to have had what Dibdin describes as 'his foragers, his jackalls, and his _avant-couriers_,' who picked up for him every item of interest in his particular lines. As becomes the true bibliophile, he was peculiarly indifferent to his dress, but he was a scholar of great abilities. A glance at a priced copy of his sale catalogue is enough to turn any book-lover green with envy. For example, his copy of Richard Barnfield's 'Encomion of Lady Pecunia, or the Praise of Money' (1598), sold for 19s., Malone being the purchaser. That copy is now in the Bodleian. In 1882, the Ouvry copy of the same book realized 100 guineas! A copy of Milton's 'Paradise Lost' (1667), with the first title-page, sold for 11s.; a volume of twelve poems, chiefly printed by Wynkyn de Worde and Pynson, realized 25 guineas. Each item would probably realize the amount paid for the whole, should they again occur for sale, which is most unlikely. Both his friends, George Steevens and Isaac Reed, were equally zealous collectors, and each had a strong weakness for the same groove of collecting. The library of Steevens was sold, also by King, in 1800, and the 1,943 items realized £2,740 15s.; whilst that of Reed, sold seven years later, contained 8,957 articles, and realized £4,387. Both Steevens and Isaac Reed call for a much more extended notice than it is possible to give them here. Many of Steevens' books realized twenty times the amount which he paid for them. Steevens, who was born in 1736, resided in a retired house 'just on the rise of Hampstead Heath,' so Dibdin tells us, the house being formerly known as the Upper Flask Tavern, to which 'Richardson sends Clarissa in one of her escapes from Lovelace.' Here, as Dibdin further tells us, Steevens lived, embosomed in books, shrubs, and trees. 'His habits were indeed peculiar; not much to be envied or imitated, as they sometimes betrayed the flights of a madman, and sometimes the asperities of the cynic. His attachments were warm, but fickle, both in choice and duration.' Several of his letters are printed in Dibdin's 'Bibliomania' (edit. 1842), in which will also be found a long series of extracts from the sale catalogue of his library. There were nearly fifty copies of the first or early quartos of the Shakespearian plays, which were knocked down at prices varying from 5s. to, in a few instances, over £20. The first, second, third and fourth folios realized £22, £18 18s., £8 8s., and £2 12s. 6d., respectively! Isaac Reed was in many ways a remarkable man. He was the son of a baker in the parish of St. Dunstan's-in-the-West. Born in 1742, he commenced professional life as a solicitor, which he soon abandoned for the more congenial pursuit of literature. His knowledge of English literature was unbounded, and the dispersal of his remarkable library was one of the wonders of the year 1807. He was for over forty years a diligent collector, and few days passed in that period which did not witness an addition to his library. He died at his chambers in Staple Inn. 'I have been almost daily at a book-auction,' writes Malone--'the library of the late Mr. Reed, the last Shakespearian, except myself, where my purse has been drained as usual. But what I have purchased are chiefly books of my own trade. There is hardly a library of this kind now left, except my own and Mr. Bindley's, neither of us having the least desire to succeed the other in his peculiar species of literary wealth.' [Illustration: _St. Bernard's Seal._] FOOTNOTES: [27:A] In Hearne's 'Diary,' published by the Oxford Historical Society, there is a very quaint note about the Duke of Lauderdale, who is described as 'a Curious Collector of Books, and when in London would very often go to y{e} Booksellers shops and pick up w{t} curious Books he could meet with; but y{t} in his Elder years he lost much of his Learning by minding too much Politicks.' [27:B] At the Cambridge University Library there are some very interesting diaries of this famous book-lover, styled 'Father of Black Letter Collectors,' chiefly relating to the purchases of books. All the more important facts have been published in the pages of the _Bibliographer_. [Illustration] FROM THE OLD TO THE NEW. I. IN few phases of human action are the foibles and preferences of individuals more completely imbricated than in that of book-collecting. Widely different as were the book-hunters' fancies at the beginning and at the end of the eighteenth century, yet it would not be possible to draw a hard and fast line. For the greater part of that time the classics of every description and of every degree of unimportance held their own. Reluctant, therefore, to abandon the chief stimulant of their earlier book-hunting careers, many collectors still took a keen interest in their _primi pensieri_. But their real passion found a vent in other and less beaten directions. In addition to this, during the eighteenth century a large number of small working libraries were formed by men who _used_ books. Henry Fielding, Goldsmith, Dr. Johnson, David Hume, Smollett, Gibbon, Pope, and many others, are essentially figures in the history of book-hunting in London, but they had neither the means nor, so far as we are aware, the inclination to indulge in book-collecting as a mere fashionable hobby. Mr. Austin Dobson has lately published an interesting account of Fielding's library, in which he proves not only that Fielding had been a fervent student of the classics in his youth and that he remained a voracious reader through life, but that he made good use of a large collection of Greek and Latin authors, which was sold at his death. [Illustration: _Mr. Austin Dobson._ From a photograph by E. C. Porter, Ealing.] The eighteenth century may be regarded as the Augustan age so far as book-hunting in London is concerned. A large percentage of the most famous collections were either formed, or the collectors themselves were either born or died, in that period. The Beckford and Hamilton, the Heber, the Sunderland, the Althorp, and the King's Library, all had their origins prior to 1800. Richard Heber (1773-1833), with all his vast knowledge, learning, and accomplishments, was a bibliomaniac in the more unpleasant sense of the word. No confirmed drunkard, no incurable opium-eater, ever had less self-control than Heber had. To him, to see a book was to possess it. Cicero has said that the heart into which the love of gold has entered is shut to every other feeling. Heber was very wealthy, so that with him the love of books blinded him to almost everything else. He began to collect when at Oxford, chiefly classics for the purpose of study. He is said to have caught the disease from Bindley, the veteran collector, who began book-hunting early in the last century. Having one day accidentally met with a copy of Henry Peacham's 'Valley of Varietie,' 1638, which professed to give 'rare passages out of antiquity,' etc., he showed it to Bindley, who described it as 'rather a curious book.' Why such an incident should have set Heber on his terrible career history telleth not. Under the name of 'Atticus,' Dibdin, who knew Heber well, has described him in this fashion: 'Atticus unites all the activity of De Witt and Lomenie, with the retentiveness of Magliabechi, and the learning of Le Long. . . . Yet Atticus doth sometimes sadly err. He has now and then an ungovernable passion to possess more copies of a book than there were ever parties to a deed or stamina to a plant; and therefore, I cannot call him a "duplicate" or a triplicate collector. . . . But he atones for this by being liberal in the loan of his volumes. The learned and curious, whether rich or poor, have always free access to his library.' Heber's own explanation of this plurality of purchase was cast somewhat in this fashion: 'Why, you see, sir, no man can comfortably do without _three_ copies of a book. One he must have for his show copy, and he will probably keep it at his country house. Another he will require for his own use and reference; and unless he is inclined to part with this, which is very inconvenient, or risk the injury of his best copy, he must needs have a third at the service of his friends.' The late Mr. Edward Solly was also a pluralist in the matter of books, and had even six or seven copies of a large number of works. He justified himself on the plea that he liked to have one to read, one to make notes in, another with notes by a previous owner, one in a choice binding, a 'tall' copy, a short ditto, and so forth. So far, however, as Heber is concerned, no one could be more generous than he in lending books. This might be proved from a dozen different sources, including the lengthy introduction 'To Richard Heber, Esq.,' to the sixth canto of Scott's 'Marmion': 'But why such instances to you, Who, in an instant, can renew Your treasured hoards of various lore, And furnish twenty thousand more? Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes rest Like treasures in the Franch'mont chest, While gripple owners still refuse To others what they cannot use: Give them the priest's whole century, They shall not spell you letters three; Their pleasure in the books the same The magpie takes in pilfer'd gem. Thy volumes, open as thy heart, Delight, amusement, science, art, To every ear and eye impart; Yet who of all who thus employ them, Can, like their owner's self, enjoy them?' In addition to this reference, Scott, in one of his letters, speaks of 'Heber the magnificent, whose library and cellar are so superior to all others in the world.' Frequent mention is made of Heber in the notes to the Waverley novels. At one period of his life Heber was a Member of Parliament, and throughout his career it seems that he found recreation from the sport of collecting in the sport of the fields. He has been known to take a journey of four or five hundred miles to obtain a rare volume, 'fearful to trust to a mere commission.' He bought by all methods, in all places, and at all times, a single purchase on one occasion being an entire library of 30,000 volumes. Curiously enough, he disliked large-paper copies, on account of the space they filled. When he died, he had eight houses full of books--two in London, one in Oxford, and others at Paris, Brussels, Antwerp, and Ghent, besides smaller collections in Germany. When sold, the number of lots was 52,000, and of volumes about 147,000, and the total amount realized £57,000, or about two-thirds of the original expenditure. The sale, which commenced in 1834, lasted over several years, and the catalogue alone comprises six thick octavo volumes. He is described as a tall, strong, well-made man. Writing to Sir Egerton Brydges, the Rev. A. Dyce observes concerning Heber's death: 'Poor man! He expired at Pimlico,[47:A] in the midst of his rare property, without a friend to close his eyes, and from all I have heard I am led to believe that he died broken-hearted. He had been ailing some time, but took no care of himself, and seemed, indeed, to court death. Yet his ruling passion was strong to the last. The morning he died he wrote out some memoranda for Thorpe about books which he wished to be purchased for him' (Fitzgerald, 'The Book-Fancier,' p. 230). In noticing Scott's edition of Dryden, and in alluding to the help which Scott obtained from Heber and Bindley, the _Edinburgh Review_ speaks of the two as 'gentlemen in whom the love of collecting, which is an amusement to others, assumes the dignity of a virtue, because it gives ampler scope to the exercise of friendship, and of a generous sympathy with the common cause of literature.' [Illustration: _William Beckford, Book-collector._] William Beckford (1761-1844) and the tenth Duke of Hamilton (1767-1852), for several reasons, may be bracketed together as book-collectors. Each was a remarkable man in several respects. William Beckford, the author of 'Vathek' and the owner of Fonthill, was a universal collector. No less enthusiastic in amassing pictures and objects of art than books, he never scrupled to sell anything and everything except his books, which he dearly loved. A man who could draw eulogy from Byron could not have been an ordinary person. Fonthill and its treasures were announced for sale in September, 1822, the auctioneer being James Christie, the catalogue being in quarto size, and comprising ninety-five pages. The auction, however, did not take place, but the collection was sold _en masse_ to a Mr. John Farquhar for £330,000, Beckford reserving, however, some of his choicest books, pictures, and curiosities. In the following year the whole collection was dispersed by Phillips, the auctioneer, the sale occupying thirty-seven days. With the money he received from Farquhar, Beckford purchased annuities and land near Bath. He united two houses in the Royal Crescent by a flying gallery extending over the road, and his dwelling became one vast library. He added to his collection up to his last days, and obtained many books at Charles Nodier's sale. Beckford was one of the greatest book-enthusiasts that ever lived. His passion was more particularly for Aldines, and other early books bearing the insignia of celebrities, such as Frances I., Henri et Diane, and De Thou, and especially of choice old morocco bindings by Desseuil, Padeloup, and Derome. He was especially strong in old French and Italian books, generically classified as _facetiæ_. Beckford would read for days and weeks at a stretch, with no more recreation than an occasional ride. That he read his books there is ample testimony, for at his sale one lot comprised seven folio volumes of transcripts from the autograph notes written by him on the fly-leaves of the various works in his library. For example, to the copy of Peter Beckford's 'Familiar Letters from Italy,' 1805, he concludes five pages of notes with, 'This book has at least some merit. The language is simple; an ill-natured person might add, and the thoughts not less so.' In Brasbridge's 'Fruits of Experience,' 1824, he writes: 'They who like hog-wash--and there are amateurs for anything--will not turn away disappointed or disgusted with this book, but relish the stale, trashy anecdotes it contains, and gobble them up with avidity.' After Beckford's death, Henry G. Bohn offered £30,000 for the whole library; but Beckford's second daughter, who married the Duke of Hamilton, refused to sanction the sale. It, however, came under the hammer at Sotheby's, 1881-1884, in four parts of twelve days each, the net result being £73,551 18s. The tenth Duke of Hamilton was one of the most distinguished bibliophiles of his time, and commenced purchasing whilst yet Marquis of Douglas. A large portion of his library was collected in Italy and various parts of the Continent, whilst the collection of Greek and Latin manuscripts which he obtained when on a diplomatic mission to Russia formed an unrivalled series of monuments of early art. In 1810 he married Susanna Beckford, and at her father's death the whole of his splendid library came into his possession. The two collections, however, were kept quite distinct. The Hamilton collection of printed books was sold at Sotheby's in May, 1884, the eight days realizing £12,892 12s. 6d. The most important feature of the library, however, was the magnificent collection of MSS. which the Prussian Government secured by private treaty--through the intermediary, it is understood, of the Empress Frederick--for £70,000. In May, 1889, those which the authorities decided not to retain for the Royal Museum at Berlin were transferred to Messrs. Sotheby's, and ninety-one lots realized the total of £15,189 15s. 6d. The gems of the collection were a magnificent volume of the Golden Gospels in Latin of the eighth century, formerly a gift to Henry VIII., which sold for £1,500--a London bookseller once offered £5,000 for this book--and a magnificent MS. of Boccaccio, 'Les Illustres Malheureux,' on vellum, 321 leaves, decorated with eighty-four exquisite miniatures, which sold for £1,700. It may be mentioned that a large number of the Beckford and Hamilton books were purchased through the late H. G. Bohn. [Illustration: _George John, Earl Spencer._] The Althorp Library, now in the possession of Mrs. Rylands, of Manchester, was formed by George John, Earl Spencer (1758-1834), between 1790 and 1820. Until its recent removal from Althorp it was the finest private library in existence. In 1790 Lord Spencer acquired the very fine and select library of Count Rewiczki, the Emperor Joseph's Ambassador in London, for about £2,500, and for the next thirty years the Earl was continually hunting after books in the sale-rooms and booksellers' shops. The story of the Althorp Library has been so repeatedly told, from the time of its first librarian, the devil-hunting Thomas Frognall Dibdin--whose flatulent and sycophantic records are not to be taken as mirroring the infinitely superior intellect and taste of his employer--down to the present day, that any further description is almost superfluous. Besides this, the library is one which will soon be open to all. We may, however, mention a point which is of great interest in the study of books as an investment. It may reasonably be doubted whether the Althorp Library cost its founder much over £100,000; it is generally understood that the price paid for it in 1892 was not far short of £250,000. [Illustration: _John, Duke of Roxburghe, Book-collector._] Contemporaneously with the formation of the Althorp Collection, the Duke of Roxburghe built a library, which was one of the finest and most perfect ever got together. The Duke turned book-hunter through a love affair, it is said. He was to have been married to the eldest daughter of the Duke of Mecklenburg-Strelitz; but when this lady's sister was selected as a wife for George III., the proposed marriage was deemed impolitic, and consequently the Duke remained single. The Duke himself is said to have traced his passion for books to the famous dinner given by his father, the second Duke, at which Lords Oxford and Sunderland were present, and at which the celebrated copy of the Valdarfer Boccaccio was produced. The history of this incident is told in our chapter on Book-sales, and need not be here more specifically referred to. The Duke was a mighty hunter, not only of books, but of deer and wild swans. So far as books are concerned, his great specialities were Old English literature, Italian poetry, and romances of the Round Table; and as the first and last of these have increased in value as years have gone by, it will be seen that the Duke was wise in his generation. Indeed, we have it on the best authority that the aggregate outlay on the Roxburghe Library did not exceed £4,000, whilst in the course of little more than twenty years it produced over £23,397, the sale taking place in June, 1812. The Duke of Roxburghe and Lord Spencer were not averse to a little understanding of the nature of a 'knock-out,' for in one of the Althorp Caxtons Lord Spencer has written: 'The Duke and I had agreed not to oppose one another at the [George Mason] sale, but after the book [a Caxton] was bought, to toss up who should win it, when I lost it. I bought it at the Roxburghe sale on the 17 of June, 1812, for £215 5s.' [Illustration: _A corner in the Althorp Library._] Yet another distinguished book-collector of the same period calls for notice. George III. formed a splendid library out of his own private purse and at a cost of £130,000. This library is now a part of the British Museum. A library such as that of George III. gives very little idea of a man's real tastes for books. The King availed himself of the accumulated wisdom, not only of Barnard (who was his librarian for nearly half a century), but of three or four other experts, among whom was Dr. Johnson. The King's everyday tastes, however, may be gathered from the subjoined list of books, which he wished to have on his visit to Weymouth in 1795. He desired what he called 'a closet library' for a watering-place; he wrote to his bookseller for the following works: the Bible; the 'Whole Duty of Man'; the 'Annual Register,' 25 volumes; Rapin's 'History of England,' 21 volumes, 1757; Millot's 'Elémens de l'Histoire de France,' 1770; Voltaire's 'Siècles' of Louis XIV. and Louis XV.; Blackstone's 'Commentaries,' 4 volumes; R. Burn's 'Justice of Peace and Parish Officer,' 4 volumes; an abridgment of Dr. Johnson's Dictionary; Boyer's 'Dictionnaire François et Anglais'; Johnson's 'Poets,' 68 volumes; Dodsley's 'Poems,' 11 volumes; Nichols' 'Poems,' 8 volumes; Steevens' 'Shakespeare'; 'Oeuvres' of Destouches, 5 volumes; and the 'Works' of Sir William Temple, 4 volumes; of Addison, 4 volumes, and Swift, 24 volumes. These books can scarcely be regarded as light literature, and, if anything, calculated to add to the deadly dulness of a seaside retreat at the end of the last century. However, the selection is George III.'s, and must be respected as such. The number of men who were prowling about London during the middle and latter part of the last century after books is only less great than the variety of tastes which they evinced. We have, for example, two such turbulent spirits as John Horne Tooke and John Wilkes, M.P. Parson Horne's (he subsequently assumed the name of his patron, William Tooke) collection did not, as Dibdin has observed, contain a single edition of the Bible; but it included seven examples of Wynkyn de Worde's press and many other rare books. Eight hundred and thirteen lots realized the then high amount of £1,250 when sold at King and Lochée's in 1813. John Wilkes' books were sold at Sotheby's in 1802. If less notorious, many equally enthusiastic book-collectors were hunting the highways and byways of London. Here, for example, is a little anecdote relative to one of these: When the splendid folio edition of Cæsar's 'Commentaries,' by Clarke, published for the express purpose of being presented to the great Duke of Marlborough, came under the hammer at the sale (in 1781) of Topham Beauclerk's library for £44, it was accompanied by an anecdote relating to the method in which it had been acquired. Upon the death of an officer to whom the book belonged, his mother, being informed that it was of some value, wished to dispose of it, and, being told that Mr. Topham Beauclerk (who is said to have but once departed from his inflexible rule of never lending a book) was a proper person to offer it to, she waited on him for that purpose. He asked what she required for it, and, being answered £4 4s., took it without hesitation, though unacquainted with the real value of the book. Being desirous, however, of information with respect to the nature of the purchase he had made, he went to an eminent bookseller's, and inquired what he would give for such a book. The bookseller replied £17 17s. Mr. Beauclerk went immediately to the person who sold him the book, and, telling her that she had been mistaken in its value, not only gave her the additional 13 guineas, but also generously bestowed a further gratuity on her. Few bargain-hunters would have felt called upon to act as Beauclerk[55:A] did. Here is another anecdote of a contemporary book-hunter: Nichols states that Mr. David Papillon (who died in 1762), a gentleman of fortune and literary taste, as well as a good antiquary, contracted with Osborne to furnish him with £100 worth of books, at 3d. apiece. The only conditions were, that they should be perfect, and that there should be no duplicate. Osborne was highly pleased with his bargain, and the first great purchase he made, he sent Mr. Papillon a large quantity; but in the next purchase he found he could send but few, and the next still fewer. Not willing, however, to give up, he sent books worth 5s. apiece, and at last was forced to go and beg to be let off the contract. Eight thousand books would have been wanted! An interesting collector, at once the type of a country gentleman and of a true bibliophile, was Sir John Englis Dolben (1750-1837), of Finedon Hall, Northamptonshire. He was educated at Westminster School, proceeding thence to Christ Church in 1768. Previously to his final retirement into the country, he lingered with much affection about the haunts of his youthful studies. He carried so many volumes about with him in his numerous and capacious pockets that he appeared like a walking library, and his memory, particularly in classical quotations, was equally richly stored. This is one side of the picture. This is the other side, in which we get a view of the man-about-town collector in the person of Alexander Dalrymple (1737-1808), the hydrographer to the Admiralty and to the East India Company: 'His yellow antiquarian chariot seemed to be immovably fixed in the street, just opposite the entrance-door of the long passage leading to the sale-room of Messrs. King and Lochée, in King Street, Covent Garden; and towards the bottom of the table, in the sale-room, Mr. Dalrymple used to sit, a cane in his hand, his hat always upon his head, a thin, slightly-twisted queue, and silver hairs that hardly shaded his temple. . . . His biddings were usually silent, accompanied by the elevation and fall of his cane, or by an abrupt nod of the head.' [Illustration: _Michael Wodhull, Book-collector._] The Osterley Park Library, sold by order of the seventh Earl of Jersey at Sotheby's in 1885, was commenced in the last century, the original founder being Bryan Fairfax, who died in 1747. His books came into the hands of Alderman Child, who was not only a book-collector, but inherited Lord Mavor Child's books. The fifth Earl of Jersey married Mr. Child's grand-daughter in 1804. Two mighty hunters of the old school may be here briefly mentioned--John Towneley and Michael Wodhull, the poet, both of whose collections were dispersed in several portions, partly at the beginning of the present century, and partly within quite recent times. The founder of the 'Bibliotheca Towneleiana' was for a long period of years an ardent collector, his favourite studies being English history, topography, and portraits. The great gem of his collection was the splendid 'Vita Christi,' gorgeously ornamented with full-page paintings, and with miniatures superbly executed in colours, heightened with gold, by Giulio Clovio, in the finest style of Italian art. This MS. was executed for Alexander, Cardinal Farnese, and presented to Pope Paul III. It was purchased abroad by a Mr. Champernoun for an inconsiderable sum, and cost Mr. Towneley 400 guineas. At its sale in 1883 it realized £2,050. Two portions of the Towneley Library were dispersed by Evans in 1814-15 (seventeen days), and realized over £8,597, and other portions were sold in 1816 and 1817. Towneley himself died in May, 1813, aged eighty-two. The remainder of his extensive collection was sold at Sotheby's in 1883 (ten days). Wodhull, who died November 10, 1816, aged seventy-six, had two sales during his lifetime, first in 1801 (chiefly duplicates), and secondly in 1803 (chiefly Greek and Roman classics). He, however, reserved for himself a library of about 4,000, which, passing into the possession of Mr. F. E. Severne, M.P., was sold at Sotheby's in January, 1886, and realized a total of £11,973 4s. 6d. He is the Orlando of Dibdin's 'Bibliomania.' The Greek and Roman classics formed the chief attraction of this _post-mortem_ sale, which is generally regarded as one of the most important of its kind held during recent years. Most of the prizes were picked up in France after 1803, and it was during one of his book-hunting expeditions in Paris that Wodhull was detained by Napoleon. Two other 'fashionable' or titled collectors may be here grouped together. The fine library formed by William, Marquis of Lansdowne was dispersed by Leigh and Sotheby in thirty-one days, beginning with January 6, 1806, the 6,530 lots realizing £6,701 2s. 6d. The highest amount paid for a single lot was for a very rare collection of tracts, documents, and pamphlets, in over 280 volumes, illustrating the history of the French Revolution, together with forty-nine volumes relative to the transactions in the Low Countries between the years 1787 and 1792, and their separation from the House of Austria. Wynkyn de Worde's 'Rycharde Cure de Lyon,' 1528, sold for £47 5s.; and a curious collection of 'Masks' and 'Triumphs,' of the early seventeenth century, mostly by Ben Jonson, realized £40. As a book-collector Sir Mark Masterman Sykes is a much better remembered figure in the annals of book-hunting than that of the Marquis of Lansdowne. The Sykes library contained a number of the _editiones principes_ of the classics, some on vellum, and also a number of Aldines in the most perfect condition. There were also many highly curious and very rare pieces of early English poetry. The collection was sold at Evans's in 1824, and the gems of the collection were a copy of the Mazarin Bible, and the Latin Psalter, 1459, to which full reference is made in a subsequent chapter. II. The history of literature, it is said, teaches us to consider its decline only as the development of a great principle of succession by which the treasures of the mind are circulated and equalized; as shoots by which the stream of improvement is forcibly directed into new channels, to fertilize new soils and awaken new capabilities. The history of book-collecting teaches us a similar lesson. The love which so often amounted to a positive passion for the exquisite productions of the Age of Illuminated Manuscripts, all but died with the introduction of the printing-press, which in reality was but a continuation of the old art in a new form. And so on, down through the successive decades and generations of the past four centuries, the decline--but not the death, for such a term cannot be applied to any phase of book-collecting--of one particular aspect of the hobby has synchronized with the birth of several others, sometimes more worthy, and at others less. An exhaustive inquiry into the various and manifold changes through which the human mind passed alone might account for these various developments, which it is not the intention of the present writer on this occasion to analyze. The rise and progress of what Sir Egerton Brydges calls 'the black-letter mania' gave the death-blow to the long-cherished school of poetry of which Pope may be taken as the most distinguished exponent. 'Men of loftier taste and bolder fancy early remonstrated against this chilling confinement of the noblest, the most aspiring, and most expansive of all the Arts. . . . It was not till the commotion of Europe broke the chain of indolence and insipid effeminacy that the stronger passions of readers required again to be stimulated and exercised and soothed, and that the minor charms of correctness were sacrificed to the ardent efforts of uncontrolled and unfearing genius. The authors of this class began to look back for their materials to an age of hazardous freedom, and copious and untutored eloquence: an age in which the world of words and free and native ideas was not contracted and blighted by technical critics and cold and fastidious scholars.' To abandon the abstract for the more matter-of-fact details of sober history, the mania to which Brydges alludes may be said to date itself from the spring of 1773. The occasion was the sale in London of the library of James West, President of the Royal Society. George Nicol, the bookseller, was an extensive purchaser at this sale for the King, for whom, indeed, he acted in a similar capacity up to the last. Nicol told Dibdin 'with his usual pleasantry and point, that he got abused in the public papers, by Almon and others, for having purchased nearly the whole of the Caxtonian volumes in this collection for his Majesty's library. It was said abroad that a Scotchman had lavished away the King's money in buying old black-letter books.' The absurdity of this report was soon proved at subsequent sales. Dibdin adds, as a circumstance highly honourable to the King, that 'his Majesty, in his directions to Mr. Nicol, forbade any competition with those purchasers who wanted books of science and _belles lettres_ for their own progressive or literary pursuits; thus using the power of his purse in a manner at once merciful and wise.' [Illustration: _George Nicol, the King's Bookseller._] The impetus which book-collecting, and more particularly the section to which we have just referred, received by the dispersal of the West Library gathered in force as time went on, reaching its climax with the Roxburghe sale thirty-nine years afterwards. The enthusiasm culminated in a club--the Roxburghe, which still flourishes. The warfare (at Roxburghe House, St. James's Square), as Mr. Silvanus Urban has recorded, was equalled only by the courage and gallantry displayed on the plains of Salamanca about the same period. 'As a pillar, or other similar memorial, could not be conveniently erected to mark the spot where so many bibliographical champions fought and conquered, another method was adopted to record their fame, and perpetuate this brilliant epoch in literary annals. Accordingly, a phalanx of the most hardy veterans has been enrolled under the banner of the far-famed Valdarfer's Boccaccio of 1471. . . . The first anniversary meeting of this noble band was celebrated at the St. Alban's Tavern [St. Alban's Street, now Waterloo Place] on Thursday, June 17, 1813, being the memorable day on which the before-mentioned Boccaccio was sold for £2,260. The chair was taken by Earl Spencer (perpetual president of the club), supported by Lords Morpeth and Gower, and the following gentlemen,[61:A] viz., Sir E. Brydges, Messrs. W. Bentham, W. Bolland, J. Dent, T. F. Dibdin (vice-president), Francis Freeling, Henry Freeling, Joseph Hazlewood, Richard Heber, Thomas C. Heber, G. Isted, R. Lang, J. H. Markland, J. D. Phelps, T. Ponton, junior, J. Towneley, E. V. Utterson, and R. Wilbraham. Upon the cloth being removed, the following appropriate toasts were delivered from the chair: 1. The cause of Bibliomania all over the world. 2. The immortal memory of Christopher Valdarfer, the printer of the Boccaccio of 1471. 3. The immortal memory of William Caxton, first English printer. 4. The immortal memory of Wynkyn de Worde. 5. The immortal memory of Richard Pynson. 6. The immortal memory of Julian Notary. 7. The immortal memory of William Faques. 8. The immortal memory of the Aldine family. 9. The immortal memory of the Stephenses. 10. The immortal memory of John, Duke of Roxburghe. 'After these the health of the noble president was proposed, and received by the company standing, with three times three. Then followed the health of the worthy vice-president (proposed by Mr. Heber), which, it is scarcely necessary to observe, was drunk with similar honours. . . . The president was succeeded in the chair by Lord Gower, who, at midnight, yielded to Mr. Dent; and that gentleman gave way to the Prince of Bibliomaniacs, Mr. Heber. Though the night, or rather the morning, wore apace, it was not likely that a seat so occupied would be speedily deserted; accordingly, the "regal purple stream" ceased not to flow till "Morning oped her golden gates," or, in plain terms, till past four o'clock.' Such is a brief account of the Roxburghe Club, which is limited to thirty-one members, one black ball being fatal to the candidate who offers himself for a vacancy, and each member in his annual turn has to print a book or pamphlet, and to present to his fellow-members a copy. Before making any further reference to the _personnel_ of the Roxburghe Club, we quote, from a literary journal of 1823, the following trenchant paragraph, _à propos_ of a similar club in Scotland: 'BIBLIOMANIA.--This most ridiculous of all the affectations of the day has lately exhibited another instance of its diffusion, in the establishment of a _Roxburghe[62:A] Club_ in Edinburgh. Its object, we are told, "is the republication of scarce and valuable tracts, especially poetry."--"Republication!" In what manner? Commonsense forbid that the system of the London Roxburghe Club be adopted. Of this there are some four-and-twenty members or so, who dine together a certain number of times in the year, and each member in his turn republishes some old tract at his own expense. There are just so many copies printed as there are members of the club, and one copy is presented to each. It is evident that no sort of good can be effected by this system, and, indeed, there has not yet resulted any benefit to the literature of the country from the Roxburghe Club. They have not published a single book of any conceivable merit. The truth is that the members, for the most part, are a set of persons of no true taste, of no proper notion of learning and its uses--very considerable persons in point of wealth, but very _so-so_ in point of intellect.' [Illustration: _Thomas Frognall Dibdin, Bibliographer._] The primary aim and object of the Roxburghe Club were clearly enough indicated in the first list of members, for the association of men with kindred tastes is at all times a highly commendable one. The Roxburghe Club might have sustained its _raison d'être_, if it had drawn the line at such men as Thomas Frognall Dibdin and Joseph Hazlewood. The foregoing extract from the _Museum_ of 1823 exactly indicates the position which the club at that time held in public estimation. It had degenerated into a mere drinking and gormandizing association, alike a disgrace to its more respectable members and an insult to the nobleman whose name it was dragging through the mire. Those who have an opportunity of consulting the _Athenæum_ for 1834 will find, in the first four issues of January, one of the most scathing exposures to which any institution has ever been subjected. Hazlewood had died, and his books came into the sale-room. Never had the adage of 'Dead men tell no tales' been more completely falsified. Hazlewood, who does not seem to have been unpleasantly particular in telling the truth when living, told it with a vengeance after his death; for among his papers there was a bundle entitled 'Roxburghe Revels,' which Thorpe purchased for £40, the editor of the _Athenæum_ being the under-bidder. A few days afterwards, and for the weighty consideration of a £10 note profit, the lot passed into the hands of Mr. Dilke, and the articles to which we have referred followed.[64:A] If anything could have made the deceased Joseph turn in his grave, it would have been the attention which he received at the unsparing hands of Mr. Dilke. The excellent Mr. Dibdin survived the exposure several years. The castigation proved beneficial to the club; and if its revelries were no less boisterous than heretofore, it at all events circulated among its members books worthy of the name of Roxburghe, and edited in a scholarly manner. The club still flourishes, with the Marquis of Salisbury as its president, and the list of its members will be found in our chapter on 'Modern Collectors.' [Illustration: _Rev. C. Mordaunt Cracherode, M.A., Book-collector._] One of the mighty book-hunters of the last century was the Rev. Clayton Mordaunt Cracherode (whose father went out as a commander of marines in Anson's ship, and whose share in the prize-money made him a wealthy man), who died on April 6, 1799, in his seventieth year. His splendid library now forms a part of the British Museum. It contains the most choice copies in classical and Biblical literature, and many of these are on vellum. His collection of editions of the fifteenth century Mr. Cracherode used modestly to call a 'specimen' one; 'they form perhaps the most perfect _collana_ or necklace ever strung by one man.' Several of the books formerly belonged to Grolier. His library was valued at £10,000 at or about the time of his death; it would probably now realize considerably over ten times that amount if submitted to auction. The value of his prints was placed at £5,000. Cracherode was an excellent scholar, and an amiable; his passion for collecting was strong even in death, for whilst he was at the last extremity his agent was making purchases for him. He was one of the most constant habitués of Tom Payne's, and at his final visit he put an Edinburgh Terence in one pocket and a large-paper Cebes in the other. His house was in Queen Square, Westminster, overlooking St. James's Park. Reverting once more to the change which had been effected in the fancies of book-collectors, James Bindley, whose library was sold after his decease in 1819, and James Perry, who died in 1821, may be regarded as typical collectors of the transition period. Both are essentially London book-hunters--the former was an official in the Stamp Office, and the latter was, _inter alia_, the editor of the _Morning Chronicle_. Bindley, to whom John Nichols dedicated his 'Literary Anecdotes,' was a book-hunter who made very practical use of his scholarly tastes and ample means. He haunted the bookstalls and shops with the pertinacity of a tax-gatherer, and if his original expenditure were placed by the side of the total which his collection of books brought after his death, no more convincing arguments in favour of book-hunting could possibly be needed. Bindley is the 'Leontes' of Dibdin's 'Bibliographical Decameron,' and his collection of poetical rarities of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was one of the most remarkable which had ever been got together. Not many of the items had cost him more than a few shillings each, and they realized almost as many pounds as he had paid shillings. Perry was a journalist first and a book-collector afterwards, but in many respects there was a great similarity in the tastes of the two rival bibliophiles. Perry's was the more extensive collection--it was sold in four parts, 1822-23--and perhaps on the whole much more generally interesting. Evans, the auctioneer, described it as 'an extraordinary assemblage of curious books, Early English poetry, old tracts and miscellaneous literature.' The _cheval de bataille_ of the fourth part consisted of 'a most Curious, Interesting and Extraordinarily Extensive Assemblage of Political and Historical Pamphlets of the Last and Present Century.' This collection was comprised in thirty-five bundles. Perry made a speciality of facetiæ, pamphlets on the French Revolution, and Defoe's works, but the two cornerstones of his library were a copy of the Mazarin Bible and a First Folio Shakespeare. Among the many book-collectors whose careers link the past century with the present, few are more worthy of notice than Francis Douce, who died in the spring of 1834, aged seventy-seven. He was for a short time Keeper of the MSS. in the British Museum. His fortune was much increased by being left one of the residuary legatees of Nollekens, the sculptor--to the extent, in fact, of £50,000. Dibdin, who was for many years a near neighbour and intimate friend at Kensington, describes Douce's library as 'eminently rich and curious . . . not a book but what had its fly-leaf written upon. In short, no man ever lived so much with, and so entirely for, his books as did he.' Douce is the Prospero of the 'Bibliomania.' His books he bequeathed to the Bodleian, and his MSS. to the British Museum, the stipulation in the latter case being that they are not to be opened until 1900! In manners and appearance Douce was singular and strange, rough to strangers, but gentle and kind to those who knew him intimately. He was of the old school as regards dress, wearing as he did a little flaxen wig, an old-fashioned square-cut coat, with what M. Jacob calls 'quarto pockets.' Several of his letters are printed in Dibdin's 'Literary Recollections.' Two other distinguished book-collectors, contemporary with Douce, and, like him, benefactors to the Bodleian, may be mentioned here--Richard Gough (1739-1809), the antiquary; and Edmond Malone (1741-1812), the Shakespearian scholar. Gough's gift consisted of the topographical portion of his library; the remainder, comprising 4,373 lots, realizing the total of £3,552, came under the hammer at Leigh and Sotheby's in 1810, realizing what were then considered very fancy prices (a selection of which are given in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, lxxx., part ii.). The Malone collection, which became the property of the Bodleian through the influence of Lord Sunderlin in 1815, comprised what the collector himself describes as 'the most curious, valuable, and extensive collection ever assembled of ancient English plays and poetry.' It would probably be impossible now to form another such collection. Malone told Caldwell, who repeats the remarkable fact, that he had procured every dramatic piece mentioned by Langbaine, excepting four or five--the advantage, observes that gentleman, of living in London. The number of volumes amounts to about 3,200. As his biographer, Sir James Prior, has pointed out, his collection in the Bodleian remains distinct, and is creditable 'alike to the industry, taste, and patience by which it was brought together.' And further: 'None of his predecessors have attempted what he accomplished. Few of his successors have, on most points, added materially to our knowledge.' Yet a third benefactor to the Bodleian may be conveniently mentioned here. Thomas Caldecott, who was born in 1744, and died in 1833, was a Fellow of New College, Oxford, and afterwards a Bencher of the Middle Temple. He resided chiefly at Dartford, and formed a choice library of black-letter books, and the productions of the Elizabethan period. He attacked with considerable asperity and ability Shakespearian commentators, such as Steevens and Malone; and his rivals did not spare his edition of two of Shakespeare's plays when they came out. He presented the gems of his library, the Shakespeare quartos, to the Bodleian; but the remainder of his books, including many excessively rare and several unique pieces, came up for sale at Sotheby's in 1833, and realized a total of £1,210 6s. 6d. The splendid library of John Dent, of Hertford Street, sold by Evans in 1827, producing the sum of £15,040, had a curious history. The nucleus of it was formed towards the close of the last century by Haughton James, who, in a moment of conviviality, and without a due consideration of its true value, transferred it to Robert Heathcote,[68:A] who made several additions, and from whose possession it passed about 1807 into that of John Dent. The sale of the Dent library is described by Dibdin as exhibiting the 'first grand melancholy symptoms of the decay of the Bibliomania.' The chief attraction was the Sweynheym and Pannartz Livy, 1469, on vellum, which fell (in more senses than one) under the hammer for £262, Dent having paid £903 for it at Sir Mark Sykes' sale. Both the purchasers, Payne and Foss, and Dibdin, made strenuous efforts to persuade the Earl of Spencer to purchase it, but unsuccessfully; it subsequently became the property of Grenville, and passed with his collection into the British Museum. Dent is the Pontevallo of the 'Bibliomania,' and Baroccio of the 'Bibliographical Decameron,' and does not seem to have been an altogether amiable specimen of the fraternity. Canning used to say that he once found Dent deep in the study of an open book which was upside down! A much more genial bibliomaniac, Sir William Bolland, calls for notice; he was one of the original members of the Roxburghe Club, which, in fact, was first suggested at a dinner-party at his house, June 4, 1812. He died May 14, 1840, aged sixty-eight, and his library, which comprised 2,940 lots, and realized £3,019, was sold by Evans, and included many choice books. One of the greatest bargains which this distinguished collector secured during his career became his property through the medium of Benjamin Wheatley, who purchased a bundle of poetical tracts from the Chapter Library at Lincoln for 80 guineas. When the inevitable sale came, one of these trifles, 'The Rape of Lucrece,' alone realized 100 guineas. George Chalmers (1742-1825), who is described as 'the most learned and the most celebrated of all the antiquaries and historians of Scotland,' was also one of the giant book-collectors of the present century, and differed from the majority of collectors in being a prolific and versatile author. At his death his nephew became the possessor of his extensive library, but on the death of the nephew the books were placed in the hands of Evans, who sold them in two parts, September, 1841, and February, 1842, and realized over £4,100. The second part was very rich in Shakespeariana, and included the 'Sonnets,' 1609, £105; 'Midsummer Night's Dream,' 1600 (second edition), £105; and many other important items. In the first part of the sale, Marlowe's 'Tragedie of Richard, Duke of York,' 1595 (believed to be unique), sold for £131; and the only perfect copy then known of Patrick Hannay's 'Nightingale,' 1622, from the libraries of Bindley, Perry, Sykes and Rice, £13 5s. The third part of Chalmers' library, which consisted for the most part of works relative to Scotland, particularly in illustration of the History of Printing in that Country, was also sold by Evans in 1842. Among other book-collectors of this period we may mention particularly the Rev. Henry Joseph Thomas Drury, whose library was rich in classics, all for the most part finely bound; it came under the hammer at Evans's in 1827 (4,729 lots); Dr. Isaac Gosset, who died in 1812, in his sixty-eighth year, and whose library, comprising 5,740 lots, realized £3,141 7s. 6d. at Leigh and Sotheby's in 1813; the Rev. Jonathan Boucher (1738-1804), Vicar of Epsom, who, like George Chalmers, for many years resided in America, was, also like him, an inveterate book-collector to whom everything in the shape of a book was welcome: his sale occupied Leigh and Sotheby thirty-nine days, in 1806, the total being over £4,510. III. The history of the second and third quarters of the present century makes mention of very few collectors of the first rank. Among the more important of those whose libraries came under the hammer within that period, we may specially refer to the following: William Upcott, who started early in life as an assistant to R. H. Evans, but who in 1806 became sub-librarian of the London Institution. He was one of the first to take up autograph-collecting, of which, indeed, he has been termed the pioneer. He certainly collected with great advantage and knowledge, and his vast accumulations were sold at Sotheby's in four batches during 1846, he having died in September, 1845; John Hugh Smyth Piggott, whose library, in three portions, was sold at the same place, 1847-54; W. Y. Ottley, the prolific writer of books on art, 1849; W. Holgate, of the Post Office, whose library included a number of Shakespeariana, June, 1846; Hanrott, 1857; Sir Thomas Bernard, 1855; Isaac D'Israeli, the author of 'Curiosities of Literature,' in 1849, and his unsparing critic, Bolton Corney, in 1871; S. W. Singer, in four parts, 1860; J. Orchard Halliwell (afterwards Halliwell-Phillipps), in 1856, 1857, and 1859; and the Rev. Dr. Hawtrey, part of whose books were sold, far below their worth, in 1853, and the rest nine years later. Many of the foregoing were literary men, who aimed rather at getting together a useful library than one of rarities. The sale of all such libraries makes a very sorry show beside that of the more ostentatious collections. For instance, the books which Macaulay used with such brilliant effect, and including among them an extraordinary number of tracts, many excessively rare, only realized £426 15s. 6d., when sold in 1863 in 1,011 lots. Douglas Jerrold's little library, sold in August, 1859, in 307 lots, only fetched £173 3s. In very strong contrast to these is the remarkable little library, formed between 1820 and 1830 by Henry Perkins, of Hanworth Park, Feltham, a member of the brewing firm. This collection comprised only 865 lots, but when sold at Sotheby's in June, 1873, the total was found to be close on £26,000! There was a copy each of the 42-line and 40-line Gutenberg Bible--the former is now in the Huth Library, and the latter in the Ashburnham Library; several other very early printed Bibles, including Coverdale's, Matthews', and Cranmer's, two works printed by Caxton, with many other important books were sold. [Illustration: _J. O. Halliwell-Phillipps._] The late George Daniel (who was born about 1790) may be regarded as the connecting link between the collectors of the early part of the present century and those of to-day. When, for example, Perry and Bindley left off, Daniel commenced. There was no great rush after Shakespeare quartos in the earlier part of the present century, and book-collecting for a time ceased to be the pet hobby of wealthy members of the peerage. When George Daniel, a critic and bibliographer of exceptional abilities, began to collect, he soon made Shakespeare, as well as the earlier English poets, objects of solicitude. He resided for many years in the historic old red-brick tower at Canonbury.[72:A] The sale of Daniel's extraordinary collection was held at Sotheby's in July, 1864, when a First Folio, one of the finest in the world--now in the possession of Baroness Burdett-Coutts--sold for £716 2s., and when twenty of the Shakespeare quartos realized a total of about £3,000. [Illustration: _Canonbury Tower, George Daniel's Residence._] George Daniel is now remembered by but few book-collectors. Mr. W. Carew Hazlitt knew him very well, and describes him as a retired accountant, whose idiosyncrasy consisted of _rares morçeaux_, _bonnes bouches_, uniques--copies of books with a _provenance_, or in jackets made for them by Roger Payne--nay, in the original parchment or paper wrapper, or in a bit of real mutton which certain men call sheep. He was a person of literary tastes, and had written books in his day. But his chief celebrity was as an acquirer of those of others, provided always that they were old enough or rare enough. An item never passed into his possession without at once _ipso facto_ gaining new attributes, almost invariably worded in a holograph memorandum on the fly-leaf. Daniel was in the market at a fortunate and peculiar juncture, just when prices were depressed, about the time of the great Heber sale. His marvellous gleanings came to the hammer precisely when the quarto Shakespeare, the black-letter romance, the unique book of Elizabethan verse, had grown worth ten times their weight in sovereigns. Sir William Tite, J. O. Halliwell, and Henry Huth were to the front. It was in 1864. What a wonderful sight it was! No living man had ever witnessed the like. Copies of Shakespeare, printed from the prompters' MSS. and published at fourpence, fetched £300 or £400. I remember old Joseph Lilly, when he had secured the famous Ballads, which came from the Tollemaches of Helmingham Hall, holding up the folio volume in which they were contained in triumph as someone whom he knew entered the room. Poor Daniel! he had no mean estimate of his treasures--what he had was always better than what you had. Books, prints, autographs--it was all the same. I met him one morning in Long Acre. I had bought a very fine copy of Taylor, the Water Poet. "Oh, yes, sir," he said, "I saw it; but not quite so fine as mine." He went up to Highgate to look through the engravings of Charles Matthews the elder. They were all duplicates--of course inferior ones. "Damn him, sir!" cried Matthews afterwards to a friend; "I should like him to have had a duplicate of my wooden leg." John Payne Collier, who was born a year before Daniel, but who lived until 1883, was a collector with very similar tastes. He had been a reporter on the _Morning Chronicle_, and in all probability imbibed some of his book-collecting zeal from Perry. His book-buying and literary career commenced, according to his own account, in 1804 or 1805, when his father took him into the shop of Thomas Rodd, senior, on which occasion he purchased his 'first Old English book of any value,' namely, Wilson's 'Art of Logic,' printed by Grafton, 1551; from this he ascertained that 'Ralf Roister Doister' was an older play than 'Gammer Gurton's Needle,' and also that it was by Nicholas Udal, Master of Eton School. When in Holland, in the winter of 1813-14, Collier purchased among other books an imperfect copy of Tyndale's 'Gospel of St. Matthew,' to which, as he says in his 'Diary,' 'the date of 1526 [1525] has been assigned, and which seems to be the very earliest translation into English of any portion of the New Testament. Many years afterwards--I think in the spring of 1832--I happened to show it to Rodd, the learned bookseller. I was at that time ignorant on the subject, and Rodd offered me books to the value of two or three pounds for it. I gladly accepted them.' This fragment, for which Collier paid a florin, was sold to Mr. Grenville by Rodd for £50, and is now in the British Museum. Writing in the _Athenæum_, January 31, 1852, he gives an account of the origin of events which led to one of the fiercest literary quarrels of modern times: 'A short time before the death of the late Mr. Rodd, of Newport Street [_i.e._ early in 1849], I happened to be in his shop when a considerable parcel of books arrived from the country. He told me that they had been bought for him at an auction--I think in Bedfordshire. . . . He unpacked them in my presence . . . and there were two which attracted my attention, one being a fine copy of Florio's "Italian Dictionary," of the edition of 1611, and the other a much-thumbed, abused, and imperfect copy of the Second Folio of Shakespeare, 1632. The first I did not possess, and the last I was willing to buy, inasmuch as I apprehended it would add some missing leaves to a copy of the same impression which I had had for some time on my shelves. As was his usual course, Mr. Rodd required a very reasonable price for both; for the first I remember I gave 12s. and for the last only £1 10s. . . . On the outside of one of the covers was inscribed, "Tho. Perkins, his booke."' Collier was vexed at finding that the volume contained no leaves which would help him in completing the volume he already had. He had employed another person to do the collating, and it was not until some considerable time after, and on examining thoroughly the volume himself, that he discovered it to contain a large series of emendations, which Collier included in his 'Notes and Emendations to the Text of Shakespeare's Plays,' 1853, which set the whole town by the ears. Collier's library was dispersed at Sotheby's in 1884; it was an unusually interesting sale, and included many very rare and curious books. [Illustration: _Samuel Taylor Coleridge._ From the Portrait by G. Dawe, R.A., 1812.] Southey, Coleridge, Charles Lamb, Wordsworth, and William Hazlitt were book-collectors of a type which deserves a niche to itself. Writing to Coleridge in 1797, Lamb says: 'I have had thoughts of turning Quaker, and have been reading, or am, rather, just beginning to read, a most capital book, good thoughts in good language, William Penn's "No Cross, no Crown." I like it immensely.' Lamb's ideas of book-marking are to be found in his correspondence with Coleridge, in which he states that a book reads the better when the topography of its plots and notes is thoroughly mastered, and when we 'can trace the dirt in it, to having read it at tea with buttered muffins, or over a pipe.' Lamb's library consisted for the most part of tattered volumes in a dreadful state of repair. Lamb, like Young, the poet, dog-eared his books to such an extent that many of them would hardly close at all. From the correspondence of Bernard Barton we get a glimpse at Lamb's cottage in Colebrook Row, Islington--a white house with six good rooms. 'You enter without passage into a cheerful dining-room, all studded over and rough with old books.' Barton also writes: 'What chiefly attracted me was a large old book-case full of books. I could but think how many long walks must have been taken to bring them home, for there were but few that did not bear the mark of having been bought at many a bookstall--brown, dark-looking books, distinguished by those white tickets which told how much their owner had given for each.' [Illustration: _Lamb's Cottage at Colebrook Row, Islington._] In an edition of Donne [? 1669] which belonged to Lamb, Coleridge scrawled: 'I shall die soon, my dear Charles Lamb, and then you will not be vexed that I have be-scribbled your book. S. T. C., 2nd May, 1811.' Lamb was too good-natured to be a book-collector. On one occasion William Hazlitt[77:A] sent Martin Burney to Lamb to borrow Wordsworth's 'Excursion,' and Lamb being out, Burney took it, a high-handed proceeding which involved the borrower in a blowing-up. Coleridge at another time helped himself to Luther's 'Table-Talk,' and this also called forth a great outcry. A copy of Chapman's Homer, which passed through the hands of Wordsworth and S. T. Coleridge, eventually turned up in one of Lilly's catalogues. This identical copy is noticed in an account of Rydal Mount which appeared in the first volume of _Once a Week_. Coleridge, of course, has made a number of notes in it, and in one of these he describes the translation as 'an exquisite poem, spite of its frequent and perverse quaintness and harshnesses, which are, however, amply repaid by almost unexampled sweetness and beauty of language.' [Illustration: _William Hazlitt._] The difference between a bibliophile and a bibliomaniac has been described as between one who adorns his mind, and the other his book-cases. Of the bibliomaniac as here characterized, we can suggest no better type than Thomas Hill, the original of Poole's 'Paul Pry,' and of Hull in Hook's novel, 'Gilbert Gurney.' Devoid as Hill was of intellectual endowments, he managed to obtain and secure the friendship of many eminent men--of Thomas Campbell, the poet, Matthews and Liston, the comedians, Hook, Dubois, John and Leigh Hunt, James and Horace Smith, John Taylor, editor of the _Sun_, Horace Twiss, Baron Field, Sir George Rose, Barnes, subsequently editor of the _Times_, Cyrus Redding, and many others. That he was kind-hearted and hospitable nearly everyone has testified, and his literary parties at his Sydenham Tusculum were quite important events, in spite of the ponderosity of his well-worn stories. During the more acute stages of bibliomania in this country at the latter part of the last century and the beginning of this, 'when the Archaica, Heliconia, and Roxburghe Clubs were outbidding each other for old black-letter works . . . when books, in short, which had only become scarce because they were always worthless, were purchased upon the same principle as that costly and valueless coin, a Queen Anne's farthing,' Hill had been a constant collector of rare and other books which were in demand. That he knew nothing of the insides of his books is very certain; but he knew how much each copy would bring at an auction, and how much it had brought at all previous sales. When the bibliomania had reached its height, Messrs. Longman and Co. determined upon embarking in such a lucrative branch of the trade; they applied to Hill for advice and assistance, offering to begin by the purchase of his entire collection, a proposition which he embraced with alacrity. He drew up a _catalogue raisonné_ of his books, affixing his price for each volume. The collection was despatched in three or four trunks to Paternoster Row, and he received in payment the acceptances of the firm for as many thousand pounds. From some cause or other, the purchasers soon repented of their bargain, but the only terms which Horace Smith could obtain for the Longmans was an extension in the term of payment. Hill declared that the collection was worth double the price he had been paid for it. For many years Hill assisted Perry, of the _Morning Chronicle_, in making selections of rare books for his fine library at Tavistock House, particularly in the department of facetiæ. After leaving Sydenham, Hill took chambers in James Street, Adelphi, where he resided until his death. The walls of his rooms were completely hidden by books, and his couch was 'enclosed in a lofty circumvallation of volumes piled up from the carpet.' He was never married, had no relations, and even his age was a source of mystery to his friends. James Smith once said to him: 'The fact is, Hill, the register of your birth was destroyed in the Great Fire of London, and you take advantage of the accident to conceal your real age.' Hook went further by suggesting that he might originally have been one of the little hills recorded as skipping in the Psalms. Hill died in 1840, his age being placed at eighty-three years. Horace Smith said 'he could not believe that Hill was dead, and he could not insult a man he had known so long; Hill would reappear.' [Illustration: _Thomas Hill, after Maclise._] Samuel Rogers, the banker poet, was also a book-collector, but not in the sense of one who aims at number. His house at 22, St. James's Place, overlooking Green Park, was for over half a century--he had removed here from the Temple about 1803--one of the most celebrated meeting-places of literature and art in London. Byron, in his 'Diary,' says, 'If you enter his house--his drawing-room, his library--you of yourself say, This is not the dwelling of a common mind. There is not a gem, a coin, a book, thrown aside on his chimney-piece, his sofa, his table, that does not bespeak an almost fastidious elegance in the possessor.' A writer in the _Athenæum_ of December 29, 1855, a few days after the poet's death, describes the library as 'lined with bookcases surmounted by Greek vases, each one remarkable for its exquisite beauty of form. Upon the gilt lattice-work of the bookcases are lightly hung in frames some of the finest original sketches by Raphael, Michelangelo, and Andrea del Sarto; and finished paintings by Angelico da Fiesole, and Fouquet of Tours.' Among the treasures of the library were the MSS. of Gray, in their perfect calligraphy, and the famous agreement between Milton and the publisher Simmonds, for the copyright of 'Paradise Lost.' [Illustration: _Samuel Rogers's House in St. James's Place._] [Illustration: Sam{l} Rogers] Tom Moore the poet, and his friend and fellow-countryman, Thomas Crofton Croker, were both book-collectors. The library of the former was, in 1855, presented by his widow to the Royal Irish Academy, 'as a memorial of her husband's taste and erudition.' Croker's books, which were dispersed after his death, contain an exceedingly curious book-plate, either indicating the possessor's residence, 'Rosamond's Bower, Fulham,' or '3, Gloucester Road, Old Brompton,' the various learned societies to which he belonged, with the additional information that he was founder and president (1828-1848) of the Society of Novimagus. Charles Dickens, Thackeray, W. Harrison Ainsworth (the collection of the last was sold at Sotheby's in 1882, and realized £469 19s. 6d.), and Charles Lever were not book-collectors in the usual sense of the word. [Illustration: _Alexander Dyce, Book-collector._] Among the more notable literary men who were also book-collectors of this period, whose libraries are still preserved intact, are Alexander Dyce and John Forster. Their collections, now at South Kensington, are perhaps more particularly notable for the extraordinary number of books which were once the property of famous men. Mr. Dyce, who was born in Edinburgh, June, 1798, and died in 1869, bequeathed to the Museum 14,000 books, whilst the library of his friend and executor, John Forster (1812-1876), contained upwards of 18,000 books, in addition to a number of autographs, pictures, etc. The more interesting books of a 'personal' nature in these two libraries are the following: Drayton's 'Battaile of Agincourt,' 1627, a presentation copy to Sir Henry Willoughby, with inscription in Drayton's autograph; a French cookery-book, with Gray's autograph on the title; Ben Jonson's copy (with his autograph) of the first collected edition of Marston's plays, 1633; a copy of Steele's 'Christian Hero,' with some verses in his autograph addressed to Dr. Ellis, Head-master of the Charterhouse when Steele was at school. Sheridan's plays include a presentation copy of 'The Rivals,' with an inscription to David Garrick. The foregoing are all in the Dyce Collection. [Illustration: Ben: Jonson] [Illustration: To My Lord Tutour D{r}. Ellis With Secret impulse thus do Streams return To that Capacious Ocean whence they're born: Oh Would but Fortune come w{th}. bounty fraught Proportion'd to y{e} mind w{ch}. thou hast taught! Till then let these unpolish'd leaves impart The Humble Offering of a Gratefull Heart Rich{d}. Steele] [Illustration: David Garrick Esq{r}. From The Author.] That of John Forster includes a copy of Addison's 'Travels in Italy,' with an autograph inscription by the author: 'To Dr. Jonathan Swift, the most Agreeable Companion, the Truest Friend, and the Greatest Genius of his age, this Book is presented by his most Humble Servant the Author.' Among the many books on America, there is one with John Locke's autograph. The copy of the fourth edition of Byron's 'English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,' 1811, is that which was given by the author to Leigh Hunt, and contains the poet's autograph and many corrections; a presentation copy of Flatman's 'Poems and Songs,' 1682, to Izaak Walton, who has inscribed his autograph in it; Gay's copy of Horace; some proof-sheets of Johnson's 'Lives of the Poets;' a copy of Keats's 'Lamia,' 1820, with an autograph inscription and a sonnet 'On the Grasshopper and the Cricket,' also in the poet's handwriting; Gray's copy of Locke's 'Essay concerning Human Understanding,' a copy of the 'Dunciad,' 1729, with the inscription 'Jonath: Swift, 1729, amicissimi autoris donum'; and Isaac Newton's copy of Wheare's 'Method and Order of Reading Histories,' 1685. [Illustration: John Locke] [Illustration: Izaak Walton July 3{o} 1682 given me, by the author.] [Illustration: E Libris I. Newton.] Apropos of books of distinguished ownership, the collecting of them sometimes takes an eccentric turn; for example, the third Lord Holland brought together all the various copies (now at Holland House) upon which he could lay hands of Fox's 'History of the Reign of James II.,' which belonged to distinguished people, and amongst these former owners were Sir James Mackintosh, Sir Philip Francis, C. E. Jerningham, Rogers, and General Fitzpatrick; and as many of the copies contained MS. notes, the interest of the collection will be readily understood. A brief review of the principal book-collectors whose libraries--formed for the most part by men who lived in London--have been dispersed during the past dozen years will not be without interest; those which have been already referred to are, of course, omitted here. James Comerford, F.S.A., by profession a notary public, who inherited from his father a love of books, and also a considerable collection, had an exceedingly fine library, which consisted for the most part of topographical works, many of them on large paper with proof-plates. He was in his seventy-sixth year when he died, and his books, which were sold at Sotheby's in November, 1882 (thirteen days), realized a total of £8,327 13s. Frederic Ouvry, who died in June, 1881, was partner in the firm of Farrer, Ouvry, and Co., of Lincoln's Inn; he was elected a Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries in 1848, and for twenty years was the society's treasurer, and succeeded Earl Stanhope as president. He was a man of considerable means, and formed one of the most interesting and most choice of modern libraries. Many of his books fetched far higher sums than he had paid for them; for example, Drummond of Hawthornden's 'Forth Fasting,' 1617, cost him in 1858 £8 15s.--at his sale it fetched £60; and Lodge's 'Rosalynd,' 1598, advanced from £5 10s. to £63. Mr. Ouvry was an intimate friend of both Mr. Gladstone and Charles Dickens; a copy of the former's 'Gleanings of Past Years' was a presentation one from the author, and had the following inscription, 'Frederic Ouvry, Esq., from W. E. G., in memory of the work we have done together for fourteen years in full harmony of thought and act.' There were 177 autograph letters from Dickens, which sold for £150. The four folio Shakespeares sold for £420, £46, £116, £28; a copy of the first edition of Spenser's 'Faërie Queene,' 1590-96, £33; a copy of Daniel's 'Delia,' 1592, with corrections, supposed to be by the author, £88. The total of the six days' sale was £6,169 2s. A very remarkable library came under the hammer at Sotheby's on March 21-25, 1884, when the unique collection of the late Francis Bedford, the eminent binder, was sold. The beauty of the bindings was naturally the most striking feature of the library, but there were many books which were rare or historically interesting apart from their coverings. For example, there was the identical Prayer-Book that was found in the pocket of Charles I. immediately after his execution; a copy of the Breeches Bible printed in Scotland, 1579; one of the Pearl Bible, 1653; a very fine copy of the 'Chronicon Nurembergense,' 1493. Bedford's own _chef d'oeuvre_, a magnificent copy of Rogers' 'Italy' and 'Poems,' in olive morocco, super extra, realized £116, whilst the total of the five days' sale was £4,867 6s. 6d. Among the more notable collections sold during 1885-7, that of the late Leonard Laurie Hartley, at Puttick's, may be mentioned, containing as it did some important books. Mr. Hartley has been described as a voracious collector, and would buy almost anything the dealers offered him, and almost at any price; hence he speedily became known as a good client, and doubtless paid 'through the nose' for very many articles. The extraordinarily extensive collection of books and manuscripts formed by the late Sir Thomas Phillipps (who died in 1867), of Middle Hill, Worcestershire, and Thirlestaine House, Cheltenham, commenced selling at Sotheby's in 1886, and the supply is not yet by any means exhausted. Up to March, 1895, seven portions had been dispersed, the total being £15,766. Perhaps the most interesting item in this vast collection was the original autograph manuscript of Sir Walter Scott's 'Life of Swift,' which realized £230 in June, 1893. During 1886 and 1887 the collections of two of the most genuine book-hunters that ever lived came under the hammer. Professor Edward Solly's extensive library of about 40,000 volumes, and comprising many rare books on Defoe, Pope, Swift, Dryden, Samuel Butler, Johnson, Gray, Cobbett, Paine, and also books of topography, biography, history, travel, antiquities, bibliography, etc., only realized the total of £1,544 13s. 6d. (November, 1886). The equally interesting library of the late W. J. Thoms, founder of _Notes and Queries_, and Deputy-Librarian of the House of Lords, realized two months after Mr. Solly's sale £1,094 9s. Mr. Thoms' library was considerably smaller than that of his friend Mr. Solly, but they ran on very similar lines, Mr. Thoms' being particularly strong in quaint and out-of-the-way books relating to Pope, Junius, George IV., Queen Caroline, Princess Olive of Cumberland, Reynard the Fox, and Longevity. The first part of the library of another indefatigable book-hunter, Cornelius Walford, came under the hammer at the same place (Sotheby's) in February, 1887. Some interesting books were included in the four days' sale of the library of Sir William Hardy, F.S.A., late Deputy-Keeper of the Public Records (December, 1886), but the books were chiefly first editions of modern authors. [Illustration: _W. J. Thoms, Book-collector._ Founder of _Notes and Queries_.] But the two great collections of books, equally celebrated in their way, with, however, little in common, which give to the year 1887 a most special importance, were those of the Earl of Crawford, and the first portion of the late James T. Gibson Craig's (of Edinburgh), both of which were dispersed in June, each occupying Messrs. Sotheby ten days in the dispersal. The Crawford sale of 2,146 lots realized a total of £19,073 9s. 6d., or an average of over £8 17s. per lot, whilst the Gibson Craig sale of 2,927 lots produced only £6,803 8s., or an average of a little over £2 6s. The former included, however, a perfect copy of the Mazarin or Gutenberg Bible, which realized £2,650, and a copy of Fust and Schoeffer's Bible, 1462, which sold for £1,025. Coverdale's Bible realized £226, and Tyndale's Bible £255, whilst Tyndale's New Testament, printed at Antwerp by Emperour, brought £230. The celebrated block-book, the Apocalypse of St. John, generally regarded as the second attempt in xylographic printing, realized £500. Sir Philip Sidney's 'Arcadia,' 1590, first edition, sold for £93. (It may be here mentioned that the second portion of the Crawford library was sold in June, 1889, when 1,105 lots realized £7,324 4s. 6d.--three Caxtons produced a total of £588; Cicero, 'Old Age,' 1481, etc., £320; Higden's 'Policronicon,' 1482, £33; and 'Christine of Pisa,' 1489, £235.) The Gibson Craig collection was essentially a modern one, and included a number of finely illustrated books. One of the chief rarities was a copy of the first edition of 'Robinson Crusoe,' which fetched £50. There were also a number of autograph letters and MSS. of Sir Walter Scott, the most important of which was the MS. of the 'Chronicles of the Canongate,' £141. The second and third portions of the Gibson Craig library were sold in March and November, 1888, the total of the three sales being £15,509 4s. 6d. The library of the Earl of Aylesford was sold at Christie's, March 6-16, 1888; and in June and November of the same year, the extensive collection of the late R. S. Turner, of the Albany, occupied Messrs. Sotheby twenty-eight days, 7,568 lots realizing a total of over £16,000. A previous sale of 774 items of his books occurred in France in 1878, and realized 319,100 francs. Turner's books included many exceedingly choice volumes bound by the most eminent craftsmen, such as Clovis Eve, Deseuil, Bozet, Derome, Padeloup, Capé, Trautz-Bauzonnet, Roger Payne, Bedford, and Rivière. Turner was born in 1819, and died in June, 1887. Perhaps the great book sensation of 1888 occurred in the sale at Christie's when a portion of the library of the late Lord Chancellor Hardwicke ('The Wimpole Library') was sold, and when a dozen tracts relating to America, bound together in a quarto volume, realized the unheard-of sum of £555. In the same sale also there were three Caxtons: the 'Game and Play of Chesse,' 1475-76, first edition, but not quite perfect, £260; and 'The Myrrour of the Worlde;' and Tullius 'De Amicitia,' both imperfect, in one volume, £60. We can only briefly allude here to some of the more important collections which have been sold in London during the past six years. In the majority of instances they were the possession of deceased individuals, who for the most part lived out of London. In February, 1889, the Hopetoun House Library, the property of the Right Hon. the Earl of Hopetoun, was sold at Sotheby's, 1,263 lots realizing £6,117 6s., the most important items in the sale being a copy of the Gutenberg-Fust Latin Bible, 1450-55, £2,000, and the _editio princeps_ Virgil, 1469, £590. The library of Mr. John Mansfield Mackenzie, of Edinburgh, sold at the same place in the following March (2,368 lots = £7,072), was one of the most important collections dispersed in recent years; it was especially rich in first editions of modern writers, in _curious_ books, and in literature relating to the drama; it included an exceedingly extensive series of Cruikshankiana, many of which realized prices which have not since been maintained. The most important lots in the sale of a selection from the library of the Duke of Buccleuch, at Sotheby's, March 25-27, 1889, were five Caxtons, viz.: 'Dictes and Sayengis of the Philosophirs,' 1477, first edition, £650; 'The Chronicles of England,' first edition, 1480, £470; the same, second edition, 1482, £45; Higden's 'Descripcion of Britayne,' 1480, £195; and the 'Royal Book, or Book for a King' (? 1487), £365. [Illustration: _Hollingbury Copse, the Residence of the late Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps._] Many interesting items occurred in the sale (July, 1889) of the library of the late J. O. Halliwell-Phillipps (one of the most distinguished of London book-hunters), which occurred a few months after the venerable owner's death. The amount realized for 1,291 lots was £2,298 10s. 6d.; and among them were several Shakespeare quartos, in all instances slightly imperfect. By far the most important feature of the Shakespearian rarities, drawings and engravings, preserved at Hollingbury Copse, near Brighton--'that quaint wigwam on the Sussex Downs which had the honour of sheltering more record and artistic evidences connected with the personal history of the great dramatist than are to be found in any other of the world's libraries'--still remains intact, according to the late owner's direction. It was offered to the Corporation of Birmingham for £7,000, but without avail. The collection comprises early engraved portraits of Shakespeare, authentic personal relics, documentary evidences respecting his estates and individuals connected with his biography, and artistic illustrations of localities connected with his personal history. The most important of the several hundred items is perhaps the unique early proof of the famous Droeshout portrait, for which Halliwell-Phillipps gave £100, and for which an American collector offered him £1,000. A calendar of this extraordinary assembly was very carefully edited by Mr. E. E. Baker, F.S.A., in 1891, and the collection is still intact. Writing in June, 1887, Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps himself tells us that for nearly half a century he had been an ardent Shakespearian collector, 'being most likely the only survivor of the little band who attended the sale of the library of George Chalmers somewhere about the year 1840. But for a long time, attempting too much in several directions with insufficient means, and harassed, moreover, by a succession of lawsuits, including two in the Court of Torture--I mean Chancery--I was unable to retain my accumulations; and thus it came to pass that bookcase full after bookcase full were disposed of, some by private contract, many under the vibrations of the auctioneer's hammer. This state of affairs continued till February, 1872, but since that period, by a strict limitation of my competitive resources to one subject--the Life of Shakespeare--I have managed to jog along without parting with a single article of any description.' A much more important collection of Shakespeariana than that which appeared in the Halliwell-Phillipps sale came under the hammer at the same place a few days afterwards, when the late Frederick Perkins's library was dispersed (2,086 lots realized £8,222 7s.). The sale, in fact, was the most important in this respect since that of George Daniel in 1864, to which, however, the Perkins Collection was considerably inferior. Mr. Perkins had spent many years of search and a large sum of money in collecting early editions of Shakespeare, but during the past thirty years not only has their value gone up in an appalling degree, but they are for the most part positively unprocurable. Under these depressing conditions, Mr. Perkins managed nevertheless to obtain eighteen first or very early quarto editions of Shakespeare's plays; and poor as is this show when compared with that of George Daniel, it is doubtful whether a sale so extensive from the particular point of view under consideration as that of Mr. Perkins can be expected until well into the next century. The highest price was paid for 'The Second Part of Henrie the Fourth,' 1600, £225; 'Romeo and Juliet,' 1599, fetched £164; the 'Merchant of Venice,' 1600 (printed by J. Roberts), £121; 'Henry V.,' 1608, third edition, £99. The First Folio fetched £415. The dispersals of book-collections in 1890 included a few of considerable note. The exceedingly extensive one, for example, of the late Sir Edward Sullivan, Bart., Lord Chancellor of Ireland, was highly interesting as illustrating a phase of book-collecting which is now all but obsolete. It was rich in the classics, which three-quarters of a century ago would have created the greatest excitement. It occupied twenty-one days (May-June), when 6,919 lots realized a total of £10,982 3s.--a highly satisfactory result, when the general depreciation in the market value of the classics is considered. The extensive library of Mr. Thomas Gaisford (2,218 lots, £9,182 15s. 6d.), which was sold in April, 1890, included not only some fine editions of the classics, but a remarkable series of Blake's works, first editions of Keats, Byron, Shelley, Swinburne, the four folio editions of Shakespeare, and a few quartos, notably the 'Merry Wives of Windsor,' 1602, £385; 'Love's Labour Lost,' 1598, £140; and 'Much Adoe about Nothing,' 1600, £130, all first editions. Some very interesting and rare Shakespeare items occurred also in the sale of the library of the late Frederick William Cosens, 1890, _e.g._, 'Merchant of Venice,' 1600, £270; and the 'Poems,' 1640, £61. The dramatic library of the late Frank Marshall (Sotheby's, June, 1890, £2,187 14s. 6d.), and the angling books of the late Francis Francis (Puttick's, July, 1890), were interesting collections in the way of special books. The most noteworthy collections dispersed in 1891 included the Walton Hall library of the late Edward Hailstone, who was D.L. of the West Riding, Yorkshire (sold in February and April, 5,622 lots, £8,991 5s. 6d.), among which were many books of an exceedingly curious character; and the 'Lakelands' library of the late W. H. Crawford, of Lakelands, co. Cork (3,428 lots, £21,255 19s. 6d.), remarkable on account of its copy of the Valdarfer Boccaccio, 1471, £230; a copy (? unique) of Caviceo, 'Dialogue treselegant intitule le Peregrin,' 1527, on vellum, with the arms of France, £355; the Landino edition of Dante, 1481, with the engravings by Bacio Baldini from the designs by Botticelli, £360; Shakespeare's 'Lucrece,' 1594, £250, and 'Merchant of Venice,' 1600, £111; and the 'Legenda Aurea,' printed by Caxton, 1483, £465. The topographical and general library of the late Lord Brabourne was sold in May, 1891, also at Sotheby's; whilst the remainder of this library was sold at Puttick's in June, 1893. The collections scattered in 1892 included few of note, but we may mention those of the late Joshua H. Hutchinson, G. B. Anderson, and R. F. Cooke (a partner in the firm of John Murray, the eminent publisher) as including many first editions of modern authors; whilst those of John Wingfield Larking and Edwin Henry Lawrence, F.S.A., included a number of rare books, as may be gathered from the fact that the library of the former comprised 946 lots, which realized £3,925 13s., and that of the latter, 860 lots, £7,409 3s. The most interesting collection sold in 1893 was the selected portions from the books, MSS., and letters collected by William Hazlitt, his son, and his grandson; of the first importance in another direction was the sale of the Bateman heirlooms (books and MSS.). The late Rev. W. E. Buckley, M.A., formerly Fellow and Tutor of Brasenose College, Oxford, and late Rector of Middleton-Cheney, Banbury, and vice-president of the Roxburghe Club, was a veritable Heber in a small way. Besides the enormous quantity of books sold in two portions (twenty-two days in all) in February, 1893, and April, 1894, several vanloads were disposed of locally, as not being worth the cost of carriage to London. His library must have comprised nearly 100,000 volumes, of which only a small proportion had any commercial importance. He managed, however, in his long career, to pick up a few bargains, notably the Columbus 'Letter' ('Epistola Christofori Colom.,' four leaves, 1493, with which was bound up Vespucci, 'Mundus novus Albericus Vesputius,' etc., 1503, also four leaves), which cost him less than £5, and which realized £315; he also possessed a first edition of Goldsmith's 'Vicar of Wakefield,' 1766, £39 10s.; Keats's 'Poems,' first edition, 1817, in the original boards, £23 10s.; Fielding's 'Tom Jones,' 1749, first edition, uncut, in the original boards, £69. The two portions of the Buckley library sold at Sotheby's realized £9,420 9s. 6d. The smallest, as well as the choicest, library sold in 1894 (June 11) comprised the most select books from the collection of Mr. Birket Foster, the distinguished artist. The first, second, third, and fourth folio Shakespeares sold for £255, £56, £130, and £25 respectively; the quarto editions of the great dramatist included 'A Midsummer Night's Dream,' 1600, large copy, £122; 'Merchant of Venice,' 1600, £146; 'King Lear,' 1608, £100. Mr. Foster also possessed John Milton's copy of 'Lycophronis Alexandra,' which realized £90; an incomplete copy of Caxton's 'Myrrour of the World,' 1491, £77. The valuable and interesting dramatic and miscellaneous library of the late Frederick Burgess, of the Moore and Burgess minstrels, was sold at Sotheby's, in May-June, 1894, and included many choice editions of modern authors. The late Prince Louis-Lucien Bonaparte was a giant among book-collectors, but his books were almost exclusively philological. Mr. Victor Collins, who has compiled an 'Attempt' at a catalogue, in which there are no less than 13,699 entries, states that 'as a young man the Prince was fond of chemistry, and on one occasion he was desirous of reading a chemical work that happened to exist only in Swedish. He learned Swedish for the purpose, and this gave him a taste for languages, very many of which he studied. His object in forming the library was to discover, rather perhaps to show, the relationship of all languages to each other. Nor was it only distinct languages he included in his plan, but their dialects, their corruptions, even slang, thieves' slang--slang of all kinds. In carrying out his idea the Prince had of course the advantages of exceptional abilities, and, until the fall of the Empire, of unlimited money. Some of the bindings are very beautiful. As to the printing, the Prince for long had a fully-fitted printing-office on the basement floor of his house in Norfolk Terrace, Bayswater. The Prince being a Senator of France, a cousin of Louis Napoleon, and a well-known philologist, people brought him all sorts of interesting books. Therefore it is not surprising to find that the library includes rare works not present, for instance, in the British Museum. There are three early German Bibles which Mr. Gladstone, visiting the Prince once, thought should be presented to the British Museum. To the best of Mr. Gladstone's knowledge, one of the three did not exist anywhere else, and either of the three would be worth about £500. They are remarkable specimens of early German printing, and are profusely illustrated.' Mr. Collins calculates that there are at least 25,000 volumes in the collection, and that fully thirty alphabets are spread through them. This extraordinary collection, like the Shakespearian one formed by Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps, is still awaiting a purchaser (see the _Times_, July 25, 1895). The collection, also a special one, of a recently-deceased book-collector may be mentioned here, and for the following particulars we are indebted to Mr. Elliot Stock: 'Edmund Waterton, the son of Charles Waterton, the naturalist, lived at first at Walton Hall, his father's residence. He sold this, and bought a house at Deeping, Waterton, where his ancestors formerly lived. He had a large old library, a great part of which he inherited from his father. His great pleasure was in his "Imitatio Christi" collection. He succeeded in gathering together some 1,500 different editions, printed and MS. He had given commissions to booksellers all over Europe to send him any edition they might meet with, and one of the pleasures of his life was to see the foreign packets come by post. I sent him a seventeenth-century edition which I came across accidentally for his acceptance on "spec." It turned out it was one he had been looking for for a long time, and his letter describing his glee when it was brought up to his bedroom in the morning with his breakfast was very comic. He kept an oblong volume like a washing-book, with all the editions he knew of, some thousands in all, and his delight in ticking one more off the lengthy _desiderata_ was like that of a schoolboy marking off the "days to the holidays." Edmund Waterton had a number of rare books besides those in his "Imitation" collection; notably a very tall First Folio Shakespeare, with contemporary comments made by some ancestor, who had also made good some of the missing pages in MS. He was a lineal descendant of Sir Thomas More, on his mother's side, and possessed Sir T. More's clock, which still went when I stayed with him. It was apparently the same clock that hangs on the wall at the back of Holbein's celebrated picture of Sir Thomas More and his family. Waterton had one of the longest and clearest pedigrees in the country, tracing back to Saxon times without break; his family were Catholics, and seem to have lost most of their property in the troublous times of the Reformation. Anyone who was interested in the "Imitation," whether as a collector or not, always met with kindness, and almost affection, from him. The first time I met him--which arose from my making the facsimile of the Brussels MS.--he showed his confidence and goodwill by lending me, for several days, his oblong record of editions to look over.' Mr. Waterton's collection of the 'Imitation' came under the hammer at Sotheby's in January, 1895, in two lots. The first comprised six manuscripts and 762 printed editions, ancient and modern, in various languages, of this celebrated devotional work, arranged in languages in chronological order. It realized £101. The second lot comprised a collection of 437 printed editions, a few of which were not included in the former, and sold for the equally absurd amount of £43. The British Museum had the first pick of this collection, and the authorities were enabled to fill up a large number of gaps in their already extensive series of editions. The six MSS. and over 250 printed editions passed into the possession of Dr. Copinger, of Manchester, through Messrs. Sotheran, of the Strand, who, indeed, purchased the two 'lots' when offered at Sotheby's. [Illustration] FOOTNOTES: [47:A] 'In a small gloomy house within the gates of Elliot's Brewery, between Brewer Street, Pimlico, and York Street, Westminster.'--Wheatley's edition of Cunningham's 'London.' [55:A] The library of Beauclerk (who is better remembered as an intimate friend of Dr. Johnson than as a book-collector) comprised 30,000 volumes, was sold by Paterson in 1781, and occupied fifty days. It was a good collection of classics, poetry, the drama, books of prints, voyages, travels, and history. [61:A] Among the absentees were his Grace the Duke of Devonshire, who was prevented attending the anniversary by indisposition, the Marquis of Blandford, and Sir M. M. Sykes, Bart. [62:A] The name really employed was Bannatyne. [64:A] Thorpe suspected this, and secured the volume, thinking to do his friends of the Roxburghe Club a good turn. Writing to Dibdin, Thorpe said: 'I bought it for £40 against the editor of the _Athenæum_, who, if he got it, would have shown the club up finely larded.' But Dibdin did not jump at paying so heavy a price for silence, and Thorpe wisely consoled himself with Mr. Dilke's £50. [68:A] Heathcote dispersed two portions of his books at Sotheby's, first in April, 1802, and secondly in May, 1808. Some of the books which Dent obtained for him, with additions, were sold at the same place in April, 1808. [72:A] This famous old place possesses a literary history which would fill a fairly long chapter. Among those who have lived here we may mention Ephraim Chambers, whose 'Cyclopædia' is the parent of a numerous offspring; John Newbery lived here for some time, and it was during his tenancy that Goldsmith found a refuge here from his creditors, and wrote 'The Deserted Village' and 'The Vicar of Wakefield'; William Woodfall had lodgings in this historic tower; and Washington Irving, early in the present century, threw around it a halo of romance and interest which it had not previously possessed. [77:A] Hazlitt was a good deal of a book-borrower. In his 'Conversations with Northcote' he speaks of having been obliged to pay five shillings for the loan of 'Woodstock' at a regular bookseller's shop, as he could not procure it at the circulating libraries. [Illustration] BOOK-AUCTIONS AND SALES. I. IT is perhaps to be regretted that the late Adam Smith did not make an inquiry into the subject of Books and their Prices. The result, if not as exhaustive as the 'Wealth of Nations,' would have been quite as important a contribution to the science of social economy. In a general way, books are subject, like other merchandise, to the laws of supply and demand. But, as with other luxuries, the demand fluctuates according to fashion rather than from any real, tangible want. The want, for example, of the edition of Chaucer printed by Caxton, or of the Boccaccio by Valdarfer, is an arbitrary rather than a literary one, for the text of neither is without faults, or at all definitive. To take quite another class of books as an illustration: the demand for first editions of Dickens, Thackeray, Ruskin, and others, is perhaps greater than the supply; but we do not read these first editions any more than the Caxton Chaucer or the Valdarfer Boccaccio; we can get all the good we want out of the fiftieth edition. We do not, however, feel called upon to anticipate the labours and inquiries of the future Adam Smith; it must suffice us to indicate some of the more interesting prices and fashions in book-fancies which have prevailed during the last two centuries or so in London. The sale of books by auction dates, in this country at all events, from the year 1676, when William Cooper, a bookseller of considerable learning, who lived at the sign of the Pelican, in Little Britain, introduced a custom which had for many years been practised on the Continent. The full title of this interesting catalogue is in Latin--a language long employed by subsequent book-auctioneers--and runs as follows: CATALOGUS | VARIORUM ET INSIGNIUM | LIBRORUM | INSTRUCTISSIMÆ BIBLIOTHECA | CLARISSIMI DOCTISSIMIQ VIRI--LAZARI SEAMAN, S. T. D. | QUORUM AUCTIO HABEBITUR LONDINI | IN ÆDIBUS DEFUNCTI IN AREA ET VICULO | WARWICENSI. OCTOBRIS ULTIMO | CURA GULIELMI COOPER BIBLIOPOLÆ | LONDINI. { GRUIS IN CÆMETARIO } { ED. BREWSTER } { PAULINO } APUD { & } AD INSIGNE { PELICANI IN } 1676. { GUIL. COOPER. } { VICO VULGARITER } { DICTO } { LITTLE BRITAIN. } As will be seen from the foregoing, Cooper had no regular auction-rooms, for in this instance Dr. Seaman's books were sold at his own house in Warwick Court. Mr. John Lawler, in _Booklore_, December, 1885, points out an error first made by Gough (in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, and extensively copied since), who states that the sale occurred at Cooper's house in Warwick Lane. In his preface 'To the Reader,' Cooper makes an interesting announcement, by way of apology. 'It hath not been,' he says, 'usual here in England to make sale of books by way of Auction, or who will give most for them; but it having been practised in other Countreys to the advantage of Buyers and Sellers, it was therefore conceived (for the encouragement of learning) to publish the sales of these books in this manner of way; and it is hoped that this will not be Unacceptable to Schollars; and therefore we thought it convenient to give an advertisement concerning the manner of Proceeding therein.' The second sale, comprising the library of Mr. Thomas Kidner, was held by Cooper three months after, _i.e._, February 6, 1676-77. On February 18, 1677-78, the third sale by auction was held, and this, as Mr. Lawler has pointed out, is the first 'hammer'[100:A] auction, and was held at a coffee-house--'in vico vulgo dicto, Bread St. in Ædibus Ferdinandi stable coffipolæ ad insigne capitis Turcæ,' the auctioneer in this case being Zacharius Bourne, whilst the library was that of the Rev. W. Greenhill, author of a 'Commentary on Ezekiel,' and Rector of Stepney, Middlesex. The fourth sale was that of Dr. Thomas Manton's library, in March, 1678. From 1676 to 1682, no less than thirty sales were held, and these included, in addition to the four already mentioned, the libraries of Brooke, Lord Warwick, Sir Kenelm Digby (see p. 120), Dr. S. Charnock, Dr. Thomas Watson, John Dunton, the crack-brained bookseller, Dr. Castell, the author of the 'Heptaglotton,' Dr. Thomas Gataker, and others. The business of selling by auction was so successful that several other auctioneers adopted it, including such well-known booksellers as Richard Chiswell and Moses Pitt. At a very early period a suspicion got about that the books were 'run up' by those who had a special interest in them, and accordingly the vendors of Dr. Benjamin Worsley's sale, in May, 1678, emphatically denied this imputation, which they described as 'a groundless and malicious suggestion of some of our own trade envious of our undertaking.' In addition to this statement, they refused to accept any 'commissions' to buy at this sale. [Illustration: _John Dunton, Book-auctioneer in 1698._] The dispersal of books by auction developed in many ways. It soon became, for example, one means of getting rid of the bookseller's heavy stock, of effecting what is now termed a 'rig.' Its popularity was extended to the provinces, for from 1684 and onwards Edward Millington[101:A] visited the provinces, selecting fair times for preference, taking with him large quantities of books, which he sold at auction, and this doubtless was another method of distributing works which were more or less still-born. John Dunton (who, the Pretender said, was the first man he would hang when he became King) took a cargo of books to Ireland in 1698, and most of these he sold by auction in Dublin. This visit was not welcomed by the Irish booksellers, and one of its numerous results was 'The Dublin Scuffle,' which is still worth reading. Dunton's receipts amounted to £1,500. It was said that Dunton had 'done more service to learning by his three auctions than any single man that had come into Ireland for the previous three hundred years.' [Illustration: _Samuel Baker, the Founder of Sotheby's._] It may be pointed out that the early auction catalogues are of the 'thinnest' possible nature. The books were usually arranged according to subjects, but each lot, irrespective of its importance, was confined to a single line. The sales were at first usually held from eight o'clock in the morning until twelve, and again from two o'clock till six, a day's sale therefore occupying eight hours. Mr. Lawler calculates that the average number of lots sold would be about sixty-six. The early hour at which the sales began was soon dropped, and eventually the time of starting became noon, and from that to one or even two o'clock. It is quite certain that, up to ten shillings, penny and twopenny bids were accepted. The sales were chiefly held at the more noteworthy coffee-houses. Dr. King, in his translation (?) of Sorbière's 'Journey to London,' 1698, says: 'I was at an auction of books at Tom's Coffee-house, near Ludgate, where were about fifty people. Books were sold with a great deal of trifling and delay, as with us, but very cheap. Those excellent authors, Mounsieur Maimbourg, Mounsieur Varillas, Monsieur le Grand, tho' they were all guilt on the back and would have made a very considerable figure in a gentleman's study, yet, after much tediousness, were sold for such trifling sums that I am asham'd to name 'em.' [Illustration: _Samuel Leigh Sotheby._] [Illustration: _Mr. E. G. Hodge, of Sotheby's._] It is curious to note the evolution of the book-auctioneer from the bookseller. Besides the names already quoted, John Whiston, Thomas Wilcox, Thomas and Edward Ballard, Sam Bathoe, Sam Paterson, Sam Baker, and George Leigh, were all booksellers as well as book-auctioneers. Of these the firm established by Samuel Baker in 1744 continues to flourish in Sotheby, Wilkinson and Hodge. The earlier auctioneers with whom books were a special feature, but who did not sell books except under the hammer, include Cock (under the Great Piazza, Covent Garden), Langford (who succeeded to Cock's business), Gerard, James Christie, Greenwood, Compton, and Ansell. [Illustration: _A Field-day at Sotheby's._ (Reduced, by kind permission, from a full-page engraving in the _Graphic_.)] [Illustration: _Key to the Characters in the 'Field-day at Sotheby's.'_ 1. Mr. G. S. Snowden 2. Mr. E. Daniell 3. Mr. Railton 4. Mr. J. Rimell 5. Mr. E. G. Hodge 6. Mr. J. Toovey 7. Mr. B. Quaritch 8. Mr. G. J. Ellis 9. Mr. J. Roche 10. Mr. Reeves 11. Lord Brabourne 12. Mr. W. Ward 13. Mr. Leighton 14. Mr. E. W. Stibbs 15. Mr. H. Sotheran 16. Mr. Westell 17. Mr. Walford 18. Henry 19. Mr. Dobell 20. Mr. Robson 21. Mr. Dykes Campbell 22. Palmer's boy 23. Dr. Neligan 24. Mr. C. Hindley 25. Earl of Warwick 26. Mr. Molini 27. Mr. H. Stevens 28. Mr. F. Locker-Lampson 29. Mr. E. Walford] The firm of Sotheby, Wilkinson and Hodge is, by nearly half a century, the _doyen_ of London auctioneers. One hundred and fifty years is a long life for one firm, but Sotheby's can claim an unbroken record of that length of time. The founder of the house was Samuel Baker, who started as a bookseller and book-auctioneer in York Street, Covent Garden, in 1744. At the latter part of his career, Baker, who retired in 1777 and died in the following year, took into partnership George Leigh, and, at a later date, his nephew, John Sotheby, whose son Samuel also joined the firm. Writing in 1812, Richard Gough observes in reference to Leigh: 'This genuine disciple of the _elder Sam_ [Baker] is still at the head of his profession, assisted by a _younger Sam_ [Sotheby]; and of the Auctioneers of Books may not improperly be styled _facile princeps_. His pleasant disposition, his skill, and his integrity are as well known as his famous _snuff-box_, described by Mr. Dibdin as having a not less imposing air than the remarkable periwig of Sir Fopling of old, which, according to the piquant note of Dr. Warburton, usually made its entrance upon the stage in a sedan chair, brought in by two chairmen, with infinite satisfaction to the audience. When a high price book is balancing between £15 and £20, it is a fearful sign of its reaching an additional sum if Mr. Leigh should lay down his hammer and delve into this said crumple-horn-shaped snuff-box.' The style of the firm was for many years Leigh, Sotheby and Son. In 1803-4 a removal to 145, Strand, opposite Catherine Street, was made. John Sotheby died in 1807, and the name of Leigh disappeared from the catalogues in 1816. Samuel Sotheby removed to the present premises, No. 3 (now 13), Wellington Street, Strand, in 1818, not more than a few yards from either of the two former localities. The last of the race, Samuel Leigh Sotheby, joined his father in partnership in 1830, and is well and widely known as a scholar and author of considerable note. In 1843 John Wilkinson became a partner, and S. L. Sotheby died in 1861. The next alteration in the style of the firm was effected in 1864, when the present head and sole member, Mr. Edward Grose Hodge, was admitted into partnership. The first sale was the collection of books belonging to Thomas Pellet, M.D. Curiously enough, Baker's name does not occur anywhere in connection with this sale on the catalogue thereof. The auction took place in the Great Room over Exeter 'Change, and lasted fifteen days, or rather nights, for the sale began at five o'clock in the evening on Monday, January 7, 1744. The octavos, quartos, and folios, of which a selection appeared in each evening's sale, were numbered separately, a process which must have been very confusing, and one which was soon dropped. The first day's sale of 123 lots realized £47 7s. 1d., whilst the fifteen nights produced a total of £859 11s. 1d. One of the highest prices was paid for Mrs. Blackwell's 'Herbal,' 1740, 'finely coloured and best paper, in blue Turkey,' £14. The catalogue of this sale contained the interesting announcement: 'That the publick may be assured this is the genuine collection of Dr. Pellet, without addition or diminution, the original catalogue may be seen by any gentleman at the place of sale.' In 1754-55 Dr. Mead's books occupied fifty days, and produced £5,518 10s. 11d.; and in 1756 forty days devoted to the library of Martin Folkes yielded no more than £3,091 odd. In February, 1755, Baker sold Fielding's library of 653 lots (£364 7s. 1d.). Gradually more important properties came to hand--the effects of Samuel Tyssen, 1802, thirty-eight days, £9,102 16s. 7d.; Prince Talleyrand (_Bibliotheca Splendidissima_), 1816, eighteen days, only £8,399; James Bindley, 1819, twenty-eight days, £7,692 6s. 6d.; the Dimsdales, 1824, seventeen days, £7,802 19s. Of course, very interesting days have been experienced where the financial result was not very striking, as when, in 1799, the firm disposed of the library of the Right Hon. Joseph Addison, 'Author and Secretary of State,' for £533 4s. 4d.; and in 1833 of that of 'the Emperor Napoleon Buonaparte' (_sic_), removed from St. Helena, for £450 9s. (his tortoiseshell walking-stick bringing £38 17s.); and, once more, when the drawings of T. Rowlandson, the caricaturist, were sold in 1818 for £700. The libraries of the Marquis of Lansdowne, 1806; the Duke of Queensberry, 1805; Marquis of Townsend, 1812; Count McCarthy, 1789; H.R.H. the Duke of York, 1827; James Boswell, 1825; G. B. Inglis, 1826; Edmond Malone, 1818; Joseph Ritson, 1803; John Wilkes, 1802; and a large number of others, came under the hammer at Sotheby's from 1744 to 1828. But the portions--the first, second, third, ninth, and tenth--of the stupendous Heber Library, dispersed here in 1834, owing to the prevailing depression, and what Dibdin called the _bibliophobia_, nearly ruined the auctioneers. They rallied from the blow, however, and have never suffered any relapse to bad times, whatever account they may be pleased to give of the very piping ones which they have known pretty well ever since 1845, when Mr. Benjamin Heywood Bright's important library was entrusted to their care. The secret of this steady and sustained progress is to be found in the general confidence secured by strict commercial integrity. The house receives business, but never solicits it. During the last half century nearly every important library has been sold at Sotheby's, including the Hamilton Palace and Beckford, the Thorold, the Osterley Park, the Seillière, and the Crawford libraries. [Illustration: _R. H. Evans, Book-auctioneer, 1812._] But from 1812 to 1845 the most important libraries were almost invariably sold by R. H. Evans, who began with the famous Roxburghe Collection--this sale, it may be mentioned, was held at the Duke's house, now occupied by the Windham Club, 13, St. James's Square--in 1812, and finished with the sixth part of the library of the Duke of Sussex in 1845. We can only refer to a few of the more important of Evans's sales, in addition to the two foregoing: In 1813 he sold the fine collection of early-printed books collected by Stanesby Alchorne, Master of the Mint, Earl Spencer having previously bought Alchorne's Caxtons; in 1815 the Duke of Grafton's library; in 1818-19 two parts of James Bindley's collection; in 1819-20 the White Knights Library of the Marquis of Blandford; in 1832-33 John Broadley's collection of books, which included the celebrated 'Bedford Missal,' bought by Sir John Tobin for £1,100, and now in the British Museum; in 1833 Edmund Burke's books; Lord Byron's in 1827; T. F. Dibdin's, 1817; the Earl of Guilford's, in three parts, 1830-35; the fourth, sixth, seventh, eighth, and eleventh parts of the Heber Collection, 1834-36; the books of Thomas Hill ('Paul Pry'), 1841; Daniel and Samuel Lysons, 1820, 1828, 1834; G. and W. Nicol, booksellers, 1825; Colonel Stanley, 1813; Sir M. M. Sykes, three parts, 1824; and J. Towneley, 1814-45, 1828. A complete list of Evans's sales is contributed by Mr. Norgate to _The Library_, iii. 324-330. Of the auctioneer himself a few details will not be out of place. Robert Harding Evans was the son of Thomas Evans, a bookseller of the Strand, and served his apprenticeship with Tom Payne at the News Gate. Leaving here, he succeeded to the business of James Edwards, Pall Mall, and was induced by George Nicol to undertake the sale by auction of the Duke of Roxburghe's library. The experiment was such a success that he became almost exclusively known as an auctioneer, and his business as a bookseller speedily declined. He was an admirable auctioneer, having an excellent memory and a vast fund of information; but he neglected the most important of all matters in commercial life, his ledgers. He had to give up selling books by auction, but restarted as a bookseller in Bond Street, with his two sons as partners; but his day was over, and here failure again followed him. He died in Edwards Street, Hampstead Road, April 25, 1857, aged eighty. A few other firms of book-auctioneers, although, with one exception, they have ceased to exist, call for mention. Sam Paterson, than whom no more popular an auctioneer ever wielded a hammer, was, as we have already seen, first a bookseller. Sam--we employ the little familiarity by which he was universally known--was born in 1728 in the parish of St. Paul, Covent Garden, and lived on till 1802, his death being the result of an accident. He was not only a bookseller, but an author and a traveller, and it was during a tour in Holland and Flanders that he brought home a large collection of books, which he sold at auction. In 1757, Sam prevented the valuable collection of MSS. once belonging to Sir Julius Cæsar from being destroyed; they had actually been sold to a cheesemonger as waste-paper for £10. He rescued the whole collection, and drew up a masterly catalogue of it, and when sold by auction the result was £356. For some years he was librarian to the Earl of Shelburne, afterwards first Marquis of Lansdowne. Sam's great talents at 'cataloguizing' were unrivalled: he compiled those of James West, P.R.S. (whose library he sold at Langford's), 1773, the sale lasting twenty-four days, and including a fine series of books printed by Caxton, Wynkyn de Worde, and on Old English literature and history, voyages and travels (see p. 179); the Rev. Thomas Crofts, forty-three days, in 1783; Topham Beauclerk, April 8, 1781, and following forty-nine days (the collection was dispersed by Sam himself 'opposite Beaufort Buildings, Strand'); of the Fagel Collection, now in Trinity College, Dublin, 1802, and others. Nichols states that the catalogues of the libraries of Maffei Pinelli, sold in London in fifty-four days, 1789-90; of Samuel Tyssen, 1801, thirteen days; and of John Strange, fifty-six days, 1801, were compiled by the versatile Sam. The Pinelli catalogue most certainly was not his work, for although he commenced it, he threw it up at a very early stage. The Tyssen and Strange libraries were sold at Sotheby's, for whom Sam 'catalogued' for some time. The book-hunter in London will occasionally meet with a copy of the 'Bibliotheca Universalis Selecta' on the stalls for a few pence, and he is strongly recommended to buy this very admirable volume. It is a model catalogue in its way; the contents of this sale (which took place at Sam's Great Room in King Street, Covent Garden, on Monday, May 8, 1786, and the thirty-five following days) are carefully classified, whilst the index extends to nearly seventy pages. The volume is well interspersed with Sam's annotations, and the published price of it is 5s. 6d. The second condition of sale is extremely interesting; it says, 'No bidder shall advance less than THREEPENCE under ten shillings; above ten shillings, SIXPENCE; above one pound, ONE SHILLING.' The chief rival of Leigh and Paterson was Thomas King, who from 1780 to 1796 had a shop in Lower Moorfields, but who towards the end of 1796 moved to King Street, Covent Garden, and set up as an auctioneer. At first it was King and Son, but the son, early in the present century, started for himself in Tavistock Street, when the elder King's son-in-law, Lochée, became a partner. The firm existed into the second decade of the present century, and sold many important libraries, notably Isaac Reed's, in 1807, which lasted thirty-nine days, and included a very extraordinary collection of works relating to the English drama and poetry; Dr. Richard Farmer's, in 1798, lasting thirty-six days; John Maddison's, of the Foreign Department in the Post Office, 1802, twenty-two days; George Steevens's, May 13, 1800, eleven days; and John Horne Tooke's, May 26, 1813, four days. It is scarcely necessary to point out that either of the foregoing remarkable libraries would give 'tone' to the annals of any book-auction house. The collection of the Rev. John Brand (see p. 179), of the Society of Antiquaries, was sold by Stewart, the founder of Puttick's, of Piccadilly, in 1807-8, when 4,064 lots realized a total of £6,151 15s.; he also sold the libraries of Lord Thurlow, of W. Bryant, etc. Other auctioneers who occasionally sold books during the earlier part of the present century were Jeffrey, of Pall Mall, who in 1810 sold Dr. Benjamin Heath's library in thirty-two days, the 4,786 lots realizing £8,899; Cochrane, of Catherine Street, who in 1816 (twelve days) dispersed an exceedingly interesting library originally formed between 1610 and 1650 by Sir Robert Gordon, of Gordonstoun, one of the Gentlemen of the Bedchamber of James I. and Charles I.; Compton, of Conduit Street, who in 1783-84 (fifteen days) sold Joseph Gulston's library; Robins, of Warwick Street; and T. and J. Egerton, of Scotland Yard. [Illustration: _John Walker, Book-auctioneer, 1776._] Mention may be here made of one who for many years occupied an important position in the fraternity. John Walker, brother-in-law of the elder George Robinson, was the book-auctioneer to the trade, and frequently knocked down from £10,000 to £40,000 worth of books in the course of an afternoon. In 1776 Walker was in partnership with J. Fielding, and in early life combined with the book-trade the office of one of the coal-meters of the City of London. He resigned the hammer to William Hone about 1812, and died at Camberwell in February, 1817. A sketch of his life and a portrait of him appear in the fifth volume of the _Wonderful Magazine_. [Illustration: _Staircase at Puttick and Simpson's._] After Sotheby's, the most important of the book-auctioneers of to-day are Messrs. Puttick and Simpson; Christie, Manson and Woods; and Hodgson and Co. The first-named have since December, 1858, occupied the greater portion of the house in Leicester Square in which Sir Joshua Reynolds lived throughout his brilliant career, and where he died in 1792. The auction-room was formerly the artist's studio; the office was his dining-room; the upper portion of the house is occupied by Mr. H. Gray, the topographical bookseller. The place has been altered since the distinguished painter resided there, but in this age of iconoclasm it is pleasant to wander in the passages and rooms where all the wit, beauty, and intellect of the latter part of the last century congregated--where Johnson and Boswell, Burke, Garrick, Goldsmith and Malone met in good fellowship. The founder of the firm was a Mr. Stewart (see p. 112), who started in Piccadilly in 1794, and who continued here until about 1825, when he took into partnership Benjamin Wheatley, who had been at Sotheby's, and a son of the printer, Adlard; for a while the firm was John and James Fletcher, but early in 1846, the two and only partners were Mr. Puttick and the present Mr. William Simpson; the former died in 1873, and the business is now in the hands of Mr. Simpson and his son. The most important sale held at Puttick's was that of the Sunderland Library from Blenheim Palace, which, commencing on December 1, 1881, occupied from that date up to March 22, 1883, fifty-one days, the 13,858 lots realizing the gross total of £56,581 6s. On April 21, 1884, and ten following days, the exceedingly fine topographical library of the Earl of Gosford was sold at Puttick's, the total of the sale being £11,318 5s. 6d.; the most remarkable item in the sale was a fine large copy of the first volume of the Mazarin Bible in the original binding, which was knocked down to Mr. Toovey for £500; and next in interest to this was a copy of the First Folio Shakespeare, 1623, measuring 12-7/8 inches by 8-3/8 inches, quite perfect, but with the title and verses mounted, and the margins of two leaves slightly mended, and this sold for £470. The extensive library of L. L. Hartley (see p. 87) was also disposed of at Puttick's, 1885-87, and realized the total of £16,530; and other important libraries dispersed there during the last half-century include the Donnadieu books and MSS., 1847-58, £3,923; a portion of the Libri Collection, 1850-68, £8,929; Dawson Turner's books and MSS., 1859, £9,453; Edward Crowinshield's (of Boston, N.E.) books and MSS., 1860, £4,826; Sir Edward Dering's books and MSS., 1861, £7,259; the Emperor Maximilian's Mexican Library, 1869, £3,985; John Camden Hotten's stock, 1873, £3,751; Sir Edward Nichols' (Secretary to Charles I., whose state papers were sold privately to the British Museum) books, 1877, £977; the library of J. Duerdin, consigned from Australia, 1884, £1,140; books from William Penn's Library, 1872, £1,350; the library of Señor Don Jose Fernando Ramirez, 1880, £6,957; and many others. Literary property forms a comparatively small portion of Messrs. Puttick and Simpson's business, a very important part of which consists in the sale and private dispersal of musical property of every description, as well as pictures, prints, porcelain and jewels. The firm of Hodgson and Co. dates its origin from the twenties of the present century, the late Edmund Hodgson (who died in May, 1875, aged 81) starting in partnership with Robert Saunders at 39, Fleet Street, as an auctioneer of literary property, the premises having been originally the Mitre Tavern (see p. 222). In the interval the place had been christened the 'Poets' Gallery.' When the property passed into the hands of Messrs. Hoare, the partnership between Saunders and Hodgson terminated, and the latter removed to 192, Fleet Street, at the corner of Chancery Lane (on the site now occupied by Partridge and Cooper), where Mr. Hodgson remained for many years. The march of improvement again overtook him, and the business was once more removed, this time to its present site at 115, Chancery Lane, which was specially erected for the peculiar requirements of a book-auction house. The late Mr. Hodgson for many years officiated in the rostrum of nearly all the chief trade dinner sales, and literary property to the value of some £50,000 would frequently be disposed of by him during an evening. His son, the present head of the firm, officiated in a similar capacity for some years, until, in fact, the pleasant custom of trade dinners became almost obsolete. The firm has dispersed, in its time, many important libraries and stocks of books, among which we may specially mention the valuable collection of books of the College of Advocates, Doctors' Commons, London, Monday, April 22, 1861, and seven following days (2,456 lots); the stocks or superfluous stocks of books of Charles Knight, Owen Jones, G. Cox, R. Bentley, 'Standard Novels'; Bradbury and Evans's, April, 1862 (eight days); Arthur Hall, Virtue and Co., November, 1862; Darton and Hodge, 1863, 1866, and 1867; Lionel Booth, May, 1866; Day and Son, 1865, 1867, and 1868; Sampson Low and Co., in consequence of the death of Sampson Low, jun., 1871; Moxon and Co., October, 1871, when a four days' sale resulted in over £12,000; Cassell and Co., in consequence of the removal to Belle Sauvage Yard, September, 1875, five days' sale (4,400 lots); and very many others. [Illustration: _Mr. James Christie, 'The Specious Orator.'_ Engraved by R. Dighton, 1794.] The firm of Christie, Manson and Woods dates its establishment from 1762, but its fame is almost exclusively built upon its picture-sales. During its existence, however, the firm has sold several more or less important libraries, such as those of James Edwards, the bookseller, 'the library of a gentleman of distinguished taste,' April, 1804; Rev. L. Dutens (four days), February, 1813; the Earl of Gainsborough, March, 1813; the Hon. C. F. Greville, 1809; Sir William Hamilton, C.B., and Viscount Nelson, 1809; Sir James Pulteney (eight days), February, 1812; the Earl of Aylesford, 1879; Earl of Clarendon, 1877; C. Beckett-Denison, 1885; Dr. Samuel Johnson, 1785; J. P. Knight, R.A., 1881; Earl of Liverpool, 1829; W. Macready, 1873; Rev. W. Bentinck L. Hawkins, in three parts, 1895, and others. II. The step from book-auctioneers to book-prices is a very easy one to take, but the subject is far less easily disposed of. A book is worth just as much as its vendor can get for it, and no more. Rarity is not synonymous with high commercial value. There may be only four copies of a particular book in existence, but if the only three people in the world who want it have provided themselves with a copy each, the fourth example is not worth twopence. We have seen this kind of thing illustrated within the past few years. Very small poets are published in very small editions, but nobody buys them, and the books therefore have no market value--in fact, they are superfluous. Hundreds of rare books are superfluous. The auction-room is the great leveller of all manner of unmerited fame, and it may be taken, as a general rule, to be an infallible guide. We have but little information concerning the prices paid for second-hand books during the seventeenth century. The retailer's safest possible guide, of course, would be the price at which he acquired a particular book, or, if more than one, by the very simple process of averaging. One of the earliest and fullest illustrations we can cite occurs in connection with some of the prices paid for books for the Chetham Library of Manchester in 1663, and these are curious as well as interesting. Thus, Holland's 'Heröologia,' 1620, a good copy of which now realizes from £20 to £30, was purchased for 14s. Purchas's 'His Pilgrimes,' 1625-26, which now sells at auction, if in good condition, at about £50, was obtained for £3 15s. Dugdale's 'History of St. Paul's' cost 12s., and the same author's 'Antiquities of Worcestershire,' 1656, £1 7s. 6d.; the former now sells at prices varying from £5 to £10, and the latter, when in good condition, is not expensive at 18 guineas. In and about 1740 several book-sales occurred at or near Manchester, when a large number of rare items realized painfully small prices. For instance, the 'Treatise concernynge the fruytfull saynges of Davyd the Kynge and Prophete in the seven Penytencyall Psalms,' 1508, by Fisher, Bishop of Rochester; the 'Nova Legenda Sanctorum Angliæ,' 1516, both printed by Wynkyn de Worde, were purchased together for 5s. 6d.! Parsons' 'Conference about the next succession to the Crowne of England,' 1594, cost 1s.; and the same Jesuit's 'Treatise of Three Conversions of England,' 1603-4, 15s. A few months ago these two publications realized close on £10 at auction. Tyndale's 'Practyse of Prelates,' 1530, was obtained for 1s. 6d.; and his 'Briefe Declaration of the Sacraments,' 1550, for 1s. 7d.; the former is now valued at 9 guineas, and the latter at 4 guineas. The English edition of Erasmus' 'Enchiridion Militis Christiani,' 1544, cost 6d., and is now worth perhaps as many pounds. The bargain of the period, however, occurred in connection with Sir Thomas Smyth's treatise 'De Republica et administratione Anglorum,' 1610; Raleigh's 'Prerogative of Parliaments' (?) 1628; and Burton's 'Protestation Protested,' which, together, realized 4d.! Each of these books is now extremely rare. Thirteen years after the above-mentioned books changed hands at prices which can now only be described as heartbreaking, the first auction-sale took place. It is noteworthy--as Mr. Lawler has pointed out--that 'the first libraries which were sold by auction were those of Puritan divines who had lived and worked under the Commonwealth Government; these libraries were consequently composed of books suited to their calling, consisting almost entirely of theological and historical books.' Life was too awful a thing with them to indulge in a 'roguish' French novel, a Shakespearian play, or one of the many dramatic works which seemed for a time to kill all religious activity. A few of the items dispersed in the first sales will not be without interest. Dr. Seaman's copy of the _editio princeps_ Homer in Greek, 1488, sold for 9s.; the Crawford copy realized £135--true, the latter was bound by Trautz-Bauzonnet. In the former sale a copy of Dr. Eliot's Indian Bible sold for 19s.; if it occurred at auction now it might realize anything from £100 to £600. At the Restoration everything in the way of books of prayers was discarded, and sold for a few pence; they would now readily sell almost for their weight in gold. There is a startling uniformity about the prices realized for books at the early book-sales, and one feels almost inclined to suppose that our forbears were influenced chiefly by the size of the volumes. It is interesting to note that the great folio editions of the Fathers realized in the end of the seventeenth century pretty much the same prices as at the end of the nineteenth, and these, it need hardly be said, are very small indeed. From the sale of the library of Sir Kenelm Digby at the Golden Lion, in Paternoster Row, in April, 1680, we get a few highly interesting facts. This sale comprised 3,878 lots, and realized the total of £908 4s. Here are a few of the items: £ s. d. Æschylus, Stanley, London, 1664 1 0 0 Ascham's 'Toxophilus,' 1545 0 1 4 Barclay's 'Ship of Fools,' 1570 0 4 4 Bible of the Douay Translation, with the Rhenish Testament, 3 vols., 4to., 1633 1 5 0 Chaucer's Works, folio, 1597 0 12 8 Dugdale's 'Monasticon Anglicanum,' 3 vols., 1655, etc. 6 6 0 Fabyan's 'Chronicle,' London, 1559 0 7 4 Hollinshed's 'Chronicle,' London, 1577 0 8 0 Homerus cum comment. Eustathii, 4 vols., folio, corio turcico et folio deaur. Romæ, 1542 7 0 0 Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' London, 1668 0 2 1 'P. Plowman's Vision,' London, 1550 0 1 7 Purchas's 'Pilgrims and Pilgrimage,' 5 vols., 1625-66 3 5 6 Shakespeare's Works, London, 1632 (second edition) 0 14 0 A comparison of the foregoing prices with those which the books would realize to-day will suggest some interesting conclusions; but as the means of doing this are in the hands of everyone, it is not necessary to discuss them here. In the Bodleian Library there is an exceedingly interesting letter from R. Scott, the bookseller, to Samuel Pepys, dated June 30, 1688. Scott writes: 'Having at length procured Campion, Hanmer and Spencer's Hist. of Ireland, fol. (which I think you formerly desired), I here send itt you, with 2 very scarce bookes besides, viz. Pricæi Defensio Hist. Britt. 4{o} and old Harding's Chronicle, as alsoe the Old Ship of Fooles in verse by Alex. Berkley, priest; which last, though nott scarce, yet so very fayre and perfect, that seldome comes such another; the Priceus you will find deare, yett I never sold it under 10s., and att this tyme can have it of a person of quality; butt without flattery, I love to find a rare book for you, and hope shortly to procure for you a perfect's Hall's Chronicle.' With the books Scott sent his statement of account as follows: £ s. d. Campion, Hanmer and Spenser, fol. 0 12 0 Harding's 'Chronicle,' 4to. 0 6 0 'Pricæi Defens. Hist. Brit.' 0 8 0 'Shipp of Fooles,' fol. 0 8 0 -------- 1 14 0 Whether Scott obtained these items at the Digby sale or not, we cannot say; it is by no means unlikely, and if so, his desire to do Mr. Pepys a good turn may be estimated by the fact that he made a profit of 3s. 8d. over the last item in the bill, and the profit on the others would doubtless be arranged on a similar scale. The second and the fourth items, however, would be now worth from 15 to 20 guineas. Both Sir John Price's 'Historiæ Britannicæ,' 1573, and the histories of Ireland by Hanmer, Campion and Spenser, 1633, are very rare and very important books, and would not be dear now at as many guineas as Scott has charged shillings. Book-auctions were not, however, unmixed blessings, and, as a fact, they provoked a good many curses from the poorer collectors. Here is one phase which concerns the sale of the library of John Bridges,[121:A] the Northamptonshire historian, in 1726. This auction is interesting, not so much on account of the books which were knocked down, or of the prices which they realized, but as being the genesis of the knock-out system. We have, fortunately, a very vivid picture of this sale from the pen of Humfrey Wanley, who wished to obtain some of the items for the library of Lord Oxford. In his 'Diary,' under date February, 1726, we read: 'Went to Mr. Bridges' Chamber [No. 6, Lincoln's Inn] to see the three fine MSS. again, the doctor, his brother, having locked them up. He openly bids for his own books, merely to enhance their price, and the auction proves to be, what I thought it would become, very knavish.' And again: 'Yesterday, at five, I met Mr. Noel, and tarried long with him; we settled then the whole affair touching his bidding for my Lord at the roguish sale of Mr. Bridges' books. The Rev. Doctor, one of the brothers, hath already displayed himself so remarkably as to be both hated and despised; and a combination amongst the booksellers will soon be against him and his brother the lawyer. They are men of the keenest avarice, and their very looks (according to what I am told) dart out harping irons. I have ordered Mr. Noel to drop every article in my Lord's Commission when they shall be hoisted up to too high a price.' We get another interesting view of the subject a year later. Hearne, the antiquary, writing to Dr. R. Rawlinson, the well-known book-collector, November 27, 1727, observes: 'I wanted much to hear from yourself how matters went in your auctions, and was glad at last to have one [letter], though I am very sorry to find you have had such bad usage, when you act so honourably. But I am too sensible, that booksellers and others are in a combination against you. Booksellers have the least pretence of any to act so. Your brother (whom I shall always call my friend) did them unspeakable kindness. By his generous way of bidding, and by his constant buying, he raised the value of books incredibly, and there is hardly such another left. The booksellers (who go so much by him) owe him a statue, the least they can do. But instead of that, they neither speak well of him, nor do you (as I verily believe) common justice.' In a letter from Benjamin Heath, the well-known book-collector, to 'Mr. John Mann, at the Hand in Hand Fire Office in Angel Court, on Snow Hill,' dated March 21, 1738, we get yet another glimpse of some phases of book-auctions in the earlier part of the last century. Fletcher Gyles, a bookseller of Holborn, published a catalogue of a book-auction which he purposed holding at his own place of business. 'Mr. Gyles,' writes Heath, 'has offered himself to act for me, but as I think 'tis too great a Trial to his Honesty to make him at the same time Buyer and Seller . . . I have been able to think of no Friend I could throw this trouble [of buying certain books] upon but you.' For this service, the collector 'would willingly allow 3 guineas, which, the Auction continuing 24 Days, is 3 shillings over and above half a Crown a Day.' The 'Auction requires the Attendance of the whole day, beginning at Eleven in the Morning, and Ending at two, and at five in the Afternoon, and Ending at Eight.' [Illustration: _Benjamin Heath, Book-collector, 1738._] A chronological account of the book-sales of London would be an important as well as an interesting contribution to the history of literature. But our space is limited, and only the chief features of such a history can be dealt with in this place. If one were asked to name the most famous book in the annals of book-sales, the answer would be at once forthcoming and emphatic--the Valdarfer Boccaccio, otherwise 'Il Decamerone di Messer Giovanni Boccaccio,' printed at Venice by Christopher Valdarfer in 1471, and published, it is thought, at about 10s. In stating that this book is the most famous one, it is almost unnecessary to explain that the Roxburghe copy is understood. By what means it got into the hands of a London bookseller (about the middle of the last century) is not known. It is certain, however, that even at that period he knew of its excessive rarity, for he offered it to the two great contemporary book-collectors, Lord Oxford and Lord Sunderland, for 100 guineas, an amount which at that time must have 'appeared enormously extravagant.' Whilst these two collectors were deliberating, an ancestor of the Duke of Roxburghe saw and purchased it. Shortly after this event the two noble collectors were dining with the Duke, and the subject of Boccaccio was purposely broached. Both Lord Oxford and Lord Sunderland began to talk of the particular copy which had been offered them. The Duke of Roxburghe told them that he thought he could show them a copy of this edition, which they doubted, but, to their mortification, the Duke produced the identical copy, over which both realized that he who hesitates is lost. Beloe, in relating this anecdote, which was told him by G. Nicol, the royal bookseller, predicted that if this copy came under the hammer it would produce 'not much less than £500.' As a matter of fact and of history, at the Roxburghe sale in 1812 it realized the then huge sum of £2,260, the buyer being the Marquis of Blandford, who, it is said, was prepared to go to £5,000. There were three noble candidates for this choice book, the Duke of Devonshire, Earl Spencer, and the Marquis of Blandford, whilst an agent of Bonaparte was known to be present. The Rev. Mr. Dibdin has given a very highly-coloured and vivid account of this famous incident in his 'Bibliographical Decameron,' and we need do no more than refer to the fact that 'the honour of making the first bid was due to a gentleman from Shropshire, who seemed almost surprised at his own temerity in offering 100 guineas.' It is a curious commentary on even the fame of rare books that this copy of the Valdarfer Boccaccio came again into the sale-room in 1819, when the Blandford library was sold, and when it became the property of Earl Spencer for £918. 'I will have it when you are dead,' was the savage retort of a defeated book-lover at an auction sale, and such perhaps was Earl Spencer's mental determination when his rival carried off the bargain--by waiting seven years he saved £1,242, as well as possessing himself of one of the greatest of bibliographical rarities. [Illustration: _Specimen of type of the Mazarin Bible._] Although far before the Valdarfer Boccaccio in every point except that of sensationalism, the first printed Bible, the Biblia Latina of Gutenberg, 1455, commonly known as the Mazarin, has had an exciting history in the way of prices. It is not only the first, but one of the most magnificent books which ever issued from the press. It is not at all a rare book in the usual sense of the word, for there are in existence nineteen copies on paper, and five on vellum, the majority of which are in this country. The most celebrated example of this splendid book is now in the British Museum. The earliest record of this is its possession by M. L. J. Gaignat, at whose sale in 1768 it became the property of Count McCarthy for 1,200 francs; and from his sale, in Paris, in 1815, it passed into Mr. Grenville's library for 6,260 francs--in other words, it had advanced in value in forty-six years from £48 to close on £250. It subsequently passed into the British Museum. Early in the present century, Nicol, the King's bookseller, obtained the copy on vellum, formerly in the University of Mentz; at his sale in 1825 it was bought by H. Perkins, the book-collecting brewer (Barclay, Perkins and Co.), for £504, and at the sale of his library it fetched £3,400, Mr. Ellis purchasing it for Lord Ashburnham. In 1824 Mr. Perkins bought Sir M. M. Sykes' copy of the same book on paper for £199 10s., and this copy in 1873 fetched £2,960. James Perry, of the _Morning Chronicle_, had a copy on paper, which, at his sale in 1822, the Duke of Sussex purchased for 160 guineas; and this copy, at the Duke's sale in 1844, brought £190. The record price for the 'Mazarin' Bible was not reached until December, 1884, when the Syston Park library of Sir John Thorold came under the hammer at Sotheby's, and this particular Bible on paper sold for £3,900 to Mr. Quaritch, or £500 more than the practically unique one on vellum. In June, 1887, the Earl of Crawford's copy, which was not a particularly good one, realized £2,000, Mr. Quaritch having purchased it about thirty years previously for rather more than a quarter of the amount. In 1889 yet another copy turned up at Sotheby's--it came from the Earl of Hopetoun's library--and this sold at the same figure. We may also refer here to the second edition of the Bible, 1462, but the first printed book with a date. The Edwards copy on vellum of this sold in 1815 for £175; in 1823 a very fine example was sold for £215; in 1873 the Perkins copy, which had cost its owner £173, sold for £780; and eight years later the Sunderland example on vellum for £1,600. [Illustration: _A Corner in the British Museum._] The palm of the highest price ever paid for a single book must be awarded to the 'Psalmorum Codex,' printed, like the last, by Fust and Schoeffer in 1459. By the side of this the Gutenberg Bible is a common book, and Sir John Thorold's example is the only one which has occurred in the market for almost a century. This particular copy realized 3,350 francs in the McCarthy sale, and 130 guineas in that of Sir M. M. Sykes; but at the Thorold sale, in 1884, it fetched £4,950. Of the 'Codex' there are only nine copies known, all of which slightly differ from one another. We may also include here a mention of a copy of the Balbi 'Catholicon'--'Summa Quæ vocatur Catholicon, sive Grammatica et Linguæ Latina'--1460, for which Sir John Thorold paid £65 2s., and which at his sale fetched £400. The British Museum copy of this book belonged to Dr. Mead, at whose sale it was purchased for £25 for the French King; the copy subsequently became the property of West, at whose sale it became George III.'s for £35 3s. 6d. The Balbi 'Catholicon,' of 1460, is the fourth book printed with a date, and is one of the few indubitable productions of Gutenberg's press. It is an indispensable volume in a collection of books printed in the fifteenth century. Its literary merit is very considerable, and the London editor of 'Stephani Thesaurus Latinus' has pronounced it the best Dictionary for the Latin Fathers and Schoolmen. In addition to the copies just mentioned, a fine example, bound in russia-extra by Roger Payne, occurred in the Wodhull sale, January 12, 1886, and realized £310. This or a similar copy was priced in Quaritch's 'Catalogue of the Monuments of the Early Printers,' at £420. The decline in the value of what may be termed ordinary editions of the classics during the present century has unquestionably been very great. Even the _editiones principes_ have scarcely maintained their former values; whilst their appearance in the book-market does not call forth anything like the enthusiasm and excitement which at one time prevailed. The Askew sale in 1775 was the first at which really sensational prices were reached throughout for the first editions of the Greek and Latin classics. Although some of these prices have been exceeded in many cases since that period, it is tantamount to a confession that they have gone down in value when it is stated that the Askew prices are as nearly as possible the same at which identical copies are now to be had. As we shall see presently, there are several exceptions to this rule; but these exceptions occur, not because they are the _editiones principes_ of Homer or Virgil, as the case may be, but because they are the works of some eminent printer. And herein the change is a very striking one. The first edition of every classic has a literary or technical value almost equal to a manuscript, from which, of course, it is directly printed; but the first editions of the classics are not now collected because of their textual value, and not at all unless they are fine examples of typographical skill. The curious vicissitudes of these editions would alone occupy a fairly large volume; but we propose dealing briefly with the subject by comparing the prices at which good copies were sold in and about 1775, when Dr. Harwood published his useful little 'View of the Various Editions of the Greek and Roman Classics,' with those at which they may be now acquired. [Illustration: _Aldus, from a contemporary Medal._] Beginning with the _editio princeps_ Homer, 1488, the fine copy of this edition in the British Museum was purchased, Dr. Harwood tells us, for £17. A 'large, pure, and fine' copy of this exceedingly rare work is now priced at £150, whilst the Wodhull copy sold in 1886 for £200.[129:A] But whilst this edition has increased enormously in pecuniary value, 'one of the most splendid editions of Homer ever delivered to the world'--namely, that of the Foulis brothers, Glasgow, 1756-58--has only doubled its price, or has increased in value from two to four guineas. The very beautifully-printed _editio princeps_ of Anacreon, printed in Paris by Henri Stephan, 1554, remains stationary, for its value then, as now, is one guinea. Of the Aldine first edition of Sophocles, 1502, Lord Lisburne purchased 'a beautiful copy' in 1775 for 1-1/2 guineas; the present value of a similar example would range from 8 to 20 guineas, whilst a slightly imperfect copy sells for about £1. The first edition of Euripides, 1503, also printed at the Aldine Press, has advanced from £1 16s. to £3 10s. to 6 guineas, according to the eminence of the binder. A 'most beautiful' copy of the first Herodotus, Aldus, 1502, realized £2 15s. in 1775, but cannot now be had for less than twice that amount; whilst an example in a fine Derome binding of red morocco extra is priced at 12 guineas. The first Aristophanes, likewise from the press of Aldus, 1498, shows a slight advance from £4 to 5 guineas. The earliest issue of Isocrates, 1493, is one of the rarest of the _incunabula_, as it is one of the most beautiful when in perfect condition. The exceedingly fine example in the British Museum was bought by the authorities in 1775 for £11; copies may now be had for £15. The first (Aldine) edition of Plato has advanced in value from 5 guineas to just twice that sum. The very beautiful copy of this _editio princeps_ on vellum, and now in the British Museum, was purchased by the Museum authorities at Dr. Askew's sale in 1775 for 53 guineas. The commercial value of the very scarce and splendid first edition, in six volumes (Aldus, 1495-98), of Aristotle, shows a depreciation--from 17 to 15 guineas--although it has realized in comparatively recent years as much as £51. Dr. Harwood adds to his entry of this book: 'The finest copy of this first edition of Aristotle's works, perhaps in Europe, is in Dr. Hunter's Museum.' Dr. Hunter gave £4 6s. for a 'most beautiful copy of the first edition of Theocritus,' Aldus, 1495--an edition which also includes Hesiod, Theognis, Phocylides, etc.,--the value of which is now placed at £10. A much more considerable advance is seen in connection with the _editio princeps_ of Musæus, 1494, a choice and beautiful book, which is at once the first and rarest production of the Aldine Press. George III. gave in 1775 17 guineas for a fine copy, which would now realize twice that amount. An almost equally emphatic advance may be chronicled in connection with the 'Anthologia Græca,' Florence, 1494, printed throughout in capital letters, which, selling for 15 guineas a century and a quarter ago, is now worth nearly double; whilst the Sunderland copy in 1881 brought £51. The first impressions of Diodorus Siculus, 1539, and Stephanus Byzantius, Aldus, 1502, are stationary at about £2 each, and Lucian, Florence, 1496, now, as in 1776, sells for £20. Passing over a whole host of minor names in the list of Greek authors, we may venture upon a few facts in connection with the Latin writers. Virgil would, of course, come at the head of this list; but the examples which came under Dr. Harwood's notice have no commercial value indicated. George III. gave £17 6s. 6d. for the very fine copy of the first Horace (about 1472) in Dr. Askew's sale--a fairly good example is now priced at £50--whilst the first commentated edition of this author, Milan, 1474, has advanced from 9-1/2 guineas to 30 guineas; it is exceedingly rare, particularly the first of the two volumes. The first Aldine Horace (1501) has gone up from £2 5s. to £15, and other editions from the same press have about quadrupled in value. Of the first edition of Ovid's 'Opera' (1471) only one copy is known, and the second, Bologna, 1480, is scarcely less rare, and certainly not less valuable, than the first. Dr. Harwood prices a very fine copy at £10 5s., or about a third of its present value. The first dated edition of Valerius Maximus was printed by Schöffer at Mentz in 1471, but is apparently not a very popular book with collectors, for whereas in 1775 a beautiful copy was valued at £26, its present price is only £28. A much more popular book, Seneca's 'Tragoediæ,' printed about 1475, has advanced from 4-1/2 guineas to £18, or, an exceptionally good copy bound by Bedford, £25. Although for several centuries one of the most popular of books, some of the earlier editions of Pliny's 'Historia Naturalis' do not keep up their price. The second edition, Rome, 1470, which is rarer than the first--issued at Venice the year before--may now be had for 12 guineas. The British Museum copy of the first edition cost the nation £43 in 1775. The edition printed by Jenson at Venice in 1472 is, however, much sought after, for it is a very beautiful book, with a splendidly illuminated border on the first page of the text. The British Museum copy cost at Dr. Askew's sale £23, whilst Mr. Quaritch quotes an example at £140; but, then, the latter copy is printed on vellum, which makes all the difference. Silius Italicus is not by any means an author whose work is at present much studied, but the first edition of his 'Opera' (1471) is a book worth mentioning, because for beauty and grace it is unsurpassed by any of the works ever published by the first Italian printers, Sweynheim and Pannartz. The British Museum copy cost in 1775 £13 2s. 6d., whilst it is now worth about £25. The superb copy in the British Museum of the _editio princeps_ Juvenal and Persius (printed at Rome about the year 1469) cost the country 13 guineas; a first-class example is now valued at £12. On the other hand, the Aldine edition of Martial's 'Epigrammata' (1501) has gone up in value from 2 guineas to £10, or even £17 10s., according to condition. The first edition of Justin (printed at Venice, 1470) has declined, for the British Museum copy cost 13 guineas in 1775, whilst a fine copy may now be had for 10 guineas. A very different story has to be told with reference to the books and pamphlets produced by the early English printers. Until the latter part of the last century, these items were the despised of the scholarly and aristocratic collector. A few antiquaries found them not without interest, but they had only a nominal commercial value. At the sale of Dr. Francis Bernard, at his 'late dwelling house in Little Britain,' in October, 1698, thirteen Caxtons were sold, as follows: £ s. d. 'The Boke called Cathon,' 1483 0 3 0 'Chastising of Goddes Chyldern' 0 1 10 'Doctrinal of Sapience,' 1489 } 'Chastising of Goddes Chyldern' } 0 5 0 'Chronicle of England,' _very old_ 0 4 0 'Dictes and Sayings of the Philosophers,' 1477 0 5 4 'Game and Playe of the Chesse,' 1474 0 1 6 'Godefroy of Boloyne,' 1481 0 4 0 'Historyes of Troy,' 1500 0 3 0 'Jason and the Golden Fleece' 0 3 6 'Recuyell of the Historyes of Troye,' 1502 0 3 0 Another copy 0 3 0 'Tullius of Olde Age' 0 4 2 ---------- £2 1 4 Eighty years later, when the library of John Ratcliffe[132:A] was sold at Christie's (March 27, 1776), a collection of upwards of thirty Caxtons came under the hammer, and of these we will only quote seven examples: £ s. d. 'Chronicles of Englande,' fine copy, 1480 5 5 0 'Doctrinal of Sapience,' 1489 8 8 0 'The Boke called Cathon,' 1483 5 5 0 'The Polytique Book, named Tullius de Senectute,' 1481 14 0 0 'The Game and Playe of Chesse' 16 0 0 'The Boke of Jason' 5 10 0 'Legenda Aurea,'[133:A] 1483 9 15 0 At the Watson Taylor and Perry sales in 1823, four examples, nearly all fine copies, of Caxton's books realized a total of £239 5s., as follows: £ s. d. 'The Life of Jason,' 1476-77 95 11 0 'The Boke called Cathon,' 1483 30 19 6 'Troylus and Creside,' 1484 66 0 0 Virgil's 'Eneidos,' 1490, very fine and perfect 46 14 6 [Illustration: _The Fifty-seven Althorp Caxtons._] We do not think that the foregoing sets of figures call for any elaborate comment. The present value of each item may be averaged at from £250 to £300, but the majority are absolutely unprocurable at any price. The highest sum ever paid for a Caxton is £1,950, at which amount the only perfect copy known of 'King Arthur,' 1485, was knocked down at the sale of the Earl of Jersey's books in 1885. At the same sale the 'Histoires of Troy,' _circa_ 1474, realized £1,820. In 1812 the Duke of Devonshire gave £1,060 12s. for a copy of this book, for which the Duke of Roxburghe had paid £50 a few years previously. The Syston Park copy of the 'Mirrour of the World,' 1481, sold in 1884 for £335; Higden's 'Polychronicon, 1482, is valued at £500; Lord Selsey's copy of Gower's 'Confessio Amantis,' 1483, sold in 1872 for £670; and Lord Jersey's, in 1885, for £810. The 'Hystorye of Kynge Blanchardyn and Princes Eglantyne,' 1485, imperfect, but one of the rarest of this press, realized £21 at the Mason sale, 1798-99, the purchaser being John, Duke of Roxburghe, at whose sale in June, 1812, Lord Spencer gave £215 5s. for it. According to the latter's note in the copy, 'The Duke and I had agreed not to oppose one another at the [Mason] sale; but after the book was bought, to toss up who should win it; when I lost.' A tract of five leaves, by John Russell, 'Propositio ad illustriss. principem Karoleum ducem Burgundie,' etc. (printed probably at Bruges, 1475), of which no other copy is known, was purchased by a bookseller in the West End of London for £2 5s. He sold it to the Duke of Marlborough for 50 guineas, and at his sale in 1819 Earl Spencer purchased it for 120 guineas. There are about 560 examples of Caxton's books in existence. Of these, about one half are in the British Museum, the Althorp or Rylands library (57), at Cambridge, in the Bodleian, and in the Duke of Devonshire's library. Of this total thirty-one are unique, and seven exist only in a fragmentary form. The greater number are safely locked up in public or private libraries, and are not likely, under ordinary circumstances, to come into the market. A great quantity of romance has been written respecting Caxtons. In Scott's 'Antiquary,' 'Snuffy Davy' is stated to have bought a perfect copy of the 'Game of Chess,' the first book printed in England, for about two groschen, or twopence of our money. This he sold to Osborne for £20; it became Dr. Askew's property for 60 guineas, and at the Askew sale it realized £170, the purchaser being George III. '"Could a copy now occur, Lord only knows," ejaculated Monkbarns, with a deep sigh and lifted-up hands--"Lord only knows what would be its ransom"; and yet it was originally secured, by skill and research, for the easy equivalent of twopence sterling.' It has been repeatedly stated that there is no foundation whatever for this anecdote; but Scott himself expressly states in a note that it is literally true, and that David Wilson 'was a real personage.' 'Snuffy Davy' has been identified with Clarke, the bookseller of New Bond Street, whose 'Repertorium Bibliographicum' is a most valuable book. However that may be, it is certain that the King did not give any such price at any such sale. The King's copy was purchased at West's sale in 1773 for £32 0s. 6d. At the Askew sale the King's purchases did not exceed £300, and the items were almost exclusively editions of the classics. It is certain, however, that Caxton's books have experienced many ups and downs. Mr. Blades tells us of an incident in which he was personally concerned. He happened on a copy of the 'Canterbury Tales' in a dirty pigeon-hole close to the grate in the vestry of the French Protestant Church, St. Martin's-le-Grand; it was fearfully mutilated, and was being used leaf by leaf--a book originally worth £800. [Illustration: _From 'Game and Play of Chesse,' by Caxton._] Caxton's immediate successors met with a fate similar to his own. The most remarkable feature of Richard Rawlinson's[136:A] library (sold by Samuel Leigh in 1756), which contained nearly 25,000 volumes, consisted in the large quantity of Old English black-letter books, and these, of course, realized absurdly low figures, as the following list testifies: £ s. d. 'The Newe Testament in English,' 1500 0 2 9 'The Ymage of both Churches, after the Revelation of St. John,' by Bale, 1550 0 1 6 'The Boke called the Pype or Toune of Perfection,' by Richard Whytforde, 1532 0 1 9 'The Visions of Pierce Plowman,' 1561 0 2 0 'The Creede of Pierce Plowman,' 1553 0 1 6 'The Booke of Moses in English,' 1530 0 3 9 'Bale's Actes of English Votaryes,' 1550 0 1 3 'The Boke of Chivalrie,' by Caxton 0 11 0 'The Boke of St. Albans,' by W. de Worde 1 1 0 [Illustration: _Specimen of the type of 'The Boke of St. Albans.'_] The very high price paid for the 'Boke of St. Albans' is noteworthy, for nearly all the other items are equally rare. In 1844, a copy of this 'boke' was sold as waste-paper for 9d., and almost immediately passed into the possession of Mr. Grenville for £70 or guineas. Dr. Mead's copy--one of the only two known--of 'Rhetorica Nova Fratris Laurentii Gulielmi de Sacra,' printed at St. Albans, 1480, sold for 2s. At the Willett sale, in 1813, it brought £79 16s. [Illustration: _Specimen page of Tyndale's Testament, 1526._] The rarity of the English translations of the Bible and New Testament arises from just the opposite cause which has operated in making the early productions of the English press so scarce. The latter were for the most part neglected out of existence, whilst the former were literally read out of it. A complete copy of the _editio princeps_ Coverdale, 1535, is, we believe, unknown. One illustration will sufficiently indicate the enhanced value of this book, and the illustration may be taken as a general one in respect to this class of book: The Perkins copy, which realized £400 in 1873, was purchased at the Dent sale in 1827 for £89 5s. The more perfect of the only two copies known of Tyndale's New Testament, first edition, 1526, in the Baptists' Library at Bristol, is of great interest, and well deserving of a mention in this place. It has no title-page. Underneath a portrait, pasted to the first leaf, is this inscription: 'Hoh Maister John Murray of Sacomb, The works of old Time to collect was his pride, Till oblivion dreaded his care; Regardless of friends intestate he dy'd, So the Rooks and the Crows were his heir.' [Illustration: _John Murray, of Sacomb, Book-hunter._] On the opposite leaf is a printed statement to this effect: 'On Tuesday evening (13 May, 1760) at Mr. Langford's sale of Mr. Ames's books, a copy of the translation of the New Testament by Tindall, and supposed to be the only one remaining which escaped the flames, was sold for fourteen guineas and a half. This very book was picked up by one of the late Lord Oxford's collectors ['John Murray' written in the margin], and was esteemed so valuable a purchase by his lordship, that he settled £20 a year for life upon the person who procured it. His Lordship's library being afterwards purchased by Mr. Osborne, of Gray's Inn, he marked it at fifteen shillings, for which price Mr. Ames bought it.' (John Murray died in 1748.) On the other side of the leaf is another note, in manuscript: 'N.B. This choice book was purchased at Mr. Langford's sale, 13th May, 1760, by me John White [for £15 14s. 6d.], and on the 13th day of May, 1776, I sold it to the Rev. Dr. Gifford for 20 guineas.' Dr. Gifford was an assistant librarian at the British Museum, and left his library to the use of the Baptist Society at Bristol. Before leaving the subject of Bibles, we may refer to one of the most interesting events of the book-sale season of 1836, when, at Evans's on April 27, the superb copy of St. Jerome's Bible, executed by Alcuin for Charlemagne, came up for sale. Commenced about the year 778, it was not completed till 800. When it was finished it was sent to Rome by his friend and disciple, Nathaniel, who presented it to Charlemagne on the day of his coronation; it was preserved by that monarch until his death. Its subsequent history is full of interest, and would form an entertaining chapter in the Adventures of Books. After its first owner's death, it is supposed to have been given to the monastery of Prum in Lorraine by Lothaire, the grandson of Charlemagne, who became a monk of that monastery. In 1576, this religious house was dissolved, but the monks preserved the manuscript, and carried it to Switzerland to the abbey of Grandis Vallis, near Basle, where it reposed till the year 1793, when, on the occupation of the episcopal territory of Basle by the French, all the property of the abbey was confiscated and sold, and the manuscript in question came into the possession of M. Bennot, from whom, in 1822, it was purchased by M. Speyr Passavant, who brought it into general notice, and offered it for sale to the French Government at the price of 60,000 francs; this was declined, when the proprietor knocked off nearly 20,000 francs from the original demand, but still without effecting a sale. M. Passavant subsequently brought it to England, and offered it to the Duke of Sussex, who, however, declined it. It was then offered to the British Museum for £12,000, then for £8,000, and at last for £6,500, which he declared an 'immense sacrifice.' Unsuccessful at every turn, he resolved to submit it to auction, and the precious volume was entrusted to Evans. It was knocked down for £1,500, but to the proprietor himself. After a further lapse of time, Passavant sold the volume to the British Museum for £750. This splendid manuscript is a large folio in delicate and beautifully formed minuscule characters, with the beginnings of chapters in fine uncials, written in two columns on the purest vellum. If this magnificent manuscript were now offered for sale, it would probably realize at least £3,000. The rise in the value of the First Folio Shakespeare only dates back for about a century. Beloe, writing in 1806, states that he remembers the time when a very fine copy could be purchased for five guineas. He further observes, 'I could once have purchased a superb one for 9 guineas'; and (apparently) this 'superb' example realized 13 guineas at Dr. Monro's sale in 1792. At the end of the last century it was thought to have realized the 'top' price with 36 guineas. Dr. Askew had a fine copy of the Second Folio, which realized at his sale, in 1775, £5 10s.--it had cost 2-1/2 guineas at Dr. Mead's sale--the purchaser being George Steevens. In this book Charles I. had written these words: 'DUM SPIRO, SPERO, C. R.,' and Sir Thomas Herbert, to whom the King presented it the night before his execution, had also written: 'Ex dono serenissimi Regis Car. servo suo Humiliss. T. Herbert.' Steevens regarded the amount which he paid for it as 'enormous,' but at his sale it realized 18 guineas, and was purchased for the King's library, and is now, with some other books bought by George III., at Windsor. Steevens supposes that the original edition could not have exceeded 250 copies, and that £1 was the selling price. Its rarity ten or a dozen years after its first appearance may be gauged by the fact that Charles I. was obliged to content himself with a copy of the Second Folio; its rarity at the present moment will be readily comprehended when it is stated that during the past ninety years only five or six irreproachable examples have occurred for sale. The copy for which the Duke of Roxburghe gave 34 guineas, realized at his sale £100, and passed into the library of the Duke of Devonshire. The example in the possession of the Baroness Burdett-Coutts is a very fine one; it was formerly George Daniel's copy, and realized 682 guineas at his sale in 1864. Height makes a great difference in the price of a book of this sort. For example, a good sound example measuring 12-1/4 inches by 8 inches is worth about £136; another one measuring 13-1/8 by 8-3/8 inches would be worth £300, and perhaps more. Dibdin, with his usual prophetic inaccuracy, described the amount (£121 6s.) at which Mr. Grenville obtained his copy as 'the highest price ever given, or likely to be given, for the volume.' As a matter of fact, the time must come when it will be no longer possible to obtain a perfect copy of this volume, which to English people is a thousand times more important than the Gutenberg Bible or the Psalmorum Codex. The following list is believed to contain all the finest examples known at present: FIRST FOLIO EDITIONS OF SHAKESPEARE, 1623. Inches Inches High. Wide. Present Possessor. Loscombe 12 × 8 Sotheby's 12-1/4 × 8 Gardner 12-3/8 × 8 Mr. Huth. Stowe 12-3/8 × 8-1/8 Poynder 12-1/2 × 8-1/8 Ellis 12-5/8 × 8-1/8 Earl of Crawford. Quaritch's Catalogue 12-11/12 × 8 Thomas Grenville 12-7/8 × 8-3/8 British Museum. Holland 12-3/8 × 8-1/2 Duke of Devonshire 13-1/8 × 8-1/8 Chatsworth. George Daniel 13-1/8 × 8-1/4 Baroness Burdett-Coutts. Beaufoy Library 13 × 8-3/8 Locker-Lampson 13 × 8-3/8 Rowfant Library. Gosford (Earl of) 12-7/8 × 8-3/8 Lord Vernon 13-1/16 × 8-3/8 America. Hartley 13-1/8 × 8-1/2 John Murray 13 × 8-1/2 Albemarle Street. Thorold 13-3/8 × 8-1/2 America. Sir Robert Sydney, } Earl of Leicester, } with his arms on } sides; original old } 13-3/8 × 8-3/4 Mr. C. J. Toovey. calf, with lettering,} full of rough } leaves } The Second, 1632, Third, 1664, and Fourth, 1685, Folios have considerably advanced in value--the Second has risen from £15, at which the Roxburghe copy was sold in 1812, to nearly £200; George Daniel's copy, of the purest quality from beginning to end, and one of the largest known, sold for £148, but fairly good copies may be had for half that amount. The Third Folio, which is really the rarest, as most of the impression was destroyed in the Great Fire of London, has gone up from £20 or £30 to £200, or even more when the seven doubtful plays have the separate title-page; and the Fourth Folio from £5 to about ten times that amount. But the most remarkable feature in connection with Shakespeare, so far as we are just now concerned, is the change which has taken place in the value of the quartos. We give below a tabulated list of first editions, in which this change will be seen at a glance: Former Recent Price. Price. £ s. d. £ s. d. 'The Merry Wives of Windsor,' 1818 18 0 0 385 0 0 'Much Ado About Nothing,' {1797 7 10 0 {1818 17 17 0 267 10 0 'Love's Labour Lost,' 1818 40 10 0 316 10 0 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' {1805 2 2 0 {1818 12 10 0 116 0 0 'The Merchant of Venice' {1815 9 9 0 {1818 22 1 0 270 0 0 'King Richard II.,' 1598,[143:A] 1800 4 14 6 108 3 0 '2 Henry IV.,' 1797 (one leaf MS.) 8 8 0 225 0 0 'Henry V.,' 1818 5 7 6 211 0 0 '1 Henry VI.,' 1801 38 7 0 50 0 0 'Richard III.,' 1818 33 0 0 351 15 0 'Troilus and Cressida,' 1800 5 10 0 110 0 0 'Romeo and Juliet,' 1800 6 0 0 160 0 0 'Hamlet,' 1812 4 13 0 36 0 0 'King Lear,' 1800 28 0 0 70 0 0 'Othello' (1622), 1818 56 14 0 155 0 0 'Pericles,' 1812 1 15 0 40 0 0 'Lucrece' 21 0 0 250 0 0 'Venus and Adonis'[143:B] (Malone's copy) 25 0 0 315 0 0 'Poems' 70 0 0 'Sonnets' {1800 3 10 0 {1812 21 0 0 230 15 0 [Illustration: _Title-page of the First Edition of 'The Compleat Angler.'_] What is true of the Shakespeare quartos and folios is also true in a slightly less accentuated degree of the first editions of the sixteenth and seventeenth century poets and dramatists. Dibdin describes a Mr. Byng as having purchased the only known copy of Clement Robinson's 'Handefull of Pleasant Delites,' 1584, at a bookstall for 4d.; at his sale this 'Handefull' was sold for 25 guineas to the Duke of Marlborough, at whose sale, in 1819, it fetched £26 15s. [Illustration: _From the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' Part II._] Puttenham's 'Art of English Poesie,' 1589, and Gascoigne's 'Works,' are two other striking illustrations of the increase in the value of old English poetry, although the books themselves are of comparatively minor importance from a literary point of view. Isaac Reed well remembered when a good copy of either might have been had for 5s. In the first and second decades of this century the prices had gone up to about £5, but the present values would be nearer £20. Spenser's 'Faerie Queene,' 1590-96, early in the century could have been had for £3 12s.; it now realizes ten times that amount if in fine condition. Milton's 'Paradise Lost' has increased in the same ratio. Lovelace's 'Lucasta' has risen from 11 guineas to nearly £50. The market value of a first edition of Walton's 'Compleat Angler,' 1653, in 1816 was 4 guineas; in 1879 this book fetched £52; it has since realized £310. Rarer even than the first Walton is the first edition of Bunyan's 'Pilgrim's Progress,' 1678; Southey, writing in 1830, declared that the date of the first publication of this work was at that time unknown, since no copy could be traced. Not long after this an example--still in possession of Capt. Holford, of Park Lane--turned up, and was valued at £50; during the last few years four more have been unearthed: three of these are in England, and the other is among the treasures of the Lenox Library, New York. The commercial value of a copy is probably not much less than of a first Walton. Although the first edition of the first part of the 'Pilgrim's Progress' has always been considered so rare, the second part is even rarer; indeed, only three copies are known to exist: one (very imperfect) in the Astor Library in New York, one in the Rylands Library, and the other in the hands of a collector in London. Till some ten years since the two English copies were not known to exist; they were both bought in one bundle for a few shillings in Sotheby's sale-room. The imperfect American one was supposed to be unique till these came to light. Goldsmith's 'Vicar of Wakefield' sixty years ago was 'uncollected'; a quarter of a century ago it sold for £5; ten years ago it was worth £10; in 1891 a remarkably tall and clean copy, in the original calf as issued, sold at Sotheby's for £94. Gray's 'Elegy,' 1751, sold for £1 16s. in 1888, and for £70 since then. Apropos of this 'Elegy,' there are only three uncut copies known, and one of these was obtained by Mr. Augustine Birrell, Q.C., a few years ago by a stroke of great good luck. He happened to be passing through Chancery Lane one day, and, having a little time at his disposal, dropped into Messrs. Hodgson's rooms, where a sale of books was in progress. At the moment of his entry some volumes of quarto tracts were being offered, and taking one of them in his hand, he opened it at random, and saw--a fine uncut copy of the famous 'Elegy'! He bought the lot for a few shillings. It may be mentioned that the original manuscript of Gray's 'Elegy' sold for £130 in 1854. Such are a few of the excessively rare books, whose appearance in the market is at all times an event in the book-collecting world. Partly as an illustration of our forbears' wit, and partly as a list of curious and highly imaginary titles, the following article from the _London Magazine_ of September, 1759, is well worth quoting here: '_BOOKS selling by Auction, at the Britannia, near the Royal Exchange._ _By_ L. FUNNIBUS, _Auctioneer_. '"Gratitude," a Poem, in twenty-four cantos, from the original German of Lady Mary Hapsburgh, published at Vienna in the year 1756.--"Machiavel the Second, or Murder no Sin," from the French of Monsieur le Diable, printed at Paris for le Sieur Dæmon, in la Rue d'Enfer, near the Louvre.--"Cruelty a Virtue," a Political Tract, in two volumes, fine imperial paper, by Count Soltikoff.--"The Joys of Sodom," a Sermon, preached in the Royal Chapel at Warsaw, by W. Hellsatanatius, Chaplain to his Excellency Count Bruhl.--"The Art of Trimming," a Political Treatise, by the learned Van-Self, of Amsterdam.--"Self-Preservation," a Soliloquy, wrote extempore on an Aspen Leaf on the Plains of Minden; found in the pocket of an Officer who fell on the First of August.--"The Art of Flying," by Monsieur Contades; with a curious Frontispiece, representing Dismay with Eagle's Wings, and Glory with a pair of Crutches, following the French Army.--"The Reveries of a Superannuated Genius, on the Banks of Lake Liman, near Geneva," by M. Voltaire.--"The Spirit of Lying," from "L'Esprit Menteur" of Monsieur Maubert.--"Political Arithmetic," by the same Author; in which is proved to Demonstration that Two is more than Five, and that Three is less than One.--"The Knotty Question Discussed," wherein is proved that under certain circumstances, Wrong is Right, and Right is Wrong, by a Casuist of the Sorbonne.--"A New Plan of the English Possessions in America," with the Limits _properly_ settled, by Jeffery Amherst, Geographer to his Britannick Majesty.--"The Theory of Sea-fighting reduced to Practice," by E. Boscawen, Mariner.--"A Treatise on the Construction of Bridges," by I. Will, and I. Willnot, Architects, near the Black-Friars, at Louvain.--"The Spirit of Treaties," a very Curious Tract, in which is fairly proved, that absolute Monarchs have a right to explain them in their own sense, and that limited Princes are tied down to a strict observance of the letter.--"The Conquest of Hanover by the French, in the year 1759," a tragi-comic Farce, by a French officer.--"A Letter of Consolation from the Jesuits in the Shades, to their afflicted brethren at Lisbon," the second edition.--"The Fall of Fisher," an excellent new Ballad, by ---- Harvey, Esq.--"The Travels of a Marshal of France, from the Weser to the Mayne"; shewing how he and 10,000 of his companions miraculously escaped from the hands of the savage Germans and English; and how, after inexpressible difficulties, several hundreds of them got safe to their own country. Interspersed with several Curious Anecdotes of Rapes, Murders, and other French Gallantries; by P. L. C., a Benedictine Monk, of the Order of Saint Bartholomew.' [Illustration] FOOTNOTES: [100:A] Cooper's hammer was of boxwood. Millington applies to his own the Homeric line, +deinê de klangê genet' argnreoio bioio+, which anyone is quite at liberty to believe. James Christie's original hammer is still in the possession of the firm; Samuel Baker's belongs to Mr. H. B. Wheatley. [101:A] In 1686 Millington was selling the library of the deceased Lord Anglesey. Putting up a copy of 'Eikon Basilike,' there were but few bidders, and those very low in their biddings. Casually turning over the pages before bringing the hammer on the rostrum, he read, with evident surprise, the following note in Lord Anglesey's own handwriting: 'King Charles the Second and the Duke of York did both (in the last session of parliament, 1675, when I showed them, in the Lords' House, the written copy of this book, wherein are some corrections, written with the late King Charles the First's own hand) assure me that this was none of the said king's compiling, but made by Dr. Gauden, Bishop of Exeter; which I here insert for the understanding of others on this point, by attesting so much under my own hand.--ANGLESEY.' [121:A] There were 4,313 lots in this sale, the total of which was £4,001. The catalogue has a very curious engraved frontispiece of an oak-tree felled, and persons bearing away branches, with a Greek motto signifying that, the oak being felled, every man gets wood. [129:A] This particular copy is regarded as the finest ever sold at auction; it is bound in blue morocco by Derome, and cost Mr. Wodhull 15 guineas in August, 1770. [132:A] John Ratcliffe, who died in 1776, lived in East Lane, Bermondsey, and followed the prosaic calling of a chandler. He collected Caxtons and the works of other early English printers with great diligence and judgment for nearly thirty years. Many of these appear to have been brought to him as wastepaper, to be purchased at so much per pound. An interesting account of this very remarkable man is given in Nichols' 'Literary Anecdotes,' iii., 621, 622. [133:A] The original or Caxton's price for this book was about 5s. or 6s. per copy. [136:A] The title-page of the catalogue contained the following whimsical motto from Ebulus: +Kai gar o taôs dia to spanion thaumazetai.+ (The peacock is admired on account of its rarity.) Hearne speaks of Richard Rawlinson as 'vir antiquis moribus ornatus, perque eam viam euns, quæ ad immortalem gloriam ducit.' [143:A] The first edition of this play, 1597, sold in 1864 for £341 5s.; it is the only copy known. [143:B] Thomas Jolley picked up a volume which contained a first edition of both 'Venus and Adonis' and the 'Sonnets,' for less than 3s. 6d. in Lancashire! The former alone realised £116 in 1844, and is now in the Grenville collection, British Museum. The copy of the former in the above list was purchased at Baron Bolland's sale in 1840 for £91; at Bright's sale for £91 10s., when it became Daniel's. The 'Sonnets,' also Daniel's copy, had belonged to Narcissus Luttrell, who gave 1s. for it. [Illustration] BOOKSTALLS AND BOOKSTALLING. OF the numerous ways and means of acquiring books open to the book-hunter in London, there is none more pleasant or popular than that of BOOKSTALLING. To the man with small means, and to the man with no means at all, the pastime is a very fascinating one. East, west, north, and south, there is, at all times and in all seasons, plenty of good hunting-ground for the sportsman, although the inveterate hunter will encounter a surfeit of Barmecides' feasts. Nearly every book-hunter has been more or less of a bookstaller, and the custom is more than tinctured with the odour of respectability by the fact that Roxburghe's famous Duke, Lord Macaulay the historian, and Mr. Gladstone the omnivorous, have been inveterate grubbers among the bookstalls. Macaulay was not very communicative to booksellers, and when any of them would hold up a book, although at the other end of the shop, he could tell by the cover, or by intuition, what it was all about, and would say 'No,' or 'I have it already.' Leigh Hunt was a bookstaller, for he says: 'Nothing delights us more than to overhaul some dingy tome and read a chapter gratuitously. Occasionally, when we have opened some very attractive old book, we have stood reading for hours at the stall, lost in a brown study and worldly forgetfulness, and should probably have read on to the end of the last chapter, had not the vendor of published wisdom offered, in a satirically polite way, to bring us out a chair. "Take a chair, sir; you must be tired."' The first Lord Lytton had a fancy for these plebeian book-marts; whilst Southey had a mania for them almost: he could not pass one without 'just running his eye over for _one_ minute, even if the coach which was to take him to see Coleridge at Hampstead was within the time of starting.' The extreme variety of the bookstall is its great attraction, and the chances of netting a rare or interesting book lie, perhaps, not so much in the variety of books displayed as in their general shabbiness. Ten years ago an English journalist picked up a copy of the first edition of Mrs. Glasse's 'Art of Cookery,' in the New Kent Road, for a few pence. It is no longer a shabby folio, but, superbly bound, it was sold with Mr. Sala's books, July 23, 1895, for £10. A not too respectable copy of Charles Lamb's privately-printed volume, 'The Beauty and the Beast,' was secured for a few pence, its market-value being something like £20. A copy of Sir Walter Scott's 'Vision of Don Roderick,' 1816, first edition, in the original boards, was purchased, by Mr. J. H. Slater, in Farringdon Road, in January, 1895, for 2d.--not a great catch, perhaps, but it is one of the rarest of Scott's works; and as the originals of this prolific author are rapidly rising in the market, there is no knowing what it may be worth in the immediate future. Here is a curious illustration of the manner in which a 'find' is literally picked up. A man who sells books from a barrow in the streets was wheeling it on the way to open for the day, and passed close to a bookseller's assistant who was on his way to work. As the man passed, a small volume fell off into the road, which the assistant kindly picked up, with the intention of replacing it on the barrow. Before doing so, however, he looked at the volume. One glance was enough. 'Here, what do you want for this?' he asked. The dealer, taking a casual glance at the volume, said: 'Oh, thruppence, I suppose, will do.' The money was paid, and the assistant departed with the prize, which was a rare volume by Increase Mather, printed in 1698 at Boston, U.S.A., and worth from £8 to £12. A copy of Fuller's first work, and the only volume of poetry published by that quaint writer, the excessively rare 'David's Hainous Sinne,' 1631, was bought a few years ago for eighteenpence, probably worth half as many pounds. The coincidences of the bookstall are sometimes very remarkable. Mr. G. L. Gomme relates one which is well worth recording, and we give it in his own words: 'My friend, Mr. James Britten, the well-known plant-lore scholar, has been collecting for some years the set of twenty-four volumes of that curious annual, _Time's Telescope_. He had two duplicates for 1825 and 1826, and these he gave to me. One day last January I was engaged to dine with him, and in the middle of the _same_ day I passed a second-hand bookshop, and picked out from the sixpenny box a volume of _Time's Telescope_ for 1816. In the evening I showed my treasure with great contentment to my friend, expecting congratulations. But, to my surprise and discomfiture, a mysterious look passed over his face, then followed a quick migration to his bookshelves, then a loud hurrah, and an explanation that this very "find" of mine was the _one_ volume he wanted to complete his set, the one volume he had been in search of for some time.' Another book-collector picked out of a rubbish-heap on a country bookseller's floor a little old book of poetry with the signature of 'A. Pope.' Subsequently he found a manuscript note in a book on the shelves of a public library referring to this very copy, which, the writer of the note stated, had been given him by the poet Pope. The late Cornelius Walford related an interesting incident, the 'only one of any special significance which has occurred to me during thirty-five years of industrious book-hunting': 'When living at Enfield, I used generally to walk to the Temple by way of Finsbury, Moorgate, Cheapside, and Fleet Street. Every bookshop on the way I was familiar with. On one occasion I thought I would vary the route by way of Long Lane and Smithfield (as, indeed, I had occasionally done before). I was at the time sadly in want of a copy of "Weskett on Insurances," 1781, a folio work of some 600 pages. I had searched and inquired for it for years; no bookseller had ever seen it. I had visited every bookshop in Dublin, in the hope of finding a copy of the pirated (octavo) edition printed there; and but for having seen a copy in a public library, should have come to the conclusion that the book never existed. Some temporary sheds had been erected over the Metropolitan Railway in Long Lane. One, devoted to a meagre stock of old books, _was opened that morning_. The first book I saw on the rough shelves was Weskett, original edition, price a few shillings. I need hardly say I carried it away. . . . I have never seen or heard of another of the original edition exposed or reported for sale.' [Illustration: _Cornelius Walford, Book-collector._] Mr. Shandy _père_ was a bookstaller also, and if Bruscambille's 'Prologue upon Long Noses,' even when obtainable 'almost for nothing,' would fail to excite in every collector the enthusiasm experienced by Mr. Shandy, we can at all events sympathize with him. '"There are not three Bruscambilles in Christendom," said the stall-man, who, like many stall-men of to-day, did not hesitate to make a leap in the dark, "except what are chained up in the libraries of the curious." My father flung down the money as quick as lightning, took Bruscambille into his bosom, hied home from Piccadilly to Coleman Street with it, as he would have hied home with a treasure, without taking his hand once off from Bruscambille all the way.' [Illustration: _The South Side of Holywell Street._] We have already seen that there were bookstalls as well as bookshops in and about the neighbourhood of Little Britain during the latter part of the seventeenth century. There were bookstalls or booths also in St. Paul's Churchyard long before this period; but books had scarcely become old in the time of Shakespeare, so that doubtless the volumes which were to be had within the shadow of the cathedral were new ones. Booksellers gradually migrated from the heart of London to a more westerly direction. The bookstall followed, not so much as a matter of course as because there was no room for it; land became extremely valuable, and narrow streets, which are also crowded, are not a congenial soil for the book-barrow. The Strand and Holborn and Fleet Street districts, both highways and byways, became a favourite spot for the book-barrow during the last century, and remained such up to quite modern times--until, indeed, the iconoclastic wave of improvements swept everything before it. Holywell Street still remains intact. [Illustration: _Exeter 'Change in 1826._] One of the most famous bookstalling localities during the last century was Exeter 'Change, in the Strand, which occupied a large area of the roadway between the present Lyceum Theatre and Exeter Street, and has long since given place to Burleigh Street. The place was built towards the end of the seventeenth century, and the shops were at first occupied by sempsters, milliners, hosiers, and so forth. The place appears to have greatly degenerated, and soon included bookstalls among the standings of miscellaneous dealers. Writing on January 31, 1802, Robert Bloomfield observes: 'Last night, in passing through Exeter 'Change, I stopt at a bookstall, and observed "The Farmer's Boy" laying there for sale, and the new book too, marked with very large writing, Bloomfield's "Rural Tales": a young man took it up, and I observed he read the whole through, and perhaps little thought that the author stood at his elbow.' This locality was also a famous one for 'pamphlet shops.' 'Sold at the Pamphlet Shops of London and Westminster' is an imprint commonly seen on title-pages up to the middle of the last century. In addition to shops and stalls, book-auctions were also held here. The curious and valuable library of Dr. Thomas Pellet, Fellow of the College of Physicians, and of the Royal Society, was sold 'in the Great Room over Exeter 'Change,' during January, 1744, beginning at 5 p.m. (see p. 105). [Illustration: _A Barrow in Whitechapel._] Early in the eighteenth century, the third Earl of Shaftesbury, in his 'Miscellaneous Reflections,' 1714, refers to notable philosophers and divines 'who can be contented to make sport, and write in learned Billingsgate, to divert the Coffeehouse, and entertain the assemblys at Booksellers' shops, or the more airy Stalls of inferior book-retailers.' Bookstalls or barrows have been for nearly a century a feature of the East End of London, more particularly of Whitechapel Road and Shoreditch. The numbers of barrows have increased, but the locality is practically the same. Many useful libraries have been formed from off these stalls, and many very good bargains secured. Excellent collections may still be formed from them, but the chances of a noteworthy 'find' are indeed small. The book-hunter who goes to either of these places with the idea of bagging a whole bundle of rarities is likely to come away disappointed; but if he is in a buying humour the chances are ten to one in favour of his getting a good many useful books at very moderate figures. We have heard of a man who picked up a complete set of first editions of Mrs. Browning in Shoreditch, but no one ever seems to have met that lucky individual; and as the story is retailed chiefly by the owner of the barrow from which they were said to have been rescued--the said owner apparently not in the least minding the inevitable conclusion at which the listener will arrive--the story is not repeated as authentic. One of the last things which has come out of Shoreditch lately is a copy of the first edition of Gwillim's 'Display of Heraldry' (1610), in excellent condition, and which was purchased for a few pence. An East End book-hunter tells us that, among other rarities which he has rescued from stalls and cellars in that district, are a first folio Ben Jonson; a copy of the Froben Seneca (1515), with its fine bordered title-page, by Urs Graf; an early edition of Montaigne, with a curious frontispiece; the copy of the _editio princeps_ Statius (1483), which was purchased by Mr. Quaritch at the Sunderland sale; one or two Plantins, in spotless splendour; Henry Stephens' Herodotus, a book as beautiful as it is now valueless, but of which a copy is kept in a showcase at South Kensington, and others, all at merely nominal prices. Many first-class libraries were formed by these _frequentationes orientales_. It is a great pity that Macaulay, for example, has not left on record a few of the very remarkable incidents which came under his observation during these pilgrimages. The late Mr. W. J. Thoms contributed a few of his to the _Nineteenth Century_ thirteen years ago. One of Mr. Thoms' most striking 'East End' book-hunting anecdotes relates to a Defoe tract. When a collected edition of Defoe's works was contemplated some forty years ago, it was determined that the various pieces inserted in it should be reprinted from the editions of them superintended by Defoe himself. 'There was one tract which the editor had failed to find at the British Museum or any other public library, and which he had sought in vain for in "The Row" or any bookseller's within reach of ordinary West End mortals. Somebody suggested that he should make a pilgrimage to Old Street, St. Luke's, and perhaps Brown might have a copy. Old Brown, as he was familiarly called, had a great knowledge of books and book-rarities, although perhaps he was more widely known for the extensive stock of manuscript sermons which he kept indexed according to texts, and which he was ready to lend or sell as his customers desired. . . . The editor inquired of Brown whether he had a copy of Defoe's tract. "No," said Brown; "I have not, and I don't know where you are likely to find one. But if you do meet with one, you will have to pay pretty handsomely for it." "I am prepared to pay a fair price for it," said the would-be customer, and left the shop. Now, Old Brown had a "sixpenny box" outside the door, and he had such a keen eye to business that I believe, if there was a box in London which would bear out Leigh Hunt's statement [that no one had ever found anything worth having in the sixpenny box at a bookstall], it was that box in Old Street. But as the customer left the shop his eye fell on the box, he turned over the rubbish in it, and at last selected a volume. "I'll pay you for this out of the box." "Thank you, sir," said Brown, taking the proffered sixpence. "But, by-the-by, what is it?" "It is _a_ tract by Defoe," was the answer, to Old Brown's chagrin. For it was the very work of which the purchaser was in search.' In the way of antiquity doubtless the New Cut--as what was once Lambeth Marsh is now termed--comes next to the two East End localities above mentioned as a bookstall locality. The place has certainly been a book-emporium for at least half a century. Mr. G. A. Sala declares that he has purchased for an old song many of his rarest books in this congested and unsavoury locality where Robert Buchanan and his ill-fated friend, David Gray, shared a bankrupt garret on their first coming up to London from Scotland. The present writer has picked up some rare and curious books in that locality during the past ten years, and others have doubtless done the same. Not so very long ago a volume with the autograph of Drayton was secured for one penny, certainly not an extravagant price. [Illustration: _A Book-barrow in Farringdon Road._] For some years Farringdon Road has enjoyed the distinction of being the best locality in London for bookstalling. Its stalls are far more numerous, and the quality of the books here exposed for sale is of a much higher class, than those which are to be met with in other places. There are between thirty and forty bookstalls or barrows here, and the place has what we may describe as a bibliopolic history, which goes back for a period of twenty years. The first person to start in the bookselling line was a coster of the name of Roberts, who died somewhat suddenly either in December of 1894 or early in January of the present year. Roberts appears to have been a fairly successful man at the trade, and had a fairly good knowledge of cheap books. The _doyen_ of the Farringdon Road bibliopoles is named Dabbs--a very intelligent man, who started first in the hot-chestnut line. Mr. Dabbs has generally a fairly good stock of books, which varies between one and two thousand volumes, a selection of which are daily displayed on four or five barrows, and varying from two a penny ('You must take two') up to higher-priced volumes. Curiously enough, he finds that theological books pay the best, and it is of this class that his stock chiefly consists. Just as book-hunters have many 'finds' to gloat over, so perhaps booksellers have to bewail the many rarities which they have let slip through their fingers. It would be more than could be expected of human nature, as it is at present constituted, to expect booksellers to make a clean or even qualified confession in this respect. Our friend Dabbs, however, is not of this hypersensitive type, and he relates, with a certain amount of grim humour, that his greatest lost opportunity was the selling of a book for 1s. 6d. which a few days afterwards was sold in Paris for £50. He consoles himself with the reflection that at all events _he_ made a fair profit out of this book. If we could all be as philosophical as this intelligent book-barrow-keeper, doubtless the slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune would impress fewer wrinkles on our brows, and help us to think kindly of the friends who put us 'up' to good things in the way of gold-mines and generously left us to pay the piper. [Illustration: _A few Types in Farringdon Road._] However picturesque may be the calling of the bookstall-keeper to the person who experiences a fiendish delight in getting a 6d. book out of him for 5-1/2d., the calling is on the whole a very hard one. Exposed to all weathers, these men have a veritable struggle for existence. Their actual profits rarely exceed 30s. or £2 weekly. They vary greatly, of course, according to weather, and a wet Saturday makes a very material difference to their takings. Many weeks throughout the year these takings do not average more than 8s. or 10s. We have made inquiries among most of the bookstall-keepers in the Metropolis, and the above facts can be depended upon. When these men happen upon a rare book, they nearly invariably sell it to one of the better-class booksellers. By this means they make an immediate profit and effect a ready sale. There is beyond this a numerous class of what may be described as 'book-ghouls,' or men who make it a business to haunt the cheap bookstalls and bag the better-class or more saleable books and hawk them around to the shops, and so make a few shillings on which to support a precarious existence, in which beer and tobacco are the sole delights. We once met a man who did a roaring trade of this description, chiefly with the British Museum. He took notes of every book that struck him as being curious or out of the way, and those which he discovered to be absent from the Museum he would at once purchase. He was great in the matter of editions, such as Pope, Junius, Coleridge, and so forth. The Museum is naturally lacking in hundreds of editions of English authors; but as these editions, almost without exception, possess no literary value, their presence (or absence) was not a matter of importance. For some months the 'collector' referred to inundated the Museum with these unimportant editions. Our friend discovered that the Museum authorities, ignoring the prices which he placed on his wares, would only have them at their own figures--which showed a curious similarity to those at which the vendor had obtained them--and this, coupled with the fact that they refused to purchase many of the items offered at any price, led him to the conclusion that he was serving his country at too cheap a rate. It is scarcely necessary to add that he is now following a vocation which, if less agreeable, is certainly more profitable to himself. Occasionally one of these professional bookstallers blossoms into a shopkeeper in some court or alley off Holborn; but more generally they are too far gone in drink and dilapidation to get out of the rut. One of the most curious characters who ever owned a bookstall was Henry Lemoine, the son of a French Huguenot. He was born in 1756, and for many years kept a stall in Bishopsgate Churchyard. He wrote many books, and did much hack-work for various publishers, chiefly in the way of translations from the French. He gave up shopkeeping in 1795, and became a pedestrian bookseller or colporteur of pamphlets. In 1807 he again set up a small stand of books in Parliament Street, and died in April, 1812. He might have achieved success, and become a respectable member of society, but his great failing was an all-consuming thirst. [Illustration: _Henry Lemoine, Author and Bookseller._] Writing over forty years ago in 'London Labour and the London Poor,' 1851, Henry Mayhew remarked: 'There has been a change, and in some respects a considerable change, in the character or class of books sold at the street stalls, within the last forty or fifty years, as I have ascertained from the most experienced men in the trade. Now sermons, or rather the works of the old divines, are rarely seen at these stalls, or if seen, rarely purchased. Black-letter editions are very unfrequent at street bookstalls, and it is twenty times more difficult, I am assured, for street-sellers to pick up anything really rare and curious, than it was in the early part of the century. One reason assigned for this change by an intelligent street-seller was, that black-letter or any ancient works were almost all purchased by the second-hand booksellers, who have shops and issue catalogues, as they have a prompt sale for them whenever they pick them up at book-auctions or elsewhere.' As we have already pointed out, the same rule which obtained forty years ago applies with equal force to-day, and in the chief instances in which we have met with books well known to be rare, on bookstalls, their condition has been so bad as to render them valueless, except, perhaps, for the purpose of helping to complete imperfect copies. At one time the bookstall-keepers had fairly good opportunities of making a haul of a few rare books--that was when they were called in to clear out offices and old houses. As the world has grown wiser in respect to books as well as other things, executors, legatees, and so forth, have acquired unreasonable views as to the value of old books, and everything in the shape of a volume is sent to the regular book-auctioneers. When it is remembered that practically all the books which now occur on the various bookstalls of the Metropolis are purchased under the hammer at Hodgson's, the chances of obtaining anything rare are reduced to a minimum. These books are the refuse of the various bookshops, after, perhaps, having passed from one shop to another for several years without finding a purchaser outside the trade. At Hodgson's, of course, these books find their level, after repeated appearances; they are here sold, not quite by the cartload, but certainly in lots sufficiently large to fill a moderate sized wheelbarrow. The tastes of the bookbuying public are so infinite that there would seem to be a sale, at some time or another, for every species of printed matter; but the habitual haunter of the bookstalls meets with the same water-soaked dog-eared volumes month after month, and year after year, so that he is forced to the conclusion that the right purchaser has not yet come along. These volumes appeal to the bookbuyer with a piteousness which is scarcely less than positively human. In the words of George Peele, written over three centuries ago, these books seem to say, 'Buy, read and judge, The price do not grudge; It will give thee more pleasure Than twice as much treasure;' but no one seems to take the hint. Samuel Foote, in 'The Author,' makes Vamp say: 'Books are like women, Master Cape; to strike they must be well dressed; fine feathers make fine birds: a good paper, an elegant type, a handsome motto, and a catching title, has drove many a dull treatise through three editions.' These adventitious aids may still possess a potent influence in selling a new book even to-day, but they have little effect on the sale of the books which gravitate towards the book-barrow. The bookstall-keeper, it is true, has no rent to pay, except for the hire of his barrow, which amounts to one shilling per week each. Even this small charge is a considerable item where a man hires two or three barrows and does scarcely any trade. Then he has to pay someone to look after his goods during his absence. Further than this, the barrow-man has to pay cash down before he removes his purchase from the sale-room. On the other hand he gives no credit. The bookseller who enjoys the luxury of a shop, gets credit from the auctioneer, and gives credit to his customers. He has to put as large a margin of profit as possible on his books, and an average of sixpence each has to be added to the original cost of every item catalogued. The bookstall-man is, naturally, handicapped in many ways, and if he finds the sweepings of his more aristocratic _confrères'_ shops a long time on his hands, he, at all events, makes as large a profit with much fewer liabilities. We have referred to Hodgson's as the centre from which nearly all the bookstalls are supplied. Occasionally, however, the barrow-man buys at Sotheby's, and frequently so at Puttick and Simpson's. Sometimes the more adventurous spirits attend auctions in private houses in the suburbs, and occasionally those held a few miles out of town. These expeditions are more often than not 'arranged,' and usually resolve themselves into 'knock-outs.' It is a by no means unknown contingency for two or three men to purchase, against all comers, the entire lot of books at figures which invariably put the auctioneer into an exceedingly good humour; neither is it an unknown event for these men to decamp without the books, and also without leaving their addresses or deposit! Such tricks, however, are not the work of the tradesmen who have a _locus standi_, but of the better class of book-jackals, who, failing to get the books for next to nothing, outbid everyone else, and leave the auctioneer to get out of the dilemma as he best can. [Illustration: _The late Edmund Hodgson, Book-auctioneer._] For many years the weekly cattle-market at Islington has been a happy hunting-ground of the bookstall-keeper. Books are among the hundred and one articles which are brought from every conceivable source, and many very good things have doubtless been picked up here. But it is always the early prowler who gets the rarities--the man who gets there at eight or nine o'clock in the morning. There is very little but absolute rubbish left for the post-prandial visitor. A few inveterate book-hunters have journeyed thither at various times and in a spasmodic manner, but the hope of anything worth having has usually turned out to be a vain one: they have always been anticipated. Between the more ambitious shop and the nondescript bookstall, there is a class or species of bookseller who deserves a niche in this place. We refer to men like Purcell, in Red Lion Passage, Red Lion Square, Holborn, who are almost as much printsellers as booksellers. They make one book by destroying many others. Grangerizing is the proper name of this practice; but as the Rev. Mr. Granger has been productive of more curses than a dozen John Bagfords--an evil genius of the same type--the process is now termed extra-illustrating. However much one may denounce the whole system, it is impossible, whatever a particular book-hunter's idiosyncrasy may be, not to feel interested in some of the collections which these enterprising and ruthless biblioclasts manage to get together. Mr. Purcell is an adept at this game, of which, doubtless, Mr. F. Harvey, of St. James's Street, is one of the most clever, as he is certainly the most eminent of professors. Mr. Purcell's collection of prints, engravings, press-cuttings, and so forth, cover an extraordinarily wide field. In fifty cases out of a hundred, booksellers who make grangerizing a speciality find it pays far better to break up an illustrated book than to sell it intact. When they purchase a book, it is obviously their own property, to preserve or destroy, as they find most agreeable. Personally, we regard the system as in many ways a pernicious one, but it is one upon which a vast amount of cant has been wasted. But bookshops and stalls are obviously not the only places at which bargains in books are likely to be secured, as the following anecdote would seem to prove: 'A writer and reader well versed in the works of the minor English writers recently entered a newspaper-shop at the East End and purchased a pennyworth of snuff. When he got home he found that the titillating substance was wrapped in a leaf of Sir Thomas Elyot's black-letter book, "The Castell of Helth." The next day the purchaser went in hot haste to the shop and made a bid for the remainder of the volume. "You are too late, sir," spoke the shopkeeper. "After you had gone last night, a liter_airy_ gent as lives round the corner gave me two bob for the book. There was only one leaf torn out, which you got. The book was picked up at a stall for a penny by my son." The purchaser of the pennyworth at once produced the leaf, with instructions for it to be handed to his forestaller in the purchase of the volume, together with his name and address; and next day he received a courteous note of thanks from the "liter_airy_ gent" aforesaid.' Nothing is so uncertain as one's luck in book-hunting, but, without entirely discrediting the foregoing story, we can only say that it is an old friend with a new face. We have heard the same thing before. Not so very long ago, a certain bookseller thought he had at last got a prize; it was one of the rarest Shakespeare quartos, and worth close on £100. He had purchased it among a lot of other dirty pamphlets. He looked the matter up, and everything seemed to point to the fact that his copy was genuine in every respect--a most uncommon stroke of luck indeed. The precious quarto was in due course sent to Puttick's, and the modest reserve of £70 was placed upon it. The quarto was genuine in every respect, but it was a _facsimile_! It may be taken for granted that genuine Shakespeare quartos do not occur on bookstalls, and even a rare Americana tract only occurs in the wildest dreams of the book-hunter. Nevertheless, 'finds' of more or less interest continue to be made by keen book-hunters. Dr. Garnett tells how a tradesman at Oswestry had in his possession books to which he attached no importance, but which, a lady informed him, must be very rare. They were submitted to the authorities of the British Museum, who gave a high price for them. One was Sir Anthony Sherley's 'Wits New Dyall,' published in 1604, of which only one other copy is known to be in existence. As a rule, offers of rare books come from booksellers, who do not always say how they become possessed of them. Among the private people who offer books to the Museum for sale are a large proportion who think that a book must necessarily be rare because it is a hundred years old or more. Before the great catalogue was made, finds were occasionally made in the Museum itself, and even now a volume will occasionally be found which has special interest and value on account of its binding. In other cases a book will be found to be in a binding made up of leaves of some rare work far more valuable than the book itself. [Illustration] [Illustration] SOME BOOK-HUNTING LOCALITIES. LITTLE BRITAIN AND MOORFIELDS. THERE are few more attractive phases in the history of book-hunting in London than that of localities. Up to nearly the end of the last century, these localities were for the most part, and for close on 350 years, confined to within a narrow area. With the rapid expansion of London north, east, south, and west, the 'trade' has not only expanded, but its representatives have sprung up in every district, whilst many of the older ones have forsaken the limits of the City, and pitched their tents in Greater London. For centuries bookselling and publishing flourished side by side in St. Paul's Churchyard, Fleet Street, and their immediate neighbourhoods. [Illustration: _St. Paul's Churchyard, 1606. From the Crace Collection._] Of all the old bookselling localities close to the heart of London, none were more famous than Little Britain and Moorfields. Three years before the Great Fire of London--in 1663--Sorbière, in his 'Journey to England,' made the following observation: 'I am not to forget the vast number of booksellers' shops I have observed in London: for besides those who are set up here and there in the City, they have their particular quarters, such as St. Paul's Churchyard and Little Britain, where there is twice as many as in the Rue Saint Jacque in Paris, and who have each of them two or three warehouses.' The bookselling zenith of Little Britain was attained in the seventeenth century; it may almost be said to have commenced with the reign of Charles I., and to have begun a sort of retrogression with the Hanoverian succession. But there were printers and booksellers here at the latter part of the sixteenth century. From a newspaper published in this district in 1664, we learn that no less than 464 pamphlets were published here during four years. It was a sort of seventeenth-century combination of the Paternoster Row and Fleet Street of the present day. It is the place where, according to a widely circulated statement, first made in Richardson's 'Remarks on Paradise Lost,' 1734, an Earl of Dorset accidentally discovered, when on a book-hunt in 1667, a work hitherto unknown to him, entitled 'Paradise Lost.' He is said to have bought a copy, and the bookseller begged him to recommend it to his friends, as the copies lay on his hand like so much wastepaper. The noble Earl showed his copy to Dryden, who is reported to have exclaimed: 'This man cuts us all out, and the ancients too.' Though this anecdote may be apocryphal, certain it is the poem is in a way connected with the neighbourhood, inasmuch as Simmons' shop was in Aldersgate Street. In addition to this fact, Richardson also tells us that Milton lodged for some time in Little Britain with Millington, the famous book-auctioneer, who had then quitted the rostrum and followed the more peaceful vocation of a dealer in old books. Roger North, in his 'Life of the Right Hon. Francis North,' has an oft-quoted reference to Little Britain. From this interesting account we learn that during the latter part of the seventeenth century it was a plentiful and perpetual emporium of learned authors, and that men went thither as to a market. The trade of the place was, in consequence, an important one, the shops being large, and much resorted to by literary personages, wits, men-about-town, and fashionable notabilities generally. The booksellers then were men of intellect. But referring, by way of contrast, to the place during the earlier half of the eighteenth century, he laments that 'this emporium is vanished, and the trade contracted into the hands of two or three persons, who, to make good their monopoly, ransack, not only their neighbours of the trade that are scattered about the town, but all over England, ay, and beyond sea, too, and send abroad their circulators, and in this manner get into their hands all that is valuable. The rest of the trade are content to take their refuse, with which, and the fresh scum of the press, they furnish one side of the shop, which serves for the sign of a bookseller, rather than a real one; but instead of selling, deal as factors, and procure what the country divines and gentry send for; of whom each hath his book-factor, and, when wanting anything, writes to his bookseller and pays his bill. And it is wretched to consider what pickpocket work, with the help of the press, these demi-booksellers make. They crack their brains to find out selling subjects, and keep hirelings in garrets, at hard meat, to write and correct by the groat; and so puff up an octavo to a sufficient thickness; and there is six shillings current for an hour and half's reading, and perhaps never to be read or looked upon after. One that would go higher, must take his fortune at blank walls, and corners of streets, or repair to the sign of Bateman, King, and one or two more, where are best choice, and better pennyworths. I might touch other abuses, as bad paper, incorrect printing, and false advertising; and all of which and worse are to be expected, if a careful author is not at the heels of them.' We get an interesting glimpse of a meeting of two book-lovers in this locality from Izaak Walton. In his 'Life of Bishop Sanderson,' Walton writes that about the time Sanderson was printing this excellent preface ('before his last twenty Sermons,' 1655), 'I met him accidentally in London, in sad-coloured clothes, and, God knows, far from costly. The place of our meeting was near to Little Britain, where he had been to buy a book, which he then had in his hand.' The house of Bateman is worthy of an important chapter in the bookselling annals of Little Britain, and the best-known member (Christopher) of the family is described in the usual sugared style of John Dunton: 'There are few booksellers in England (if any) that understand books better than Mr. Bateman, nor does his diligence and industry come short of his knowledge. He is a man of great reputation and honesty.' Nichols states that Bateman would allow no person to look into books in his shop, and when asked a reason for this extraordinary rule, he answered: 'I suppose you may be a physician or an author, and want some recipe or quotation; and, if you buy it, I will engage it to be perfect before you leave me, but not after, as I have suffered by leaves being torn out, and the books returned, to my very great loss and prejudice.' Bateman's shop was a favourite resort of Swift, who several times speaks of it in his 'Journal to Stella:' 'I went to Bateman's, the bookseller, and laid out eight and forty shillings for books. I bought three little volumes of Lucian, in French, for our Stella, and so, and so' (January 6, 1710-11); and again: 'I was at Bateman's, to see a fine old library he has bought, and my fingers itched as yours would do at a china-shop' (July 9, 1711). One of the most frequent visitors to Bateman's shop was Thomas Britton, 'the small-coal man,' who died in September, 1714. His knowledge of books, of music and chemistry was certainly extraordinary, having regard to his ostensible occupation. His collection of manuscripts and printed music and musical instruments was very large. Lord Somers gave £500 for his collection of pamphlets, and Sir Hans Sloane was also a purchaser of many curious articles. He was a very well-known character, and 'was so much distinguished that, when passing through the streets in his blue linen frock, and with his sack of small coal on his back, he was frequently accosted with the following expression: "There goes the famous small-coal man, who is a lover of learning, a performer in music, and a companion for gentlemen."' Saturday, when Parliament was not sitting during the winter, was the market day with the booksellers of Little Britain; and in the earlier part of the last century, the frequenters of this locality included such worthies as the Duke of Devonshire, Edward, Earl of Oxford, and the Earls of Pembroke, Sunderland, and Winchelsea. After the 'hunt' they often adjourned to the Mourning Bush in Aldersgate, where they dined and spent the remainder of the day. [Illustration: _Thomas Britton, 'the small-coal man,' Collector of Musical Instruments and MSS._] Another famous Little Britain bookseller was Robert Scott whose sister was the Hon. and Rev. Dr. John North's 'grandmother's woman.' Scott was a man of 'good parts,' and was in his time, says Roger North, the 'greatest librarian in Europe; for besides his stock in England, he had warehouses at Frankfort, Paris, and other places, and dealt by factors.' When an old man, Scott 'contracted with one Mills, of St. Paul's Churchyard, near £10,000 deep, and articled not to open his shop any more. But Mills, with his auctioneering, atlases, and projects, failed, whereby poor Scott lost above half his means. . . . He was not only an expert bookseller, but a very conscientious, good man, and when he threw up his trade, Europe had no small loss of him.' The most celebrated family of booksellers, perhaps, who lived in Little Britain, was that of Ballard, or Bullard, as the original name appears by the auction catalogues. The family were connected with the trade for over a century, and were noted, says Nichols, 'for the soundness of their principles in Church and State.' One Henry Ballard lived at the sign of the Bear without Temple Bar, over against St. Clement's Church, in 1597, but whether he was an ancestor of the family in question is not certain. Thomas Ballard, the founder of the bookselling branch, was described by Dunton, in 1705, as 'a young bookseller in Little Britain, but grown man in body now, but more in mind: 'His looks are in his mother's beauty drest, And all the Father has inform'd the rest.' Samuel Ballard, for many years Deputy of the Ward of Aldersgate Within, died August 27, 1761, and his only son, Edward, January 2, 1796, aged eighty-eight, in the same house in which he was born, having outlived his mental faculties. He was the last of the profession in Little Britain. Among the scores of Little Britain men who combined publishing with second-hand bookselling, one of the more interesting is William Newton, who resided there during the earlier years of the last century. In 1712 he published Quincy's 'Medicina Statica,' at the end of which is this curious 'Advertisement' (minus the superfluity of capitals): 'Those persons who have any Librarys (_sic_) or small parcels of old books to dispose of, either in town or countrey, may have ready money for them of Will. Newton, Bookseller in Little Britain, London. Also all gentlemen, and schoolmasters, may be furnished with all sorts of classics, in usum Delphi, Variorum, etc. Likewise, he will exchange with any person, for any books they have read and done with.' It was from the Dolphin, in Little Britain, that Samuel Buckley first issued the _Spectator_, March 1, 1711, _et seq._ Tom Rawlinson resided here for some years, as did another and different kind of celebrity, Benjamin Franklin, who worked at Palmer's famous printing-house in Bartholomew Close. 'While I lodged in Little Britain,' says Franklin, in his 'Autobiography,' 'I made an acquaintance with one Wilcox, a bookseller, whose shop was at the next door. He had an immense collection of second-hand books. Circulating libraries were not then in use; but we agreed that, on certain reasonable terms, which I have now forgotten, I might take, read, and return any of the books. This I esteemed a great advantage, and made as much use of as I could.' [Illustration: _Duke Street, Little Britain, formerly called Duck Lane._] But by Franklin's time the book trade of Little Britain had declined beyond any hope of recovery. In 1756 Maitland describes the place as 'very ruinous'; the part from 'the Pump to Duck Lane is well built, and though much inhabited formerly by booksellers, who dealt chiefly in old books, it is now much deserted and decayed.' A few years before Nichols published his 'Literary Anecdotes,' two booksellers used to sport their rubric posts close to each other here in Little Britain, and these rubric posts[176:A] were once as much the type of a bookseller's shop as the pole is of a barber's. Nearly all the numerous lanes and alleys immediately contiguous to Little Britain were more or less inhabited by second-hand booksellers. The most important in every respect of these was Duck Lane, subsequently rechristened Duke Street, and in 1885 as a part and parcel of Little Britain. It is the street which leads from West Smithfield to one end of Little Britain, and the change was a very foolish one. It was to this street that Swift conjectured that booksellers might send inquiries for his works. 'Some county squire to Lintot goes, Inquires for Swift in verse and prose. Says Lintot, "I have heard the name, He died a year ago." "The same." He searches all the shops in vain: "Sir, you may find them in Duck Lane."' And Garth tells how the learned Dr. Edward Tyson filled his library from the Duck Lane shops: 'Abandoned authors here a refuge meet, And from the world to dust and worms retreat Here dregs and sediments and authors reign, Refuse of fairs and gleanings of Duck Lane.' Mr. W. Carew Hazlitt has noted the fact that a copy of Zach. Ursinus' 'Summe of Christian Religion,' translated by H. Parry (1617), contains on the first leaf this note: 'Mary Rous her Booke, bought in Duck Lane bey Smithfelde, this year, 1644.' Not very far from Little Britain is the Barbican, which at the earlier part of the century contained several bookshops, but has since degenerated into forbidding warehouses. Charles Lamb, under date March 25, 1829, writes: 'I have just come from town, where I have been to get my bit of quarterly pension, and have brought home from stalls in Barbican the old "Pilgrim's Progress," with the prints--Vanity Fair, etc.--now scarce. Four shillings; cheap. And also one of whom I have oft heard and had dreams, but never saw in the flesh--that is in sheepskin--"The Whole Theologic Works of Thomas Aquinas." My arms ached with lugging it a mile to the stage, but the burden was a pleasure, such as old Anchises was to the shoulders of Æneas, or the lady to the lover in the old romance, who, having to carry her to the top of a high mountain (the price of obtaining her), clambered with her to the top and fell dead with fatigue.' [Illustration: _Charles Lamb, after D. Maclise._] The district to which the name of Moorfields was once applied has no great historic interest. It remained moorfields until it was first drained in 1527. In the reign of James I. it was first laid out into walks, and during the time of Charles II. some portions of it were built upon. It soon became famous for its musters and pleasant walks, its laundresses and bleachers, its cudgel-players and popular amusements, its bookstalls and ballad-sellers. Writing at the beginning of the last century, that pungent critic of the world in general, Tom Brown, observes: 'Well, this thing called prosperity makes a man strangely insolent and forgetful. How contemptibly a cutler looks at a poor grinder of knives; a physician in his coach at a farrier a-foot; and a well-grown Paul's Churchyard bookseller upon one of the trade that sells second-hand books under the trees in Moorfields!' In Thoresby's 'Diary' we have an entry under the year 1709 of a very rare edition of the New Testament in English, 1536, having been purchased in Moorfields. [Illustration: _Old Houses in Moorfields._] By the middle of the last century Moorfields became an assemblage of small shops, particularly booksellers', and remained such until, in 1790, the handsome square of Finsbury arose on its site. That some of these booksellers of Moorfields had considerable stocks is seen by the fact that that of John King, of this place, occupied ten days in the dispersal at Samuel Baker's in 1760. Perhaps one of the most famous of the Moorfields booksellers was Thomas King, who published priced catalogues of books from 1780 to 1796, and who deserted Moorfields at about the latter date, to take premises in King Street, Covent Garden, as a book-auctioneer. Horace Walpole, referring to James West's sale in 1773, says: 'Mr. West's books are selling outrageously. His family will make a fortune by what he collected from stalls and Moorfields.' This sale, which occupied twenty-four days, included, as we have said on a previous page, books by Caxton, Wynkyn de Worde, and others, and also works on Old English literature, voyages and travels, not a few of which were undoubtedly picked up in Moorfields. The Rev. John Brand, secretary of the Society of Antiquaries, who died in 1806, visited almost daily the bookstalls between Piccadilly and Mile End, and may be regarded as another Moorfields book-hunter; he generally returned from these excursions with his deep and wide pockets well laden. His books were chiefly collected in this way, and for comparatively small sums. Brand cared little for the condition of his books, many of which were imperfect, the defects being supplied in neatly-written MS. (See p. 190.) John Keats, the poet, was born in Moorfields, and Tom Dibdin was apprenticed to an upholsterer in this district. FINSBURY. [Illustration: _Interior of Lackington's Shop._] When Moorfields became improved into Finsbury Circus, the bookselling element was by no means extinguished. James Lackington (1746 to 1816), who had established himself as a bookseller in Chiswell Street, was issuing catalogues from that address from 1779 to 1793. He first started selling books on Midsummer Day, 1774, in Featherstone Street, St. Luke's. It was from Chiswell Street that Lackington dated those rambling letters which he styles 'Memoirs of the Forty-five First Years' of his life. In twelve years he had progressed so rapidly, from the sack of old rubbish for which he paid a guinea and with which he began business as a bookseller, that a move to more commodious premises became necessary. In 1794 he transferred his stock to one of the corners of Finsbury Square--which had been then built about five years--and started his 'Temple of the Muses.' The original building was burnt down some years ago, but the late Charles Knight has left on record an interesting sketch of the place as it struck him in 1801: 'Over the principal entrance is inscribed, "Cheapest Booksellers in the World." It is the famous shop of Lackington, Allen and Co., "where above half a million of volumes are constantly on sale." We enter the vast area, whose dimensions are to be measured by the assertion that a coach and six might be driven round it. In the centre is an enormous circular counter, within which stand the dispensers of knowledge, ready to wait upon the county clergyman, in his wig and shovel hat; upon the fine ladies, in feathers and trains; or upon the bookseller's collector, with his dirty bag. If there is any chaffering about the cost of a work, the shopman points to the following inscription: "The lowest price is marked on every book, and no abatement made on any article." We ascend a broad staircase, which leads to "The Lounging Rooms" and to the first of a series of circular galleries, lighted from the lantern of the dome, which also lights the ground-floor. Hundreds, even thousands, of volumes are displayed on the shelves running round their walls. As we mount higher and higher, we find commoner books in shabbier bindings; but there is still the same order preserved, each book being numbered according to a printed catalogue. . . . The formation of such an establishment as this assumes a remarkable power of organization, as well as a large command of capital.' [Illustration: _Jones and Co. (successors to Lackington)._] Six years after he had started, Lackington, who had been joined by his friend, John Denis--a man of some capital--published his first catalogue (1779), the title of the firm being Lackington and Co., and the list enumerating some 12,000 volumes. Denis appears to have been a genuine book-collector and a man of some taste, with the very natural result that they soon parted company. Lackington was as vain and officious a charlatan as ever stepped in shoe-leather--a trade to which he had been brought up, by the way--but that he had organizing abilities of a very uncommon order there can be no question. He found the catalogue business a great success, and in due course issued one of 820 pages, with entries of nearly 30,000 volumes and sets of books, all classified under subjects as well as sizes. For thirteen years (after 1763) Lackington did all his own cataloguing. In 1798 the Temple of the Muses was made over to George Lackington, Allen and Co. The former was a third cousin of the founder of the firm, and is described by John Nichols as 'well educated and gentlemanly.' [Illustration: _Lackington's Halfpenny._] When he retired from the business, Lackington enjoyed himself to the top of his bent, travelling all over the kingdom in his state coach and scribbling. His 'Confessions' appeared in 1804, and form a sequel to his 'Memoirs,' already mentioned. He died on November 22, 1815, and is buried at Budleigh Salterton, Devon. As a bookseller, he certainly was a success--perhaps, indeed, one of the most successful, all things considered, that ever lived in London. He is a hero in pretty much the same sense as James Boswell. He had, as a matter of course, his detractors. His contemporary booksellers loved him not, for his methods of quick sales and small profits were things unheard of until he appeared on the scene. Peter Pindar's 'Ode to the Hero of Finsbury Square, 1795,' is a choice specimen of this witty writer. It begins: 'Oh! thou whose mind, unfetter'd, undisguised, Soars like the lark into the empty air; Whose arch exploits by subtlety devised, Have stamped renown on Finsbury's New Square, Great "hero" list! Whilst the sly muse repeats Thy nuptial ode, thy prowess great _in sheets_.' Accompanying this ode was a woodcut, which represents Lackington mounting his gorgeous carriage upon steps formed by Tillotson's 'Sermons,' a Common Prayer, and a Bible; from one of his pockets there protrudes a packet of papers, labelled 'Puffs and lies for my book,' and from the other 'My own memoirs.' The 'Co.' of George Lackington, Allen and Co. was a Mr. Hughes. At the next shuffling of cards the firm consisted of Lackington, A. Kirkman, Mavor--a son of Dr. Mavor, of Woodstock--and Jones. In 1822 the firm consisted of Lackington, Hughes, Harding, Mavor, and Lepard, and subsequently of Harding and Lepard (who had absorbed the important business of Triphook, the Cunning Bookseller of Beloe, and it was this trio who published the second edition of Dibdin's 'Library Companion'), by whom the business was transferred to Pall Mall East. George Lackington died in March, 1844, aged seventy-six. In the _Bookseller_ of December 16, 1886, there is an interesting memoir of Kames James Ford, 'the last of the Lackingtonians,' who died at Crouch Hill five days previously, aged ninety-four. CENTRAL AND EAST LONDON. [Illustration: _The Poultry in 1550._] Cheapside had never much attraction to the book-collector, but the Poultry (which is in reality a continuation of the Cheapside thoroughfare) was for two and a half centuries a bookselling locality. In 1569, for example, John Alde was living at 'the long shop adjoining to St. Mildred's Church in the Poultry.' From the middle to the end of the seventeenth century the locality had become quite famous for its bookshops. Nat Ponder, who 'did time' for publishing a seditious pamphlet, was Bunyan's publisher. John Dunton's shop was at the sign of the Black Raven. No. 22 was the residence of the brothers Charles and Edward Dilly, and it was here, at a dinner, that Dr. Johnson's prejudices against Wilkes were entirely broken down by the latter's brilliant conversation. The Dillys were great entertainers, and all the more notable literary people of the period were to be met at their house. They amassed a very large fortune. Edward died in 1807, having relinquished the business some years previously to Joseph Mawman, who died in 1827. Mawman, it may be mentioned, wrote an 'Excursion to the Highlands of Scotland,' 1805, which the _Edinburgh_ furiously assailed: 'This is past all enduring. Here is a tour, _travelled_, _written_, _published_, _sold_, and, for anything we know, _reviewed_ by one and the same individual! We cannot submit patiently to this monstrous monopoly.' No. 31 was the shop of Vernor and Hood, booksellers. The latter was father of the facetious Tom Hood, who was born here in 1798. Spon, of 15, Queen Street, Cheapside, was issuing, half a century ago, his 'City of London Old Book Circulars,' which often contained excellent books at very moderate prices. [Illustration: _The Old Mansion House, Cheapside._] The district more or less immediately contiguous to the Bank of England was for a long period a favourite bookselling locality, but heavy rents and crowded thoroughfares have completely killed the trade in the heart of commercial London. Early in the seventeenth century, Pope's Head Alley, a turning out of Cornhill, contained a number of booksellers' and publishers' shops. In the latter part of the seventeenth century, Thomas Guy, with a capital of about £200, started selling books at 'the little corner house of Lombard Street and Cornhill'; but his wealth was not derived from this source. It is interesting to note, however, that this little corner shop existed so recently as 1833 or 1834. Alexander Cruden, of 'Concordance' fame, settled in London in 1732, and opened a bookstall under the Royal Exchange, and it was whilst here that he compiled the 'Concordance' which ruined him in business and deranged his mind. William Collins, whose catalogues for many years 'furnished several curiosities to the literary collectors,' started selling books in Pope's Head Alley, in or about 1778, but was burnt out in the following year, when he removed to Exchange Alley, where he remained until the last decade of the last century. John Sewell, who died in 1802 (aged sixty-eight), was one of the last to sport the rubric posts, and his shop in Cornhill was a highly popular resort with book-buyers; he was succeeded by another original character in the person of James Asperne. J. and A. Arch were in Cornhill contemporaneously with Asperne, and it was to these kindly Quakers that Thomas Tegg turned, and not in vain, after being summarily dismissed from Lane's, in Leadenhall Street, and with whom he remained for some years. It was not until some time after he had started on his own account that Tegg commenced his nightly book-auctions at 111, Cheapside, an innovation which resulted in Tegg finding himself a fairly rich man. His next move was to the old Mansion House, once the residence of the Lord Mayor, and here he met with an increased prosperity and popularity. He was elected a Common Councillor of the ward of Cheap, and took a country house at Norwood. Up to the close of 1840, Tegg had issued 4,000 works on his own account (chiefly 'remainders'), and not 'more than twenty were failures.' The more noteworthy second-hand booksellers of this neighbourhood half a century ago were Charles Davis, whose shop was at 48, Coleman Street, and T. Bennett, of 4, Copthall Buildings, at the back of the Bank, each of whom published catalogues. A quarter of a century ago the last-named address was still in possession of second-hand booksellers--S. and T. Gilbert, and subsequently of Gilbert and Field. One of the oldest bookselling firms in the City is that of Sandell and Smith, of 136, City Road, which dates back to 1830. It was whilst exploring in some of the upper rooms of this shop that a well-known first-edition collector, Mr. Elliot Stock, came upon an incomparable array of the class of book for which he had an especial weakness. He obtained nearly a sackload at an average of tenpence or a shilling each, and as many of these are now not only very rare, but in great demand at fancy prices, it is scarcely necessary to say that the investment was a peculiarly good one. The 'haul' included works by Byron, Bernard Barton, Browning, Barry Cornwall, Lytton, Cowper, Dryden, Hogg, Moore, Rogers, Scott, Wordsworth, and a lot of eighteenth-century writers. Half a century ago Edwards' 'Cheap Random Catalogues' were being issued from 76, Bunhill Row. [Illustration: _Gilbert and Field's Shop in Copthall Court._] [Illustration: _E. George's (late Gladding's) Shop, Whitechapel Road._] So far as the East End of London is concerned, there is not, perhaps, very much to say. The second-hand bookselling trade for the past half-century has been confined in a large measure to three firms--R. Gladding, an octogenarian, who dealt almost exclusively in theological books, whose shop was at 76, Whitechapel Road, and who retired at the end of 1893; E. George and Sons, who have been for many years established at 231, Whitechapel Road, and have lately acquired Gladding's shop; and Joseph Smith, 2, Oxford Street, Whitechapel. The two last-named firms are, in their respective ways, of more than usual interest. Mr. E. George, whose father, William George, was also a bookseller, started in business on his own account between thirty and forty years ago, his stock-in-trade consisting of four shillings' worth of miscellaneous volumes, which he exposed for sale on a barrow close to the old Whitechapel workhouse, which occupied the ground on which one of Mr. George's shops now stands. Mr. George has built up one of the most remarkable and extensive business connections in existence. His stock may be roughly calculated at about 700,000 or 800,000 volumes or parts, two large houses and warehouses being literally crammed full from top to bottom. There is scarcely any periodical or transactions of any learned society which they are unable to complete, and in many instances--_Punch_, for example--they have at least a dozen complete sets, besides an infinity of odd numbers and parts. It is scarcely necessary to point out that Messrs. George's business has very little to do with the locality in which their shops are situated. They are the wholesale firm of the trade, and the larger part of their business is done in the United States and among the provincial booksellers of Great Britain, ten huge cases and a complete set of Hansard being on the eve of exportation to America at the time of our visit. It is a curious fact, and one well worth mentioning, that until last year (1894) this firm never issued a catalogue. It is also interesting to point out that their shop at 76, Whitechapel Road is one of the most admirably arranged bookstores in the country. It was specially constructed, and is not unlike a miniature British Museum Reading-room; there are two galleries, one above the other. The second East End worthy has a literary as well as a bibliopolic interest. Joseph Smith will be better remembered by posterity as the compiler of a 'Catalogue of Friends' Books,' and of the 'Bibliotheca Anti-Quakerana,' than as a bookseller. He was twenty years compiling the former, and is perhaps one of the most striking illustrations of the wisdom of the theory that the bookseller who wishes to be a success should never read! Joseph Smith is of the Society of Friends, and among his schoolfellows were John Bright and W. E. Forster. Second-hand bookselling in the East End has declined during the past quarter of a century from several causes, the chief and most important being the almost complete withdrawal of moderately well-to-do people from the locality. The neighbourhood has become so exclusively inhabited by the poorest of the poor, and by the desolate immigrants from all countries, that the higher phases of bookselling have little chance of flourishing. Mr. E. George informs us that fifteen or twenty years ago he frequently sold in one day books to the value of £15 to genuine residents of the East End, but that he now does not sell fifteen shillings' worth. So far as local customers are concerned, he might just as well have nothing more elaborate than a warehouse. Many interesting bookish events have, nevertheless, transpired in what is now the slummiest district of London, and if the best of these anecdotes were collected they would fill quite a big volume. They are very varied in character, and some of the stories have very different morals. Here is one related concerning the Rev. Mr. Brand, to whom we have already referred. He was a clergyman of that district, and, it is feared, sometimes neglected his religious duties for the more engrossing charms of the chase. One Friday afternoon he was roaming in the neighbourhood of his church, when his eye fell on the shop of a Jew bookseller which he had not before noticed, and was astonished to see there a number of black-letter volumes exposed for sale. But the sun was rapidly going down, and the Jew, loath to be stoned by his neighbours for breaking the Sabbath, was hastily interposing the shutters between the eyes of the clergyman and the coveted books. 'Let me look at them inside,' said the Rev. Mr. Brand; 'I will not keep you long.' 'Impossible,' replied the Jew. 'Sabbath will begin in five minutes, and I absolutely cannot let myself be drawn into such a breach of Divine Law. But if you choose to come early on Sunday morning you may see them at your leisure.' The reverend gentleman accordingly turned up at eight a.m. on Sunday, intending to remain there till church-time, he having to do duty that day. He had provided himself with the overcoat which he wore on his book-hunting expeditions, and which had pockets large enough to swallow a good-sized folio. The literary treasures of the son of Israel were much more numerous than the Gentile expected. At this time there was not such a rush for Caxtons as we have witnessed since the Roxburghe sale. Mr. Brand found one of these precious relics in a very bad condition, although not past recovery, paid a trifling price for it, and pocketed it. Then he successively examined some rare productions of the presses of Wynkyn de Worde, Pynson, and so forth. The clergyman's purchases soon began to assume considerable proportions. Archimedes was not more fully absorbed in his geometrical problems when the Roman soldier killed him, than the East End clergyman in his careful collations. He was aroused, however, from his reveries by the Jewess calling out: 'Mike, dinner is ready.' 'Dinner!' exclaimed the parson. 'At what time do you dine?' 'At one o'clock,' she replied. He looked at his watch. It was too true. He hastened home. In the meantime, the beadle had been to his house, and finding he had left it in his usual health, it was feared some accident had happened. The congregation then dispersed, much concerned at the absence of the worthy pastor, who, however, atoned in the evening, by unwonted eloquence, for his unpremeditated prank of the morning. HOLBORN AND NEIGHBOURHOOD. As a second-hand bookselling locality, Holborn is one of the oldest of those in which the trade is still carried on vigorously. As a bookselling locality it has a record of close on three centuries and a half. As early as 1558, a publisher was issuing cheap books in connection with John Tisdale, at the Saracen's Head, in Holborn, near to the Conduit, and in one of these booklets we are enjoined to 'Remember, man! both night and day, Thou needs must die, there is no Nay.' Probably the earliest, and certainly one of the earliest, books published in Holborn was the 'Vision of Piers Plowman,' 'now fyrst imprinted by Robert Crowley, dwellyng in Ely-rents in Holburne,' in 1550, which contains a very quaint address from the printer. In and about the year 1584, Roger Warde, a very prolific publisher, was dwelling near 'Holburne Conduit, at the sign of the "Talbot,"' and a still more noteworthy individual, Richard Jones, lived hard by, at the sign of the Rose and Crown. Early in the seventeenth century, several members of the fraternity had established themselves in and around Gray's Inn Gate, then termed, more appropriately, Lane. Henrie Tomes published 'The Commendation of Cocks and Cock-fighting' (1607), which, no doubt, the 'young bloods' of the period perused much more diligently than more instructive and edifying books with which Mr. Tomes also could have supplied them. Its most famous bibliopolic resident, however, is Thomas Osborne, or Tom Osborne, as he was called in the trade and by posterity. Tom Osborne's fame began and ended with himself. Nobody knew whence he came, and probably nobody cared. His catalogues cover a period of thirty years--1738-1768--and include some very remarkable libraries of many famous men. In stature he is described as short and thick, so that Dr. Johnson's famous summary method of knocking him down[192:A] was not perhaps so difficult a feat as is generally supposed. To his inferiors--including, as he apparently but ruefully thought, Dr. Johnson--he generally spoke in an authoritative and insolent manner. As ignorant as Lackington, he was considerably less aware of the fact. Osborne's shop, like that of Jacob Tonson[192:B] at the end of the seventeenth and beginning of the eighteenth centuries, was at the Gray's Inn Road gate of, or entrance to, Gray's Inn. His greatest _coup_ was the purchase of the Harleian Collection of books--the manuscripts were bought by the British Museum for £10,000--for £13,000, in 1743. It is said on good authority that the Earl of Oxford gave £18,000 for the binding of only a part of them. In 1743-44, the extent of this extraordinary collection was indicated by the 'Catalogus Bibliotheca Harleianæ,' in four volumes. The first two, in Latin, were compiled by Dr. Johnson at a daily wage, and the third and fourth (which are a repetition of the first two), in English, are by Oldys. A charge of 5s. was made for the first two volumes, which caused a good deal of grumbling among the trade, and was resented 'as an avaricious innovation,' but Osborne replied that the volumes could be either returned in exchange for books or for the original purchase-money. He was also charged with rating his books at too high a price, but a glance through the catalogue will prove this to be an unjust accusation. The copy of the Aldine Plato, 1513, on vellum, for which Lord Oxford gave 100 guineas, is priced by Osborne at £21. The sale of the books appears to have been extremely slow, and Johnson assured Boswell that 'there was not much gained by the bargain.' Nichols' 'Literary Anecdotes' (iii. 649-654) gives a list of the libraries which Osborne absorbed into his stock at different times, but few of these are anything more than names at the present day. Osborne is satirized in the 'Dunciad,' but, according to Johnson, was so dull that he could not feel the poet's gross satire. Sir John Hawkins states that Osborne used to boast that he was worth £40,000, and doubtless this was true. His 'Bushy bob, well powder'd every day, Bloom'd whiter than a hawthorn hedge in May,' was one of his acquired peculiarities. Nichols tells us that the expression 'rum books' arose from Osborne's sending unsaleable volumes to Jamaica in exchange for rum. But whilst Tom Osborne was _the_ bookseller of Holborn, there were many others well established here during the last century, and whose names have been handed down to us by the catalogues which they published. William Cater, for instance, was issuing catalogues from Holborn in 1767, when he sold the libraries of Lord Willoughby, president of the Society of Antiquaries, and in 1774 of Cudworth Bruck, another antiquary. Cater was succeeded in 1786 by John Deighton, of Cambridge. In the person of Henry Dell we get a literary bookseller, who had established himself first in Tower Street, and in or about 1765 in Holborn, where, Nichols tells us, he died very poor. He wrote 'The Booksellers, a Poem,' 1766, which has been pronounced 'a wretched, rhyming list of booksellers in London, and Westminster, with silly commendations of some and stupid abuse of others.' Other Holborn booksellers were: William Fox, 1773-1777; John Hayes, who died November 12, 1811, aged seventy-four, and 'whose abilities were of no ordinary class, and his erudition very considerable'; John Anderson, of Holborn Hill, 1787-1792, who sold the library of the Hon. John Scott, of Gray's Inn; Francis Noble, who, besides being a bookseller, kept for many years an extensive circulating library in Holborn, but who, in consequence of his daughter's obtaining a share in the first £30,000 prize in the lottery, retired from business, and died at an advanced age in June, 1792; Joseph White, 1779-1791; and William Flexney, who died January 7, 1808, aged seventy-seven, and who was the original publisher of Churchill's 'Poems,' and is thus immortalized by that versatile 'poet': 'Let those who energy of diction prize, For Billingsgate, quit Flexney, and be wise.' Percival Stockdale, in his 'Memoirs,' speaks highly of his 'old friend' Flexney, 'with whom I have passed many convivial and jovial hours.' J. H. Prince, of Old North Street, Red Lion Square, Holborn, who wrote and published his own eccentric 'Life' in 1806, and who, trying and failing in nearly everything else, took to bookselling and book-writing, evidently, like many other authors before and since, found soliciting subscriptions for his book 'a most painful undertaking to a susceptible mind.' His motto was, 'I evil ni etips,' or 'I live in spite.' A much more important bookseller of Holborn was John Petheram, who lived at 94, High Holborn in the fifties, and whose catalogues were styled 'The Bibliographical Miscellany'; for some time, with each of his catalogues he issued an eight-page supplement, which consisted of a reprint of some very rare tract; the selection of some of these was in the hands of Dr. E. F. Rimbault. A complete set of these catalogues would be extremely interesting; we have only seen half a dozen of them, and these are in the British Museum. A somewhat similar effort to give an extra interest to catalogues was made a few years ago by J. W. Jarvis and Son, of King William Street, and also by Pickering and Chatto, the Haymarket; but the experiment apparently did not succeed. [Illustration: _Middle Row, Holborn, 1865._] Apart from Holborn, properly so called, Middle Row, an insulated row of houses, abutting upon Holborn Bars, and nearly opposite Gray's Inn Road, claims a notice here, for it was long a book-hunting locality, and two bookshops, at least, existed there until the place was demolished in August, 1867. Perhaps its most famous bookseller was John Cuthell, who came to London from Scotland in 1771, and became assistant to Drew, of Middle Row, whom he succeeded. He was publishing catalogues here from 1787, and did a very large export business with America. He was noted for his stock of medical and scientific books. He was still at Middle Row in 1813, when John Nichols published his 'Literary Anecdotes,' to which he was a subscriber. Cuthell died at Turnham Green in 1828, aged eighty-five. He was succeeded by Francis Macpherson, who issued the thirtieth number of his catalogue in April, 1840, from No. 4, Middle Row. The works offered comprised a selection of theological, classical, and historical books. One of the most curious entries relates to an extensive collection of books and pamphlets by and concerning the famous Dr. Richard Bentley, five volumes in quarto, and thirty-one more in octavo and duodecimo; the set (now, we believe, in the British Museum), doubtless the most complete ever offered for sale, was priced at £25, and was probably utilized in Dyce's editions of Bentley's 'Dissertations,' and in an edition of Bentley's 'Sermons at Boyle's Lecture,' both of which Macpherson published. This catalogue is interesting from the number of illustrations which it affords of the transition period of English book-collecting; the various editions of the classics are priced at very moderate figures, whilst English classics are offered at comparatively 'fancy' sums. For example, a very neat copy of the first edition of 'Tom Jones' is offered at 18s., and a fine copy of John Bale's 'Image of Both Churches,' without date, but printed by East at the latter part of the sixteenth century, at £1 7s. J. Coxhead is another Holborn bookseller who may be regarded as a link between the old and the new. He was at 249, High Holborn in 1840, and had been established forty years. His lists were apparently issued only once or twice a year; one of the notices in his catalogue may be quoted here, as showing the chief medium by which country book-collectors were supplied with their books: 'Gentlemen residing in the country had better apply direct to J. Coxhead for any articles from this list, or they can obtain them by giving the order to their country bookseller, and it will be sent in their weekly parcel from London.' At about the same time, and for nearly the same period, David Ogilby was selling second-hand books at the same locality. One of the most interesting of the Holborn booksellers was William Darton, of 58, Holborn Hill, of whose shop we give an 'interior' view from a plate engraved by Darton himself. William was a son of William Darton, who founded the famous publishing house of Darton and Harvey, of 55, Gracechurch Street, in the latter part of the last century, their speciality being children's books, which had a fame almost as extensive as those of the great Mr. Newbery himself. He was joined by his brother Thomas, and for two generations a successful business was carried on in this place; the three generations of Dartons were prominent members of the Society of Friends. The house chiefly devoted itself to publishing, but it had a fairly large trade in selling the books issued by other publishers. The firm ceased to exist about the time when the Holborn Valley improvements swept away so many of the old landmarks of that locality. Mr. Joseph W. Darton, the sole partner in Wells Gardner, Darton and Co., is a grandson of the founder of the Holborn Hill house and a great-grandson of the original William Darton. A history of the Dartons would form as interesting a volume as that on John Newbery. [Illustration: _William Darton, Bookseller_, The Founder of the House of Darton and Harvey.] Holborn is an additionally interesting book-locality from the fact that it was from here that some of the first book-catalogues were issued. This important innovation owes much to Charles Davis, whose shop was 'against Gray's Inn.' The earliest of these catalogues which we have seen is a very interesting list of 168 pages octavo, and includes 'valuable libraries, lately purchased, containing near 12,000 volumes in Hebrew, Greek, Latin, French, Italian, Spanish, and English,' 'which will be sold very cheap, the lowest price fix'd in each book, on Thursday, May 7, 1747.' The list is in many respects very curious, not the least of which is that not one of the items offered is priced. One of the facts which strike one most forcibly in this connection is the large capitals which must have been sunk in books even at this early period. Davis, like all the other booksellers--notably Tonson and Lintot--of that period, was a bookseller as well as publisher. [Illustration: _Interior of Darton's Shop, Holborn Hill._] Moving further westward, we find records of bookselling for just a couple of centuries back. Robert Kettlewell was established at the Hand and Sceptre, King's Street, Bloomsbury, whence he issued his kinsman's apparently useful, and certainly very dull, pamphlet, entitled 'Death Made Comfortable; or, The Way to Die Well,' and sold a variety of other books besides. Making a leap of nearly a century, we meet with Samuel Hayes, of Oxford Street, and evidently a relative of John Hayes, to whom we have already referred. Samuel Hayes--when not in a French prison, for he was actually incarcerated by Napoleon when on a visit to France--was at this place of business for sixteen years, 1779 to 1795, and published several catalogues. Isaac Herbert, nephew of the editor of Ames' 'Typographical Antiquities,' was selling books in Great Russell Street in and about 1795; Joseph Bell was established as a bookseller in Oxford Street in the earlier part of the present century; Shepperson and Reynolds were in the same thoroughfare from 1784 to 1793, and sold several very good libraries within the period indicated. Writing in 1790, Pennant mentions that the chapel of Southampton, or Bedford House, Bloomsbury, was at that time rented by Lockyer Davis as a magazine of books. How long it had been in Davis's tenancy is not certain, but he died in 1791. William Davis, the author of several interesting bibliographical books, including two 'Journeys Round the Library of a Bibliomaniac,' was at the Bedford Library, Southampton Row, Holborn, during the early part of the century. Name after name might be quoted if any useful purpose would be served. [Illustration: _James Westell's, 114, Oxford Street._] There are many links which still connect the Holborn of to-day with the Holborn and immediate district of the past. Three have, however, passed away within recent years. Edward W. Stibbs, whose death occurred in the spring of 1891, at the age of eighty, and whose stock was sold at Sotheby's in the following year, was one of the veterans of the trade, and was essentially of the old school--the school which confined itself almost exclusively to classics. The second removal is that of Mr. J. Brown, whose shop was nearly opposite the entrance to Chancery Lane, and was for nearly thirty years an exceedingly pleasant rendezvous of book-collectors, and whose proprietor was one of the most genial of bibliopoles. The third is Edward Truelove, of 256, High Holborn, the well-known agnostic bookseller, who removed here from the Strand, and who had been in business over forty years. Mr. Truelove retired two or three years since. Further up the road, in New Oxford Street, we find the shop of Mr. James Westell, whose career as a bookseller embraces a period of over half a century, having started in 1841. Mr. Westell first began in a small shop in Bozier's Court, Tottenham Court Road, and this shop has been immortalized by Lord Lytton in 'My Novel,' for it is here that Leonard Fairfield's friendly bookseller was situated.[201:A] Bozier's Court was a sort of eddy from the constant stream which passes in and out of Oxford Street, and many pleasant hours have been spent in the court by book-lovers. After Mr. Westell left, it passed into the hands of another bookseller, G. Mazzoni, and finally into that of Mr. E. Turnbull, who speaks very highly of it as a bookselling locality. Mr. Turnbull added another shop to the one which was occupied by Mr. Westell; but when the inevitable march of improvements overtook this quaint place three or four years ago, Mr. Turnbull had to leave, and he then took a large shop in New Oxford Street, where he now is. During Mr. Turnbull's tenancy in Bozier's Court several rivals started round about him; but one after another failed to make it pay, and retired, leaving him eventually in entire possession. Another old Holborn bookseller, Mr. George Glashier, who started in 1841, still has a large shop in Southampton Row; not the shop which he occupied for very many years within a few yards of Holborn, but nearer Russell Square, a less crowded thoroughfare than the old place in the same street or row. The shop now occupied by Mr. A. Reader, in Orange Street, Red Lion Square, has been a bookseller's for over half a century, one of the most noted tenants of it being Mr. John Salkeld, who removed nearly twenty years since to Clapham Road, and whose charmingly rustic shop, 'Ivy House,' is quite one of the sights of bookish London. [Illustration: _Salkeld's Shop--'Ivy House'--in Clapham Road._] Indeed, nearly every by-street,[202:A] as well as the public highway in and around Holborn, has had its bookseller ever since the beginning of the century. Lord Macaulay, C. W. Dilke, W. J. Thoms, Edward Solly, John Forster, and the visions of many other mighty book-hunters, crowd on one's memory in grubbing about after old books in this ancient and attractive, if not always particularly savoury, locality. The two Turnstiles have always been favourites with bibliopoles. Writing in 1881, the late Mr. Thoms said: 'Many years ago I received one of the curious catalogues periodically issued by Crozier, then of Little Turnstile, Holborn. From a pressure of business or some other cause, I did not look through it until it had been in my possession for two or three days, and then I saw in it an edition of "Mist's Letters" in three volumes! In two volumes the book is common enough, but I had never heard of a third volume; neither does Bohn in his edition of Lowndes mention its existence. Of course, on this discovery, I lost no time in making my way to Little Turnstile; and on asking for the "Mist" in three volumes, found, as I had feared, that it was sold. "Who was the lucky purchaser?" I asked anxiously; adding, "Aut Dilke aut Diabolus!" "It was not Diabolus," was Crozier's reply; and I was reconciled when I found the book had fallen into such good hands, and not a little surprised when Crozier went on to say, "But he was not the first to apply for it. Mr. Forster sent for it, but would not keep it, because it was not a sufficiently nice copy."' Both the Great and the Little Turnstiles, Holborn, have always been, as we have said, famous as book-hunting localities, and they still preserve this reputation. In 1636 a publisher and bookseller, George Hutton, was at the 'Sign of the Sun, within the Turning Stile in Holborne.' J. Bagford, the celebrated book-destroyer, was first a shoemaker in the Great Turnstile, a calling in which he was not successful. Then he became a bookseller at the same place, and still success was denied him. At Dulwich College is a library which includes a collection of plays formed by Cartwright, a bookseller of the Turnstile, who subsequently turned actor. [Illustration: _John Bagford, Shoemaker and Book-destroyer._] [Illustration: _Mr. Tregaskis's Shop--'The Caxton Head'--in Holborn._ (After a Drawing by E. J. Wheeler.)] The chief and most enterprising firm of booksellers in Holborn proper is that of Mr. and Mrs. Tregaskis, at No. 232, the corner of the New Turnstile. The house itself is full of interest, and is quite a couple of hundred years old. A century ago one of the most eventful scenes of David Garrick's career was enacted here, for it was from this house that the great actor was buried. Mrs. Tregaskis first started, as Mrs. Bennett, at the corner of Southampton Row, and some time after removing to her present shop, married Mr. James Tregaskis, and the two together have built up a business which is scarcely without a rival in London. The shop is literally crammed with rare and interesting books, whilst 'The Caxton Head Catalogues' are got up with every possible care. Almost next door to the shop for many years occupied by the late Edward Stibbs, Mr. Walter T. Spencer carries on a trade which is almost entirely confined to first editions of modern authors. From Mr. R. J. Parker's shop at 204, the present writer has picked up a very large number of rare and interesting books, including a first edition of Goldsmith--not, however, the 'Vicar'--at exceedingly moderate sums. Mr. E. Menken, of Bury Street, New Oxford Street, is one of the most successful booksellers of recent years, and his stock is both large and select. Mr. Menken first started in Gray's Inn Road, nearly opposite the Town Hall, five or six years ago, subsequently removing to Bury Street; but his business grew so rapidly that he had to take the adjoining shop into his service. Mr. Menken's model catalogues invariably contain something which every book collector feels it is absolutely necessary to have. He is a man of versatile abilities, literary and otherwise, and includes among his customers no less a person than Mr. Gladstone. Messrs. Bull and Auvache, of 35, Hart Street, Bloomsbury, are extensive dealers in editions of the classics and Bibles. At one time there were no less than four second-hand booksellers in Hyde Street, New Oxford Street, but at present there is only one. Next door but one to Mudie's, we have the shop of Mr. James Roche, who is a link with the past, having started in 1850, and for many years carried on business in a little corner shop in Southampton Row, one door from the Holborn highway. Messrs. J. Rimell and Sons, noted for their extensive collection of works on the fine arts and architecture, are at 91, Oxford Street. Among the literary booksellers of the first quarter of the present century, William Goodhugh, of 155, Oxford Street, deserves a mention here. 'The English Gentleman's Library Manual,' 1827, is his best-known work, although from a literary standpoint it is a poor concern; he also wrote 'Gates' to the French, Italian, Spanish, Hebrew, Arabic and Syriac, 'unlocked by new and easy methods.' Goodhugh was conversant with several of the Oriental and many European languages. His knowledge of books was a very extensive and profound one, and as a literary bookseller he is an interesting figure in the annals of bibliopolic history. Fifty years ago many good books were picked up out of 'Miller's Catalogue of Cheap Books,' which appeared monthly from 404, Oxford Street, that for September, 1845, being numbered 127. A quarter of a century ago there were several booksellers in Oxford Street, _e.g._, G. A. Davies, at 417; W. Heath, at 497; J. Kimpton, at 303; E. Lumley, at 514; J. Pettit, at 528; and Whittingham. [Illustration: _Day's Circulating Library in Mount Street._] The further west one goes, the less interesting do the annals of bookselling become, for Oxford Street is essentially a modern locality, and second-hand bookselling never has thrived much in new localities. It was, however, when rummaging over the contents of a stall in a Wardour Street alley that Charles Lamb lighted upon a ragged duodecimo, which had been the delight of his infancy. The price demanded was sixpence, which the owner, himself a squab little duodecimo of a character, enforced with the asseverance that his own mother should not have it for a farthing less, supplementing the assertion with an oath and 'Now, I have put my soul to it.' The book was the 'Queen Like Closet,' which, it is scarcely necessary to say, Elia rescued from the man of profanity. Soho has long been more or less of a bookselling quarter. John Paul Manson, who was in King Street, Westminster, in 1786, and issued from thence 'A Summer Catalogue' in 1795, subsequently removed to Gerard Street, Soho, and died in 1812. He was especially well versed, not only in Caxtons, but in all the best works of the early printers, and many English black-letter books passed through his hands. Dibdin observes that Professor Heyne could not have exhibited greater signs of joy at the sight of the Towneley manuscript of Homer than did Manson on the discovery of Rastell's 'Pastyme of the People' among the books of Mr. Brand. Two sons of this Manson subsequently became partners in the firm of Christie, the art auctioneers. The first Sampson Low started as a bookseller in Berwick Street, Soho, in or about 1790. Day's Library, the second oldest existing circulating library in London (the oldest is that of Cawthorn and Hutt, established in 1744, Cockspur Street), has continued from the year 1776 within a few hundred yards of its present situation. In that year a Mr. Dangerfield established it on the north side of Berkeley Square, and it was purchased from him by Mr. Rice in 1810 or 1811, under whom it largely developed in extent and reputation. In 1818 he removed into the adjoining Mount Street at No. 123 (south side), where for about fifty years the library remained. Meanwhile it became the property of Mr. Hoby, and after one or two changes successively of Mr. John and Mr. Charles Day, father and son. In Mr. John Day's hands it crossed the road to No. 16 on the north side, and remained there about twenty-four years, till that part of Mount Street was cleared to make way for the present Carlos Place. Then in the year 1890 it again crossed the road to No. 96, where Mr. Charles Day holds a long lease. An early catalogue of the institution shows that the eighteenth-century circulating libraries contained a portion of the weightier works, such as history, biography, travels, etc., a fact which is rarely realized in the face of the popular impression that it was left to the late Mr. C. E. Mudie to supply such works. ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD AND NEIGHBOURHOOD. [Illustration: Paternoster Row on a Bank Holiday.] The bookselling and book-hunting annals of the district which starts with St. Paul's, and terminates at Charing Cross, might occupy a goodly-sized volume. We must of necessity be brief, chiefly because both Paternoster Row and St. Paul's Churchyard have been, for the most part, book-publishing rather than second-hand bookselling localities. As a literary highway, Paternoster Row is of considerable antiquity, for Robert Rikke, a paternoster-maker and citizen, had a shop here in the time of Henry IV., and there can be no question that its name originated from the fact that it was at a very early period the residence of the makers of paternosters, or prayer-beads. Before the Great Fire of 1666, Paternoster Row was not much of a bookselling centre, for it was inhabited chiefly by mercers, silkmen, and lacemen, whose shops were a fashionable resort of the gentry who resided at that time in the immediate vicinity. After the Fire, the Row gradually became famous for its booksellers, or rather publishers, who resided at first near the east end, and whose large warehouses were 'well situated for learned and studious men's access thither, being more retired and private.' Although the book-annals of Paternoster Row chiefly deal with matters subsequent to the Great Fire, there were many publishers and booksellers there over a hundred years before that calamity. In and about 1558 there were, for example, two of the fraternity here established--Richard Lant and Henry Sutton, the latter's shop being at the sign of the Black Morion. For over twenty years, 1565 to 1587, Henry Denham was at the Star in Paternoster Row, whence he issued, among a large number of other books, George Turberville's 'Epitaphs, Epigrams, Songs, and Sonnets' in 1570. The last century, however, witnessed the rise of Paternoster Row as a publishing locality. From 1678 and onwards book-auctions were held at the Hen and Chickens at nine in the morning; at the Golden Lion over against the Queen's Head Tavern, Paternoster Row, at nine in the morning and two in the afternoon, and at other places both in the Row and in its numerous tributaries, such as Ivy Lane, Ave Maria Lane, etc. Although some of the earliest book-auctions held in this country took place in the immediate vicinity of Paternoster Row, and although it had attained a world-wide celebrity as a publishing centre, it has very few interesting records as a second-hand bookselling locality. Awnsham and John Churchill were located at the Black Swan in 1700; William Taylor, the publisher of 'Robinson Crusoe,' 1719, was here at the sign of the Ship early in the last century, and was succeeded by Thomas Longman in 1725, the present handsome pile of buildings, erected in 1863, being on the original spot occupied in part by the founder of the firm. The Longmans had a second-hand department attached to their house in the early part of the present century, as we have already seen. Others which may be here mentioned as being connected with the Row are Baldwin and Cradock; and Ralph Griffiths, of the 'Dunciad'--'those significant emblems, the owl and long-eared animal, which Mr. Griffiths so sagely displays for the mirth and information of mankind'--for whom Goldsmith wrote reviews in a miserable garret. The last firm of second-hand booksellers of note who thrived in Paternoster Row was that of William Baynes and Son; and the last of the race is still remembered by the older generation of book-collectors, with his old-time appearance in frills and gaiters. In 1826 Baynes published one of the most remarkable catalogues (254 pages) of books printed in the fifteenth century which has ever appeared. It is full of extremely valuable bibliographical information. For many years John Wheldon, the natural history bookseller, had a shop, chiefly for the sale of back numbers of periodicals, at 4, Paternoster Row (as well as in Great Queen Street), and this little shop subsequently passed into the tenancy of Jesse Salisbury, who was there until six or seven years ago. The Chapter Coffee-house, where so many important publishing schemes have been mooted and carried out, still lingers in the Row, but modernized out of all recognition. The chief interest of St. Paul's Churchyard as a book locality centres itself in the publishing rather than the second-hand bookselling phase. One of our earliest printer-publishers, Julian Notary, was 'dwellynge in powles chyrche yarde besyde ye weste dore by my lordes palyes' in 1515, his shop sign being the Three Kings. At the sign of the White Greyhound, in St. Paul's Churchyard, the first editions of Shakespeare's 'Venus and Adonis' and 'Rape of Lucrece' were published by John Harrison; at the Fleur de Luce and the Crown appeared the first edition of the 'Merry Wives of Windsor'; at the Green Dragon the first edition of the 'Merchant of Venice'; at the Fox the first edition of 'Richard II.'; whilst the first editions of 'Richard III.,' 'Troilus and Cressida,' 'Titus Andronicus,' and 'Lear' all bear Churchyard imprints. Not only were there very many booksellers' shops around the Yard, but at the latter part of the sixteenth century bookstalls started up, first at the west, and subsequently at the other doors of the cathedral. From a letter addressed by Sir Clement Edmonds, March 28, 1620, to the Lord Mayor, we gather that two houses were erected at the west gate of St. Paul's without the sanction of the authorities, and these were ordered to be removed, as were also certain 'sheds or shops that were being erected near the same place.' A chief portion of the stock of these shops and stalls would naturally be devotional books of various descriptions. That these books were not always to be relied on we infer from an amusing anecdote in the Harleian manuscripts, related by Sir Nicholas L'Estrange, to the effect that 'Dr. Us[s]her, Bishop of Armath, having to preach at Paules Crosse, and passing hastily by one of the stationers, called for a Bible, and had a little one of the London edition given him out, but when he came to looke for his text, that very verse was omitted in the print.' [Illustration: _John Evelyn, Book-collector._] Mr. Pepys' bookseller, Joshua Kirton, was at the sign of the King's Arms. Writing under date November 2, 1660, Pepys chronicles: 'In Paul's Churchyard I called at Kirton's, and there they had got a masse book for me, which I bought, and cost me 12s., and, when I come home, sat up late and read in it with great pleasure to my wife, to hear that she was long ago acquainted with it.' Kirton was one of the most extensive sufferers of the bookselling fraternity in the Great Fire; from being a substantial tradesman with about £8,000 to the good, he was made £2,000 or £3,000 'worse than nothing.' The destruction of books and literary property generally, in and around St. Paul's, in this fire was enormous, Pepys calculating it at about £150,000, and Evelyn putting it at £200,000, or, in other words, about one million sterling as represented by our money of to-day. Evelyn tells us that soon after the fire had subsided the other trades went on as merrily as before, 'only the poor booksellers have been indeed ill-treated by Vulcan; so many noble impressions consumed by their trusting them to y{e} churches.' [Illustration: _Newbery's Shop in St. Paul's Churchyard._ From an old woodcut.] One of the most considerable of the Churchyard booksellers after the Great Fire was Richard Chiswell, the father or progenitor of a numerous family of bibliopoles. John Dunton, indeed, describes him as well deserving of the title of 'Metropolitan Bookseller of England, if not of all the world.' He was born in 1639, and died in 1711. In 1678 he sold, in conjunction with John Dunmore, another bookseller, the libraries of Dr. Benjamin Worsley and two other eminent men. At St. Paul's Coffee-house, which stood at the corner of the entrance from St. Paul's Churchyard to Doctors' Commons, the library of Dr. Rawlinson was, in 1711, sold--'at a prodigious rate,' according to Thoresby--in the evening after dinner. Although not quite _à propos_ of our subject, we can scarcely help mentioning the name of so celebrated a Churchyard publisher as John Newbery, who lived at No. 65, the original site being now covered by the buildings of the R.T.S.; his successors, Griffith and Farran, were at No. 81 until the year 1889, when they moved westward. F. and C. Rivington were at No. 62 for many years, as Peter Pindar tells us: 'In Paul's churchyard, the Bible and the Key, This wondrous pair is always to be seen,-- Somewhat the worse for wear--a little grey-- One like a saint, and one with Cæsar's mien.' A mere list of the Churchyard booksellers would fill a goodly-sized volume. In addition to those already mentioned, one of the most famous and successful families who resided here were the Knaptons, where, during the first three quarters of the last century, they built up an enormous trade, and were succeeded by Robert Horsfield, who carried on the business in Ludgate Street, and died in 1798. We possess one of the interesting catalogues of James and John Knapton, whose shop was at the sign of the Crown. It runs to twenty pages octavo, and enumerates an extraordinary variety of literature. The books written and sermons preached by right reverends and reverends occupy the first five pages, arranged according to the authors' names; and then follow the works of ordinary, commonplace mortals, sermons and Aphra Behn's romances, Mr. Dryden's plays and the 'Whole Duty of Man' appearing cheek-by-jowl. The most important contribution to the earlier history of bookselling appeared from St. Paul's Churchyard in the shape of Robert Clavell's 'General Catalogue of Books printed in England since the Dreadful Fire, 1666, to the End of Trinity Term, 1676.' This catalogue was continued every term till 1700, and includes an abstract of the bills of mortality. The books are classified under their respective headings of divinity, history, physic and surgery, miscellanies, chemistry, etc., the publisher's name in each case being given. Dunton describes Clavell as 'an eminent bookseller' and 'a great dealer,' whilst Dr. Barlow, Bishop of Lincoln, distinguished him by the term of 'the honest bookseller.' Clavell's shop was at the sign of the Stag's Head, whilst his partner in many of his projects was Henry Brome, of the Sun, also in the Churchyard. Joseph Johnson, the Dry Bookseller of Beloe, demands a short notice here. He was born at Liverpool in 1738, and after serving an apprenticeship with George Keith, Gracechurch Street, began business for himself on Fish Street Hill, which, being in the track of the medical students at the hospitals in the Borough, was a promising locality. After some years here, he removed to Paternoster Row, where he had as partners first a Mr. Davenport, and then John Payne; the house and stock were destroyed by fire in 1770, after which he removed to St. Paul's Churchyard, where he continued until his death in 1809, the father of the trade. He was a considerable publisher, and 'two poets of great modern celebrity were by him first introduced to the publick--Cowper and Darwin.' Whilst at Fish Street Hill he took over the stock of John Ward, of which he issued a catalogue. Ludgate Hill to a certain degree not unnaturally secured a little of the 'bookish' brilliancy which diffused itself round and about the Churchyard. The highway to the cathedral was naturally a good business quarter, and there can be very little doubt that some of the stalls or booths, which formed a sort of middle row in Ludgate, were occupied by stationers and booksellers, who are not usually indifferent to the advantages of a good thoroughfare. It never, however, came up to St. Paul's Churchyard, either as a publishing or as a bookselling locality; but many retailers were here during the latter part of the last century. Queen Charlotte, wife of George III., is reported by Robert Huish to have said to Mrs. Delany: 'You cannot think what nice books I pick up at bookstalls, or how cheap I buy them.' The Rev. Dr. Croby, in his 'Life of George IV.,' tells us that Queen Charlotte was in the habit of paying visits, in company with some lady-in-waiting, to Holywell Street and Ludgate Hill, 'where second-hand books were exposed for sale during the last half of the eighteenth century.' During the earlier part of this period, among the booksellers of note in Ludgate Street were Robert Horsfield, William Johnston, and Richard Ware (who was a considerable adventurer in new publications). The business established at about the same period and in the same locality by Richard Manley, was considerably extended by John Pridden (1728-1807). The libraries of many eminent and distinguished characters passed through his hands, Nichols tells us. His offers in purchasing them were liberal, and, being content with small profits, 'he soon found himself supported by a numerous and respectable set of friends, not one of whom ever quitted him.' Jonah Bowyer was at the Rose, in Ludgate Street, in and about the year 1706, when he published the Lord Bishop of Oxford's 'Sermons preached before the Queen' at St. Paul's in May of that year; and it was either this Bowyer or William Bowyer--the two were not related--who established a bookselling department on the frozen Thames in 1716. William Johnston, who died at a very advanced age in 1804, was one of the most successful of Ludgate Hill booksellers, and his employées included George Robinson and Thomas Evans, each of whom became the founder of a very extensive business. George Conyers was at the Ring, Ludgate Hill, for some years during the last quarter of the seventeenth century, and prior to his removal to Little Britain. Conyers dealt chiefly in Grub Street compilations, which included cheap and handy guides to everything on earth, and it is likely that his shop was a literary or book-collecting resort. The most famous bibliopole who had a shop in Ludgate is perhaps William Hone, to whom the liberty of the press owes so much, and who removed here from his house at the corner of Ship Court, Old Bailey. Trübner and Co. left Ludgate Hill soon after they amalgamated with Kegan Paul, Trench and Co. FLEET STREET. The Churchyard is, of course, the home of bookselling, but, as we have seen, as time went on, its children, so to speak, repudiated their birthplace. In the middle of the sixteenth century, for example, Fleet Street contained nearly as many bookshops as the parent locality. In addition to this, England's second printer, Wynkyn de Worde, abandoning the Westminster house of his master, William Caxton, took up his residence in Fleet Street in or about the year 1500. The sign of his shop was the Sun, 'agaynste the Condyte,' and as the Conduit stood at the lower end of Fleet Street, a little eastward of Shoe Lane, we get some idea of the exact locality. He was buried in St. Bride's Churchyard in 1534. W. Griffith was busy at the sign of the Falcon, near St. Dunstan's Church, printing booklets about current events with 'flowery' titles, and these books he sold at his second shop, designated the Griffin, 'a little above the Conduit,' in Fleet Street. William Powell, at the George, was publishing religious books of various sorts, and a 'Description of the Countrey of Aphrique,' a translation of a French book on Africa, which was perhaps the very first on a topic now pretty nearly threadbare. Richard Tottell was dwelling at the Hand and Star, between the two temple gates, and just within Temple Bar,[217:A] whence he sent forth books by a score and more distinguished men, and whose name is worthily linked with those of Littleton, More, Tusser, Grafton, Boccaccio, and many others. In 1577 Elizabeth granted the same individual the privilege of printing 'all kinds of "Law bookes," which was common to all printers, who selleth the same bookes at excessive prices, to the hindrance of a greate nomber of pore students.' Other Fleet Street booksellers were William Copland, who issued a number of books, T. and W. Powell, and Henry Wykes. Two of the earliest Fleet Street booksellers, Robert Redman and Richard Pynson, quickly got at loggerheads, the bone of contention being Pynson's device or mark, which his rival stole. These are the neighbourly terms which Pynson applies to Redman; they occur at the end of a new edition of Littleton's 'Tenures,' 1525: 'Behold I now give to thee, candid reader, a Lyttleton corrected (not deceitfully) of the errors which occurred in him. I have been careful that not my printing only should be amended, but also that with a more elegant type it should go forth to the day: that which hath escaped from the hands of Robert Redman, but truly Rudeman, because he is the rudest out of a thousand men, is not easily understood. Truly I wonder now at last that he hath confessed it his own typography, unless it chanced that even as the Devil made a cobbler a mariner, he hath made him a Printer. Formerly this scoundrel did profess himself a Bookseller, as well skilled as if he had started forth from Utopia. He knows well that he is free who pretendeth to books, although it be nothing more.' This pretty little quarrel continued some time, and broke out with renewed vigour on one or two subsequent occasions; but the rivals ultimately became friends, and when Pynson retired from business, he made over his stock to 'this scoundrel' Redman, who then removed to Pynson's shop, next to St. Dunstan's Church. The bibliopolic history of Fleet Street is almost synonymous with the literary history of this country. Anything like an exhaustive account, even so far as relates to the bookselling side of the question, would be quite out of place in a work of this description. A few points, therefore, must suffice. Apart from the booksellers already mentioned, the following are also worthy of notice. At the latter part of the sixteenth century Thomas Marsh, of the Prince's Arms, near St. Dunstan's, issued Stow's 'Chronicles,' and was the holder of several licenses for printing; for nearly half a century J. Smethwicke (who died in 1641) had a shop 'under the diall' of St. Dunstan's, whence he issued Shakespeare's 'Hamlet,' 'Love's Labour Lost,' 'Romeo and Juliet,' 'Taming of the Shrew,' as well as works by Henry Burton, Drayton, Greene, Lodge, and others; Richard Marriot was in St. Dunstan's Churchyard early in the seventeenth century, and his ventures included Quarles' 'Emblems,' 1635, Dr. Downes' 'Sermons,' 1640, and Walton's 'Compleat Angler,' 1653, for which 1s. 6d. was asked, and for a good copy of which £310 has been recently paid; Marriot was also the sponsor of the first part of Butler's 'Hudibras,' 1663. Thomas Dring, of the George, near Clifford's Inn; John Starkey, of the Mitre, between the Middle Temple Gate and Temple Bar, the publisher of Shadwell's plays, and for some time an exile at Amsterdam; Abel Roper, of the Black Boy, over against St. Dunstan's Church, and publisher of the _Post Boy_ newspaper; Thomas Bassett, with whom Jacob Tonson was apprenticed; Tonson himself, of the Judge's Head, near the Inner Temple Gate (he started in Chancery Lane), are Fleet Street booksellers of the latter half of the seventeenth century. Early in the following century we get such names as Benjamin Tooke, of the Middle Temple Gate; Edmund Curll, whose chaste publications appeared from the sign of the Dial and Bible, against St. Dunstan's Church; Bernard Lintot, Tonson's great rival and Pope's publisher, of the Cross Keys, between the Temple Gates; Ben Motte, who succeeded Tooke; Andrew Millar, Samuel Highley, John Murray, and many others who might be mentioned, but who were publishers rather than second-hand booksellers. One of the earliest, and perhaps the very first, of the Fleet Street contingent of booksellers who advertised their stock through the medium of priced catalogues was John Whiston, the younger son of the famous William Whiston. Whiston sold several important libraries, including those of such eighteenth-century celebrities as D'Oyly, Dr. Castell, Wasse, Chishull, Dr. Banks, Prebendary John Wills, Adam Anderson (author of 'The History of Commerce'), and many others; he included a large number of literary men among his acquaintances. From 1756 to 1765 he appears to have been in partnership with Benjamin White, and the libraries which they sold during this period included those of the Rev. Stephen Duck; Thomas Potter, Esq., M.P., son of the Archbishop of Canterbury; Charles Delafaye, Esq., of the Secretary of State's Office; Dr. James Tunstall, Vicar of Rochdale, etc. Of all the second-hand booksellers of the latter half of the last century the most considerable was the Benjamin White above mentioned, whose shop was at the sign of Horace's Head, in Fleet Street, and whose bulky catalogues, often including over 10,000 lots, are now very rare and exceptionally interesting. The contents of these catalogues were classified, first into three divisions, folio, quarto, and octavo and duodecimo, and then again into numerous sections according to the subject-matter of the volumes. 'The sale will begin' on such and such a day, and 'catalogues may be had' at various stated booksellers' shops in London, and at Oxford, and 'the principal towns of England.' From 1716 to 1792 Benjamin White and his son and namesake issued catalogues of various collections of books, including the libraries (or selections from) of Dr. Thomas, Bishop of Salisbury; Sir William Calvert, M.P. for London; Dr. Secker; Rev. Joseph Spence; Dr. Hutchinson, editor of Xenophon; Dr. William Borlase; Dr. Matthew Maty, Secretary of the Royal Society, and Principal Librarian, British Museum; Sir Richard Jebb; Rev. John Bowles, editor of 'Don Quixote'; Rev. John Lightfoot, chaplain to the Countess Dowager of Portland, and author of the 'Flora Scotica.' One of White's best customers was the eccentric George Steevens, who, however, discontinued his daily visits, after many years' regular attendance, for no real cause. He then transferred his attentions to Stockdale's, whom in turn he abruptly forsook. The elder Benjamin retired from business with 'a plentiful fortune,' and died at his house in South Lambeth in March, 1794, and Benjamin junior retired to Hampstead a few years after his father, leaving the business to a younger brother, John, who continued bookselling until the earlier part of the present century, when he, in his turn, gave up active work for the 'enjoyment of a country life' with 'an easy competence.' In one of the catalogues of this celebrated firm--our copy is minus the title-page, but it was evidently issued about 1790--four of the most interesting entries occur among the folios: Caxton's 'Lyfe of the Faders,' with 'curious old wooden plates, not quite perfect, in Russia,' is priced at £5 5s.; Caxton's 'Lyfe of our Lady,' by John Lydgate, is offered at 10s. 6d.; a _fair_ copy of Caxton's 'Lyfe of St. Katherine of Senis' is figured at £10 10s., the price asked also for a 'fair, not quite perfect' example of the 'Golden Legende.' A Second Folio Shakespeare is priced at £4; a Fourth Folio at £1 7s. The same catalogue includes a copy of the famous 'Book of Hawking and Hunting,' printed at St. Albans in 1486, but unfortunately the price is omitted, as is the case with several other important rarities. The Whites published some fine natural history books, including those of Pennant, Latham, and White of Selborne; the last was a relative of the booksellers. Whiston was succeeded by Nathaniel Conant, who sold, _inter alia_, the library of Samuel Speed, 1776, and John White was succeeded by his partner, J. G. Cochrane. Sixty years ago Charles Tilt, afterwards Tilt and Bogue, occupied 85, Fleet Street, and a charming view of this shop appears in Cruikshank's 'Almanack' for March, 1835. [Illustration: _Charles Tilt's Shop._ From Cruikshank's 'Comic Almanac.'] Although the bookselling history of Fleet Street did not cease with the general migration of booksellers, from the end of the last to the beginning of the present century much of its glory as such had departed. During the second and third quarters of the nineteenth century its bibliopolic annals are indeed few. One of its most interesting houses was situated at No. 39, upon part of the site of the present banking-house of Messrs. Hoare. Here formerly stood the famous Mitre Tavern; this place was much damaged during the Great Fire, and was partly rebuilt. In the last century it was a favourite resort of Wanley, Vertue, Dr. Stukeley, Hawkesworth, Percy, Johnson, Boswell, and many other celebrities. Johnson and Boswell first dined here in 1763. It was here that the 'Tour to the Hebrides' was planned; it was here also, at a supper given by Boswell to the Doctor, Goldsmith, Davies, the bookseller, Eccles, and the Rev. John Ogilvie, that Johnson delivered himself of the theory that 'the noblest prospect which a Scotchman ever sees is in the highroad that leads to England.' From 1728 to 1753 the Society of Antiquaries met here, and for some time also the Royal Society held its meetings in this place. In 1788 the tavern ceased to exist, and the house became the 'Poets' Gallery' of Macklin, whose edition of the Bible is described as an unrivalled monument of his taste and energy. Thomas Macklin died in 1800, and the erstwhile Mitre gave place--possibly not at once, but certainly very soon after--to Saunders' Auction-rooms. The most important sale which occurred here, and of which we have discovered any record, was an anonymous one in February, 1818; the catalogue was entitled 'Bibliotheca Selecta: Library of an eminent Collector, removed from the North of England.' This sale occupied six days, and comprised a very fine series of books of old English poetry, history, topography, and illustrated books. For instance, a very fine copy in a genuine state of the First Folio Shakespeare realized the then high figure of £121 16s. A copy of Yates's 'Castell of Courtesie,' 1582, sold for £23 2s., Steevens' copy eighteen years previously going for £2 10s. A large number of other excessively rare books, several of which were unique, were sold here at the same time; but whose they were, or how they could have drifted into such an unimportant auction centre as Saunders', are questions which we are not able to answer. Fifty years ago there were at least three important firms of literary auctioneers in Fleet Street--Henry Southgate (who eventually turned author, and who died about three years ago), at No. 22; L. A. Lewis, at No. 125; and E. Hodgson, referred to on p. 116. At each of these three centres many extensive collections of books came under the hammer. When the elder Southgate died or retired, in about 1837, two of his assistants, Grimston and Havers, left, and started on their own account at 30, Holborn Hill, making the auction of books a speciality; but their existence appears to have been brief. The neighbourhood had, however, a book-auction repute long before the present century dawned, and the Rose Tavern, near Temple Bar, was a favourite locality for this method of selling books. Samuel Baker here sold the entire library ('Bibliotheca Elegans') of Alderman Sir Robert Baylis in 1749, and that of Conyers Middleton, Principal Librarian of the University of Cambridge, March 4, 1750-51, and nine following days--by order and for the benefit of the widow, who in the preface 'takes this opportunity to assure the public that this catalogue contains the genuine library of Dr. Middleton, without any alteration, and is sold for my advantage'--there were 1,300 lots. THE STRAND. [Illustration: _Butcher Row, 1798._] The modernization of the Strand, but more particularly the erection of the New Law Courts from Temple Bar to Clement's Inn, has destroyed very many book-hunting and literary localities. This project involved the obliteration of thirty-three streets, lanes and courts, and the levelling of 400 dwelling, lodging and ware houses, and so forth, sheltering over 4,000 individuals. It has entirely altered the aspect of the place; not perhaps before it was necessary, for the whole neighbourhood had degenerated into rookeries of the vilest description. Among the localities swept away, a brief reference may be made to one which has a twofold interest--Butcher Row--first, because Clifton's Eating-house, one of Dr. Johnson's favourite resorts, was in this Row, and secondly because one of the earliest catalogues of second-hand books was issued from within a yard or two of Clifton's. J. Stephens' shop was at the sign of the Bible in Butcher Row, and towards the latter part of 1742 he published 'a catalogue of several libraries of books lately purchased, in several languages,' etc., the price of each book being, as usual, marked on the first leaf before the sale commenced, which sale was announced to begin 'on Tuesday, the 2nd of November, 1742,' and 'to continue till all are sold.' For a copy of this exceedingly rare and interesting catalogue we are indebted to Mr. Dobell, the bookseller. It comprises twenty-six pages octavo, and enumerates over 1,300 books, the majority of which are priced. There are very few volumes in this list which are now included in anyone's desiderata, but the list itself is a very good indication of the book-buying tastes of our forbears of a century and half ago. Butcher Row, it may be mentioned, was immediately beyond St. Clement's Church (on the northern side of the Strand), and by the end of the last century had degenerated into a number of wretched fabrics and narrow passages, the houses greatly overhanging their foundations; in or about 1802, this street was pulled down and gave place to Pickett Street, so named because the improvement was the scheme of Alderman Pickett. [Illustration: _Charles Hutt's House in Clement's Inn Passage._] One of the last bookselling haunts to be pulled down was the quaint old shop occupied by the late Charles Hutt (who, by the way, was born in the vestry of the Clare Market chapel-of-ease) where many famous book-hunters had picked up bargains. Charles Hutt, had he lived, would have become one of the leading booksellers of the day. He was for some years at Hodgson's, and possessed a remarkable taste for, and knowledge of, books. He left Hodgson's and started on his own account in the old ramshackle house already referred to. This shop presented so unfavourable an exterior that even the Income-tax Fiend never 'called in,' although at one time there were several thousands of pounds' worth of books in it. Hutt did a very extensive trade, not only in this country, but in America. He had an especial aptitude at completing sets of particular authors--Landor, Leigh Hunt, Byron, Shelley--and contributed much to the prevailing taste for modern first editions. A younger brother, Mr. F. H. Hutt, has been for some years established at 10, Clement's Inn Passage, within a few yards of the old shop. The associations of the past half-century of this neighbourhood include two other well-known firms of booksellers. Theophilus Noble, who had removed from 114, Chancery Lane, was at 79, Fleet Street for some years until his death in 1851, and a member of the same family is still a second-hand bookseller opposite St. Mary-le-Strand Church. Reeves and Turner removed from Noble's old house in Chancery Lane, to the house on the west side of Temple Bar and adjoining it on the north, erected on the site of the famous old bulk-shop, the last of its race, where at one time Crockford, 'Shell-fishmonger and gambler,' lived. When Temple Bar was removed, this shop came down, and Reeves and Turner (who for the second time had to bow to the necessities of 'improvements') opened their well-known place on the south side of the Strand, facing St. Clement's Church. Their spacious shop here for about a quarter of a century was a famous book-haunt, and one of the very few successful ones which have existed in a crowded thoroughfare. It always contained an immense variety of good and useful books, priced at exceedingly moderate amounts, and the poorer book-lover could always venture, generally successfully, on suggesting a small reduction in the prices marked without being trampled in the dust as a thief and a robber. A year or two ago, when the lease of the shop expired, Messrs. Reeves and Turner bibliopolically ceased to exist--there not being a Reeves or a Turner in the Chancery Lane firm of booksellers of that name--but Mr. David Reeves, a son of Mr. William Reeves, started in Wellington Street, Strand, the latter, the _doyen_ of London booksellers, occupying a portion of the house as a publisher and a dealer in remainders. [Illustration: _Mr. William D. Reeves, Bookseller._] The most famous bookselling locality in this district is Holywell Street, or, as it is now generally called, Booksellers' Row. This street has always been afflicted with a questionable repute, not without cause, and much of the ill-odour of its past career still clings to it. Even second-hand bookselling has not purged it entirely. Half a century ago its shops were almost entirely taken up with the vendors of second-hand clothes, and the offals of several other more or less disreputable trades. Above these shops resided the Grub Street gentry of the period. 'It was,' says one who knew it well, 'famous for its houses of call for reporters, editors and literary adventurers generally, all of whom formed a large army of needy, clever disciples of the pen, who lived by their wits, if they had any, and in lieu of those estimable qualifications, by cool assurance, impudence, and the gift of their mother tongue in spontaneous and frothy eloquence.' It was also a famous and convenient place 'for literary gentlemen and others, who were desirous of evading bailiffs and sheriffs' officers who might be anxious of making their acquaintance,' for even if they were traced to the Holywell Street entrance of any particular house, they could easily escape into Wych Street, and so slip the myrmidons of the law. It next became the emporium of indecent literature (from which charge it is not yet quite free), but much of this peculiar trade was suppressed by Lord Campbell's Act. For nearly half a century the place has been growing in popularity as a _locus standi_ of the reputable second-hand book trade. Every book-hunter of note has known, or knows, of its many shops. Macaulay, for example, obtained many of his books from Holywell Street. The late Mr. Thoms related, in the _Nineteenth Century_, a very curious incident which put the great historian in possession of some French _mémoires_ of which he had long been endeavouring to secure a copy. Macaulay was once strolling down this street, when he saw in a bookseller's window a volume of Muggletonian tracts. 'Having gone in, examined the volume, and agreed to buy it, he tendered a sovereign in payment. The bookseller had not change, but said if he (Macaulay) would just keep an eye on the shop, he would step out and get it. His name, I think, was Hearle, and he had some relatives of the same name who had shops in the same street. This shop was at the west end of the street, and backed on to Wych Street; and at the back was a small recess, lighted by a few panes of glass, generally somewhat obscured by the dust of ages. While Macaulay was looking round the shop, a ray of sunshine fell through this little window on four little duodecimo volumes bound in vellum. He pulled out one of these to see what the work was, and great was his surprise and delight at finding these were the very French _mémoires_ of which he had been in search for many years.' More rare and interesting books have been picked up in this street during the past forty years than in any other locality. Rumour, which sometimes tells the truth, says that Shelley's copy, with his autograph on the title-page, of Ossian's 'Poems' was picked up here for a few pence. A book with Shakespeare's autograph on the title-page was also said to have been rescued from among a lot of cheap books in this locality a few years ago. We are not certain, but we believe that the Shakespeare autograph has been proved to be a forgery. If that is so, then perhaps the honour of being the greatest 'find' ever discovered, about four years ago, in Holywell Street, pertains to a perfect copy of 'Le Pastissier François,' 1655, the most valuable of all the Elzevirs, its value being from about £60 to £100. The copy in question was bound up with a worthless tract, and history has not left on record what the bookseller thought when he discovered his ignorance. A copy of the first edition of Horne's 'Orion,' 1843, was purchased in this street for 2d. in 1886, its market value being about £2. It was originally issued at 1/4d., by way of sarcasm on the low estimation of epic poetry. The Holywell Street bookseller did not appraise it at a much higher figure than the author. Scarcely a week passes without a volume possessing great personal or historic interest being 'bagged' in this narrow but delightful thoroughfare. Many of these finds, it is true, may not be of great commercial value, but they are oftentimes very desirable books in more respects than one. The present writer has been fortunate in this matter. No person would now rank James Boswell, for instance, among great men, but a book in two volumes, with the following inscription, 'James Boswell, From the Translator near Padua, 1765,' would not be reckoned costly at 1s., the book in question being a beautiful copy of Cesarotti's translation into Italian of Ossian's 'Poems.' David Hume's own copy of 'Histoire du Gouvernement de Venise,' par le Sieur Amelot de la Houssaie, 1677, was not dear at 6d., and at a similar price was obtained an excessively rare volume (for which a well-known book-collector had been on the look-out in vain for many years), whose contents are little indicated by the title of 'Roman Tablets,' 1826, but whose nature is at all events suggested by the sub-title of 'Facts, Anecdotes, and Observations on the Manners, Customs, Ceremonies and Government of Rome.' It is a terrific exposure (originally written in French), for which the author was prosecuted at the solicitation of the Pope's Nuncio at Paris. The late John Payne Collier has told of a Holywell Street 'find' as far back as January 20, 1823, when he picked up a very nice clean copy of Hughes' 'Calypso and Telemachus,' 1712, for which he paid 2s. 6d. It was not, however, until he reached home that he discovered the remarkable nature of his purchase, which had belonged to Pope, who had inscribed in his own autograph thirty-eight couplets, addressed 'To Mr. Hughes, On His Opera.' These are only a selection from an extensive series of more or less interesting 'finds,' of which every collector has a store. Two of the earliest and best-known of the more important Holywell Street booksellers passed away some years ago. 'Tommy' Arthur, who made a respectable fortune out of the trade, and whose shop and connections are now in the possession of W. Ridler, who is a successful trader, and a man of considerable independence as regards the conventionalities of appearances. (Our artist's portrait of this celebrity in his brougham, indulging in the extravagance of a clay pipe, had not arrived at the time of going to press, so it must be held over until the next edition of this book.) Joseph Poole was another Holywell Street bookseller of an original type, with his quaint semi-clerical attire. This bibliopole's relatives still carry on business in this street, school-books being with them a speciality. The _doyen_ of the street is Mr. Henry R. Hill, whose two shops are at the extreme east end of the street. Mr. Hill has been here for about forty years, and has seen many changes, not only in the general character of the street, but also of the tastes in book-fancies. Mr. Hill's shops, with Mrs. Lazarus's three hard by, are full of interesting books, priced at very moderate figures. The latter has been established here for about fifteen years. Messrs. Myers, who also occupy three bookshops in this street, were for some years with Mrs. Lazarus; and Mr. W. R. Hill acquired a great deal of his book-knowledge at Reeves and Turner's. Mr. Charles Hindley has been long established in this street. [Illustration: _Messrs. Hill and Son's Shop in Holywell Street._] The step from fifth-rate book-making to second-hand bookselling is not a great one, and just as Holywell Street sheltered the Grub-writers of half a century ago, so Drury Lane and its immediate vicinity was their recognised locality in the earlier part of the last century. It is impossible to associate respectability, to say nothing of fashion, with this evil-smelling, squalid thoroughfare. And yet there can be no question about its having been at one time an aristocratic quarter. Until within the last few years, the Lane itself, and its numerous tributaries, contained many second-hand bookshops. The most celebrated, and, indeed, almost the only one of any interest, was Andrew Jackson, who made a speciality of old and black-letter books. Nichols tells us that for more than forty years he kept a shop in Clare Market, and here, 'like another Magliabecchi, midst dust and cobwebs, he indulged his appetite for reading; legends and romances, history and poetry, were indiscriminately his favourite pursuits.' In 1740 he published the first book of 'Paradise Lost' in rhyme, and ten years afterwards a number of modernizations from Chaucer. The contents of his catalogues of the years 1756, 1757, 1759, and one without date, were in rhyme. He retired in 1777, and died in July, 1778, in the eighty-fourth year of his age. Charles Marsh, another literary bookseller, was for some time a friend and neighbour of Jackson's. Marsh (who afterwards removed to a shop now swallowed by the improvements in Northumberland Avenue, Charing Cross) was situated at Cicero's Head, in New Round Court, off the Strand, and is described by one who knew him as being afflicted with 'a very unhappy temper, and withal very proud and insolent, with a plentiful share of conceit.' He wrote a poem entitled 'The Library, an Epistle from a Bookseller to a Gentleman, his Customer; desiring him to discharge his bill,' 1766. He was originally a church-clerk. The only catalogue of this celebrity which we have seen is a bulky one, over 100 pages octavo, enumerating 3,000 books, 'among which are included the libraries of the Rev. Mr. Gilbert Burnet, Minister of Clerkenwell, and an eminent apothecary, both lately deceased.' The date is May 7, 1747. Some of the prices in this catalogue can only be described as absurd; for example, Lydgate's 'Bochas; or, The Fall of Princes,' 1517, 5s.; a collection of old plays and poems, two volumes, 1592, 6s.; Tusser's 'Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandry,' 1574, 2s. 6d.; and black-letter books by the score are here offered at sums from one to three or four shillings each. The neighbourhood has for many years ceased to be a bookselling locality, for although book-hunters prefer side-streets and quiet thoroughfares for the prosecution of their hobby, the pestiferous vapours of Drury Lane would kill any bibliopolic growth more vigorous than a newsvendor's shop. [Illustration: _Messrs. Sotheran's Shop in Piccadilly._] When, by slow degrees, the various trades moved in a direction west of Temple Bar, it was only natural that the trade in second-hand books should be similarly attracted. The Strand itself, which, at the end of the last century and beginning of the present, was a much narrower street than it is now, is not, and never has been, a great book-emporium, for a reason which we have more than once pointed out. But the immediate vicinity has been for over a century and a half, as it still continues to be, the favourite locality of some of the chief booksellers. To-day the Strand proper only contains three representatives, in Messrs. H. Sotheran and Co., the finer of whose two shops is in Piccadilly, and Mr. David Nutt (both of whom are, however, vendors of new books, and often act as publishers), and Messrs. Walford. Within a stone's-throw of the main thoroughfare we have John Galwey and Suckling and Galloway, Garrick Street; James Gunn and Nattali, Bedford Street; B. F. Stevens, Trafalgar Square; H. Fawcett, King Street; W. Wesley and Sons, Essex Street; and many others. One of the most interesting incidents in connection with the Strand relates to a house which stood between Arundel and Norfolk Streets, where, at the end of the seventeenth century, lived the father of Bishop Burnet. 'This house,' says Dr. Hughson, writing in 1810, 'continued in the Burnet family till within living memory, being possessed by a bookseller of the same name--a collateral descendant of the Bishop.' Of much more importance, however, is the fact that at 132, Strand a bookseller named Wright started, about 1730, the first circulating library in London. About ten years afterwards he was succeeded by William Bathoe ('a very intelligent bookseller' who died in October, 1768), who carried on the circulating library in addition to bookselling. Bathoe was a book-auctioneer as well as a retail vendor; he sold the books of 'William Hogarth, Esq., sergeant-painter,' under the hammer. In or about the year 1747 he had established himself 'in Church Lane, near St. Martin's Church in the Strand, almost opposite York Buildings,' whence he issued a thirty-eight-paged (octavo) catalogue, comprising the 'valuable library of the learned James Thompson Esq., deceased, with the collection of a gentleman lately gone abroad'; this list enumerates nearly 1,000 items, the prices, ranging from 6d. upwards, being uniformly low. Walton's 'Compleat Angler,' 1661, 'with neat cuts,' would not be long unsold at 3s. 6d.; and the same may be said of Purchas's 'Pilgrimage,' 1617, 2s. 6d.; of Rochester's complete poems at 2s.; and very many others. At 'No. 18 in the Strand' lived J. Mathews, the bookseller, and father of Charles Mathews, the actor; and in this house the latter was born. Jacob Tonson was at 'Shakespeare's Head, over against Catherine Street, in the Strand,' now 141; the house, since rebuilt, was afterwards occupied by Andrew Millar, who deposed Shakespeare, and erected Buchanan's Head instead. Millar was succeeded by his friend and apprentice, Thomas Cadell (who became a partner in 1765), in 1767; he retired in 1793. Cadell's son then became head of the concern, and took William Davies into partnership. The firm of Cadell and Davies existed until the death of the latter in 1820, after which Cadell (the Opulent Bookseller of Beloe) continued it in his own name until his death in 1836. Samuel Bagster; Whitmore and Fenn; J. Walter (an apprentice of Robert Dodsley, and the founder of the _Times_); William Brown (an apprentice of Sandby), Essex Street, who died in 1797, and who was succeeded by Robert Bickerstaff; Henry Chapman, Chandos Street, 1790-1795; W. Lowndes; and Walter Wilson, of the Mews Gate, were Strand booksellers of more or less note during the latter part of the last, and the earlier part of the present, century. CHARING CROSS AND NEIGHBOURHOOD. John Millan was one of the most famous of Charing Cross or Whitehall booksellers, for he was located here for over half a century, dying in 1784, aged over eighty-one years. Richard Gough drew the following picture of Millan's shop in March, 1772: 'On my return from Westminster last night, I penetrated the utmost recesses of Millan's shop, which, if I may borrow an idea from natural history, is incrusted with literature and curiosities like so many stalactitical exudations. Through a narrow alley, between piles of books, I reached a cell, or _adytum_, whose sides were so completely cased with the same _supellex_ that the fireplace was literally _enchâsse dans la muraille_. In this cell sat the deity of the place, at the head of a whist party, which was interrupted by my inquiry after _Dillenius_ in sheets. The answer was, he "had none in sheets or blankets." . . . I emerged from this shop, which I consider as a future Herculaneum, where we shall hereafter root out many scarce things now rotting on the floor, considerably sunk below the level of the new pavement.' Millan was succeeded by Thomas and John Egerton, the latter being 'a bookseller of great eminence'--the Black-letter Bookseller of Beloe--whose death occurred in 1795. 'It was in his time,' says Beloe, 'that Old English books, of a particular description both in prose and verse, were, for some cause or other--principally, perhaps, as they were of use in the illustration of Shakespeare--beginning to assume a new dignity and importance, and to increase in value at the rate of 500 per cent.' Another Charing Cross bookseller, Samuel Leacroft (who succeeded Charles Marsh), died in 1795, and it is rather curious that John Egerton was a son-in-law of Lockyer Davis, whilst his neighbour was an apprentice. Of Samuel Baker, whose shop was in Russell Street, Covent Garden, we have already spoken in our account of book-auctioneers. One of his early--May, 1747--catalogues (not auction) comprises the libraries of Dr. Robert Uvedale, and of this divine's son and namesake, also a D.D., of Enfield; it enumerates over 3,000 items. Thomas Becket (an apprentice of Millar, and Sterne's first publisher) and P. De Hondt were successful Strand booksellers; the former finally settled himself in Pall Mall, and was one of the first to make a speciality of foreign books, of which he imported large quantities between 1761 and 1766. C. Heydinger, of the Strand, was a German bookseller who issued catalogues from 1771 to 1773, and who died in distressed circumstances about 1778. Henry Lasher Gardner, who died at a very advanced age in 1808, was a venerable bookseller, whose shop was opposite St. Clement's Church, Strand; he published catalogues between 1786 and 1793. William Otridge, at first alone, and afterwards in partnership with his son, issued catalogues from the Strand during the last quarter of the last century. In 1796 Joseph Pote was selling books at the Golden Door, over against Suffolk Street, Charing Cross. John Nourse (died 1780), bookseller to his Majesty, was another celebrated bibliopole of the Strand, and is described by John Nichols as 'a man of science, particularly in the mathematical line.' Francis Wingrave succeeded Nourse. One of the most celebrated booksellers of this neighbourhood during the last half of the eighteenth century was Tom Davies, who sported his rubric posts[237:A] in Russell Street, Covent Garden, and who was driven from his position as actor in Garrick's company by Churchill's killing satire: 'He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.' In spite of satirists, the verdict of his contemporaries is ratified, so to speak, in voting Tom Davies a good fellow. Dr. John Campbell described him as 'not a bookseller, but a gentleman dealing in books'; and the Rev. P. Stockdale described him as 'the most gentleman-like person of that trade whom I ever knew.' Dr. Johnson said he was 'learned enough for a clergyman,' which was an equivocal compliment, for the clergymen of the period were not, as a rule, learned. Davies was generally talkative, but at times quite the reverse, and sometimes uttered pious ejaculations. Between 1764 and 1776 Davies sold a number of interesting and valuable libraries--those, for example, of William Shenstone and William Oldys. Davies, like many other contemporary booksellers, was fond of scribbling, and was the author of 'Memoirs of Garrick,' and other books. Probably the most famous bookseller of the Strand is Thomas Payne, who for over half a century (1740-1794) was selling books in this locality. 'Honest Tom Payne' started business in or about 1740, for in February of that year he issued a catalogue of 'curious books in divinity, history, classics, medicine, voyages, natural history,' etc., from the 'Round Court,[237:B] in the Strand, opposite York Buildings.' About ten years later (January, 1750) he had removed to the Mews Gate to a shop shaped like the letter L, which became one of the most famous literary resorts of the period. Just before leaving Round Court, Tom Payne issued a sort of clearance catalogue, comprising 10,000 volumes, 'which will be sold very cheap.' The Mews Gate was near St. Martin's Church, and probably close to the bottom of the new thoroughfare, Charing Cross Road. It was at this shop that all the book-collectors of the day most congregated, for it was to Tom Payne's that the majority of libraries were consigned--_e.g._, those of Ralph Thoresby, Sir John Barnard, Francis Grose, Rev. S. Whisson, and many others whose names are now nothing but names, but who were at the time well-known collectors. Tom Payne's customers included all the bibliophiles of the period. 'Must I,' asks Mathias in the 'Pursuits of Literature'-- 'Must I, as a wit with learned air, Like Doctor Dewlap, to Tom Payne's repair, Meet Cyril Jackson and mild Cracherode, 'Mid literary gods myself a god? There make folks wonder at th' extent of genius In the Greek Aldus or the Dutch Frobenius, And then, to edify their learned souls, Quote pleasant sayings from _The Shippe of Foles_.' [Illustration: _Honest Tom Payne._] Mathias describes Tom Payne as 'that Trypho emeritus,' and as 'one of the honestest men living, to whom, as a bookseller, learning is under considerable obligations.' Beloe, in his 'Sexagenarian,' states that at Tom Payne's and at Peter Elmsley's, in the Strand, 'a wandering scholar in search of pabulum might be almost certain of meeting Cracherode, George Steevens, Malone, Wyndham, Lord Stormont, Sir John Hawkins, Lord Spencer, Porson, Burney, Thomas Grenville, Wakefield, Dean Dampier, King of Mansfield Street, Towneley, Colonel Stanley,' and others. Savage professed to have picked up his 'Author to Let' at 'the Mews Gate on my way from Charing Cross to Hedge Lane.' Tom Payne (who was a native of Brackley) came into possession of his famous shop at the Mews' Gate through his marriage with Elizabeth Taylor, whose brother built and for some time occupied it. About 1776 Tom Payne ('Bookseller Extraordinary to the Prince Regent, and Bookseller to the University of Oxford') took his son into partnership, to whom fourteen years later he relinquished the business, and died in February, 1799, in his eighty-second year. Thomas Payne the younger (to whom Dibdin dedicated his 'Library Companion,' 1825) remained here until 1806, when he removed to Pall Mall; in 1813 he took Henry Foss, who had been his apprentice, into partnership. The former died in 1831, and was succeeded by his nephew, John Payne, and Henry Foss, who retired from the trade in 1850, when their stock came under the hammer at Sotheby's. In the preface to his 'Library Companion,' 1825, Dibdin speaks very highly of the catalogue of Payne and Foss: 'Since the commencement of this work, Messrs. Payne and Foss have published a catalogue of 10,051 articles. I have smiled, in common with many friends, to observe rare and curious volumes selling for large sums at auctions, when sometimes _better_ copies of them may be obtained in that incomparable repository in Pall Mall at two-thirds of the price. Whoever wants a _classical fitting out_ must betake themselves to this repository.' The bibliopolic history of the Mews Gate did not terminate with the younger Tom Payne. When he removed to a more aristocratic quarter, the shop passed into the occupation of William Sancho, the negro bookseller, whose father, Ignatius, was born in 1729 on board a ship in the slave trade soon after it had quitted the coast of Guinea. William Sancho died before 1817, and was succeeded at the Mews Gate by James Bain, who afterwards removed to No. 1, Haymarket, where the business is still carried on, 'in accordance with the best bookselling traditions, by his younger son, the second James Bain having died early in 1894.' The Mews was taken down in 1830, and was used in its latter days to shelter Cross's Menagerie from Exeter 'Change. One of the oldest firms of Strand booksellers was that started in 1686 by Paul Vaillant, who, at the time of the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, escaped to England. His shop was opposite Southampton Street, and his chief dealings were in foreign books. He was succeeded by his sons Paul and Isaac, and then by his grandson, Paul III., the son of Paul II. The second Paul purchased a quantity of books at Freebairn's sale for the Earl of Sunderland, and his joy at securing the copy of Virgil's 'Opera,' printed 'per Zarothum,' 1472, is duly chronicled by Nichols; he was one of the booksellers employed by the Society for the Encouragement of Learning. He died in 1802, aged eighty-seven, and as both of his two sons had elected to follow other occupations, the business passed into the hands of Peter Elmsley, the great friend and companion of Gibbon, whose 'Decline and Fall,' however, he did not see his way to publish; he was a great linguist, and possessed 'an amount of general knowledge that fitted him for conversation and correspondence upon a familiar and equal footing with the most illustrious and accomplished of his day.' At the end of the last century he resigned the business to his shopman, David Bremner, 'whose anxiety for acquiring wealth rendered him wholly careless of indulging himself in the ordinary comforts of life, and hurried him prematurely to the grave.' He was succeeded by James Payne (the youngest son of the famous Tom) and J. Mackinlay, both of whom also came to premature ends, the former through being long confined as a prisoner in France. Among the most famous of the Strand booksellers of the earlier part of the present century were Rivington and Cochran, of No. 148 (near Somerset House), and Thomas Thorpe, of 38, Bedford Street. With these two firms it really seemed a question as to which could issue the most bulky catalogues. The earliest example which we have seen of the former is dated 1825; it extends to over 800 pages, and comprises nearly 18,000 items in various languages and in every department of literature. Thomas Thorpe was undoubtedly the giant bibliopole of the period. If anything striking or original occurred in the bookselling world, it was generally Thorpe who did it. Dibdin describes him as 'indeed a man of might.' His catalogues, continues the same writer, 'are of never-ceasing production, thronged with the treasures which he has gallantly borne off, at the point of his lance, in many a hard day's fight, in the Pall Mall and Waterloo Place arenas. But these conquests are no sooner obtained than the public receives an account of them, and during the last year only his catalogues, in three parts, now before me, comprise no fewer than 179,059 articles. What a scale of buying and selling does this fact alone evince! But in this present year two parts have already appeared, containing upwards of 12,000 articles. Nor is this all. On September 24, 1823, there appeared the most marvellous phenomenon ever witnessed in the annals of bibliopolism.[241:A] The _Times_ had four of the five columns of its last page occupied by an advertisement of Mr. Thorpe, containing the third part of his catalogue for that year. On a moderate computation, this advertisement comprised 1,120 lines. The effect was most extraordinary. Many wondered, and some remonstrated; but Mr. Thorpe was master of his own mint, and he never mentions the circumstance but with perfect confidence, and even gaiety of heart, at its success.' Thorpe issued catalogues from 1829 to 1851, and during one year alone, 1843, his lists comprised over 16,000 lots. In 1836 he removed from Bedford Street to 178, Piccadilly. Thorpe was the first _merchant_ in autographs, and Sir Thomas Phillipps was one of the first _collectors_ who flourished in the iniquity of the pursuit, and it was the latter who on one occasion purchased the entire contents of one of Thorpe's autograph catalogues. Another distinguished bibliopole of this locality, or, more correctly, of Great Newport Street, was Thomas Rodd, who died in April, 1849, in his fifty-third year. The business was really started by his father and namesake, who was a man of considerable literary ability, and who abandoned his intention of entering the Church when he became possessed of a secret for making imitation diamonds, rubies, garnets, etc. In 1809 he added bookselling to that of manufacturing sham stones. After getting into trouble with the Excise on account of the latter accomplishment, he devoted himself entirely to the book-trade. The elder Rodd died in 1822, and his son, the more famous bibliopole, succeeded to the business, which he developed in an extraordinary manner within a few years. His memory and knowledge of books were almost limitless, and, like Thomas Thorpe, most of his schemes were on a scale to create a sensation. Rodd's catalogues are of great bibliographical value. In spite of his extensive connections, his stock at the time of his death was enormous. It was sold, in ten different instalments, at Sotheby's, between November, 1849, and November, 1850. [Illustration: _Henry G. Bohn, Bookseller._] [Illustration: _John H. Bohn._] Henry G. Bohn may be regarded as the connecting link between the old and the new school of booksellers. He was born in London on January 4, 1796, and died in August, 1884. His father was a bookbinder of Frith Street, Soho, but when he removed to Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, he added (in 1814) a business in second-hand books. Between this year and 1830, H. G. Bohn paid repeated visits to the Continent as his father's buyer. In 1831 he married a daughter of Mr. Simpkin, of Simpkin, Marshall and Co. He started in business for himself, and rapidly built up an extensive trade, far exceeding any of his rivals. At about the same time his brother James also started on his own account, at 12, King William Street, Charing Cross, whilst the third brother, John Hutter Bohn, who has been for nearly forty years the cataloguer at Sotheby's and is still living, attended to the original business. Bohn's famous 'Guinea Catalogue' was deservedly regarded as a great triumph in its way, although it has been far surpassed by the splendid catalogues of his whilom apprentice, B. Quaritch. Bohn's fame now rests almost exclusively in his publishing ventures, which proved a veritable gold-mine to the originator, and are still highly lucrative investments in the hands of Messrs. George Bell and Sons. He 'edited' an edition of Lowndes' 'Bibliographer's Manual,' and his name occurs on the title-pages of a great many books dealing with an extensive variety of subjects. It is scarcely necessary to say that Bohn has very little claim to be regarded either as an editor or as an author, unless the cash purchase of the product of other men's brain and study conferred either of these titles upon him. He was, however, a remarkable person, with a very wide knowledge of books. While quite a young man he catalogued the books of Dr. Parr. The growing extent of his publishing business killed the second-hand trade, so far as he was concerned, and his stock was disposed of at Sotheby's in the years 1868, 1870, and 1872, occupying fifty days in selling, and realizing a total of over £13,300. Both Henry G. Bohn and his brother James dealt largely in remainders, and of this class of merchandise each issued catalogues early in the year 1840 (and at other times), and the difference in the extent of the trade done by the two brothers may be indicated by the fact that the catalogue of the former extends to 132 pages, whilst that of the latter is only 16 pages. In this, as in everything else which he undertook, H. G. Bohn was first and his rivals nowhere. One of Bohn's rivals in the 'forties' was Joseph Lilly, who once undertook to purchase everything important in the book line which was offered, but he soon gave up the idea. His shop was for some time at 19, King Street, Covent Garden, and his catalogues always contained a large number of select books. He had served a short time at Lackington's, and was distinguished for the zeal with which he purchased First Folio Shakespeares. Lilly died in 1870, and his vast stock came under the hammer at Sotheby's in six batches, 1871-73. [Illustration: _Mr. F. S. Ellis._] King William Street, Strand, until the last three or four years, had been for nearly a century a famous emporium of second-hand bookshops. Its most famous inhabitant in this respect was Charles John Stewart (whom Henry Stevens, of Vermont, described as the last of the learned old booksellers), who was born in Scotland at the beginning of the present century, and died on September 17, 1883. He was one of Lackington's pupils, and started as a second-hand bookseller with Howell, subsequently carrying on the business alone. His chief commodity was theological books, and when his stock--perhaps the largest of its kind known--came to be sold, it realized close on £5,000. Joel Rowsell was another famous bibliopole who resided in this street, and he, like Stewart, retired in 1882. G. Bumstead (whose speciality was curious or eccentric books; he was distinctly an 'old' bookseller, for he rarely bought anything printed after 1800), Molini and Green, J. M. Stark, and J. W. Jarvis and Sons, were also, at one time or another, in this bookselling thoroughfare, which is now entirely deserted by the fraternity. Doubtless one of the most successful of modern bibliopoles who lived in the vicinity of the Strand is Mr. F. S. Ellis, who was an apprentice of James Toovey, and who in a comparatively few years built up a business second only to that of Quaritch. Mr. Ellis (who purchased the valuable freewill of T. and W. Boone's connection) compiled the greater portion of the catalogue of the celebrated Huth Library, and since he has retired to Torquay has taken up book-editing with all the zeal which characterized his earlier career as a bookseller. Mr. Ellis's shop was at 33, King Street, Covent Garden, and afterwards at 29, New Bond Street, and the prestige of his name is worthily maintained by his nephew, Mr. G. I. Ellis (with whom is Mr. Elvey), at the latter address. The whole neighbourhood of which Covent Garden may be taken as the centre, is full of a bibliopolic history, which dates back to the beginning of the last century. The time when Aldines were to be picked up at 1s. 6d. each, and when Shakespeare Folios were to be had for 30s. each round about the Piazza, has, it is true, long gone by; but a very large library, in almost any branch of literature, may be easily formed, at a very moderate cost, any day within a stone's-throw of London's great vegetable market. It may be mentioned, _en passant_, that George Willis, the editor-publisher of _Willis's Current Notes_, was for many years at the Great Piazza, Covent Garden. The firm subsequently became known as Willis and Sotheran, and is now Sotheran and Co.: this highly respectable house was established in Tower Street, E.C., as far back as 1816. [Illustration: _A Corner at Ellis and Elvey's._] WESTMINSTER HALL. [Illustration: _Westminster Hall when occupied by Booksellers and others._ From a Print by Gravelot.] There is not, perhaps, in the whole world, a more interesting bookselling locality than Westminster Hall. This place is redolent with historical associations, with parliaments, coronations, revelries, and impeachments. Stalls for books, as well as other small merchandise, were permitted in the hall of the palace of Westminster early in the sixteenth century. The poor scholars of Westminster also were employed in hawking books between school-hours. In the procession of sanctuary men who accompanied the Abbot of Westminster and his convent, December 6, 1556, was 'a boy that killed a big boy that sold papers and printed books, with hurling of a stone, and hit him under the ear in Westminster Hall.' In the churchwardens' accounts of the parish of St. Margaret, Westminster, there is, under date 1498-1500, an entry: 'Item, Received for another legende solde in Westmynster halle, v_s._ viij_d._,' the 'legende' being one of the thirteen copies of 'The Golden Legend' bequeathed by Caxton to the 'behove' of the parish of St. Margaret's. Towards the end of the sixteenth century Tom Nash wrote: 'Looke to it, you booksellers and stationers, and let not your shop be infested with any such goose gyblets, or stinking garbadge as the jygs of newsmongers; and especially such of you as frequent Westminster Hall, let them be circumspect what dunghill papers they bring thether: for one bad pamphlet is inough to raise a dampe that may poyson a whole towne,' etc. At first the shops or stalls were ranged along the blank wall on the southern side of the hall. Subsequently they occupied not only the whole of the side, but such portion of the other as was not occupied by the Court of Common Pleas, which then sat within the hall itself, as did the Chancery and King's Bench at its farther end. Gravelot's print of the hall during term-time shows this arrangement. The stationers and other tradespeople in the hall were a privileged class, inasmuch as they were exempt from the pains and penalties relative to the license and regulation of the press. Here as elsewhere there were plenty of inferior books obtainable; Pepys, writing October 26, 1660, and referring to some purchases made in the hall, remarks: 'Among other books, one of the life of our Queen, which I read at home to my wife, but it was so sillily writ that we did nothing but laugh over it.' The stalls were distinguished by signs. One of the early issues of 'Paradise Lost,' 1668, contains the name, among others, of Henry Mortlock, of the White Hart, Westminster Hall, but whose shop was at the Phoenix, St. Paul's Churchyard; Raleigh's 'Remains,' 1675, was printed for Mortlock. The majority of the hall booksellers had regular shops in St. Paul's Churchyard or elsewhere, for it is scarcely likely that they would open these stalls during vacation. Matthew Gilliflower, of the Spread Eagle and Crown, was one of the most enterprising of his class during the last quarter of the seventeenth century. James Collins, of the King's Head, was here contemporaneously with Gilliflower. C. King and Stagg were also extensive partners in 'adventures' in new books, and were among the 'unprejudiced booksellers' who acted as agents for the _Gentleman's Magazine_ during the first year of its existence. At about the same time also, B. Toovey and J. Renn, were selling books here. Early in the reign of George III. the traders were ousted from Westminster Hall; and in 1834 the dirty and mutilated vast parallelogram was thoroughly cleaned and repaired. Westminster Hall as a bookselling centre bears the same affinity to the trade proper as the sweetmeat stalls at a fair bear to confectionery. The books exposed for sale would only by a rare chance be choice or notable, and it was certainly not a likely place for folios or quartos. BOND STREET AND PICCADILLY. At the latter part of the seventeenth and the beginning of the eighteenth century, several booksellers had established themselves in Bond Street and Pall Mall. One of the best known is John Parker, 'an honest, good-natured man,' with whom was apprenticed, in 1713, Henry Baker, the antiquary, a friend of John Nichols. Parker's shop was in Pall Mall. At No. 29, New Bond Street, in 1730, we find J. Brindley, a reputable bookseller of his time, and who was one of a society formed in 1736 'for the encouragement of learning,' which had a chequered and an undignified career. His shop was at the sign of the Feathers, and in 1747 he describes himself as 'Bookseller to H.R.H. the Prince of Wales.' The only example of his catalogue which we have seen is dated 1747, and it includes 4,289 lots, among which were long selections of books at 1s. each, or 10s. per dozen, and of others at 6d. each or 5s. per dozen. Brindley was succeeded in 1759 by his apprentice, a much more celebrated bibliopole, James Robson, who built up a very extensive connection and died in 1806. In company with James Edwards and Peter Molini (the Exotic Bookseller of Beloe), Robson, in 1788, undertook a journey to Venice for the purpose of examining the famous Pinelli Library, which was purchased for about £7,000; it was safely transferred to London and sold by auction in Conduit Street, the total result being £9,356. A large number of more or less famous collections of books passed through Robson's hands, notably those of Sir John Evelyn; Edward Spelman, the translator of Xenophon; the Duke of Newcastle (1770); W. Mackworth Praed (1772); Joseph Smith, Consul at Venice; Dr. Samuel Musgrave; J. Murray, Ambassador at Constantinople. Messrs. Robson and Clark were succeeded early in this century by Nornaville and Fell, who in 1830 made way for T. and W. Boone, who were, as we have said, succeeded by Mr. F. S. Ellis; it is interesting to note that this house had been in the occupation of booksellers for over a century and a half. The bookselling fraternity had, however, obtained no definite footing until shortly after the middle of the eighteenth century, when James Almon began to acquire notoriety, his political fearlessness more than once bringing him at loggerheads with the authorities. When he first came to London, he worked as a printer at Watts', in Wild's Court, Lincoln's Inn Fields, where he had the frame which had been occupied by Benjamin Franklin. His shop was opposite Burlington House, and for many years this was the meeting-place of the leading Whig politicians. He died in 1805, and was succeeded by J. Debrett, a name still associated with publishing. During the last few years of the last century, and probably in consequence of the greatly improved condition of the place, Piccadilly and neighbourhood became favourite spots with booksellers, the more notable being James Ridgway, whose 'repository of loyalty' was in York Street, St. James's Square, who died in 1838, aged eighty-three years; T. Hookham, Old Bond Street; and Stockdale, whose name will be for ever associated with that of Erskine in connection with the liberty of the press. Stockdale's shop, No. 178, Piccadilly, was for a long time in the possession of Thomas Thorpe; the place has since been rebuilt. R. Faulder, of New Bond Street, also deserves mention as being one of forty booksellers against whom actions were brought for selling the 'Baviad and Mæviad.' He is the Cunning Bookseller of Beloe, and appears to have been one of the most assiduous frequenters of 'forced' sales of household furniture, etc., where he often happened on books of rarity and value. He 'accumulated a very large property and retired,' but the _auri sacra fames_ pursued him to the end. William Clarke, of New Bond Street, best remembered as the compiler of that very valuable work, 'Repertorium Bibliographicum,' 1819, was established as a bookseller in 1793. During the second half of the last century Samuel Parker and Walter Shropshire were selling second-hand books in New Bond Street. Thomas Beet, who retired from business ten years ago, was a well-known bookseller of Bond Street and Conduit Street, and was a considerable purchaser at the leading auction sales. He frequently had the honour of submitting various special old books for the inspection of the Queen, the Prince of Wales, and other members of the Royal Family, whilst his shop in Conduit Street was a very popular resort of bookish men. Robert Dodsley, of Tully's Head, is one of the most famous of the Pall Mall booksellers. His shop was next to the passage leading into King Street, and now known as Pall Mall Place. He is perhaps better remembered as an author and compiler than as a bookseller, and best of all as a friend of Dr. Johnson, Pope, Spence, and other literary celebrities; he it was who first urged Johnson to start the famous 'Dictionary.' Dodsley died in 1764, and his business was taken over by his brother James, who survived the founder thirty-three years. The celebrated firm of G. and W. Nicol, booksellers to his Majesty, for many years carried on in Pall Mall in Dodsley's shop, originated with David Wilson and his nephew George Nicol, who started in the Strand about 1773, and who sold, _inter alia_, the library of Dr. Henry Sacheverell. George Nicol married the niece of the first Alderman Boydell, and was one of the executors of James Dodsley, who left him a legacy of £1,000. He is described as 'a most agreeable companion,' as a member of many of the literary clubs of his day, and enjoyed the friendly confidence of the Duke of Roxburghe, Duke of Grafton, and other eminent book-lovers. He died in Pall Mall, 1829, aged eighty-eight years. Nicol's stock was sold by auction at Evans's in 1825. [Illustration: _John Hatchard (1768-1849)._] The most ancient book-business in Piccadilly is that of Hatchard's, which dates back to 1797. It was started by John Hatchard, who had been an assistant at Tom Payne's. Hatchard was patronized by Queen Charlotte, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Canning, and Dr. Keate. Hatchard is the Godly Bookseller of Beloe; he was a Conservative, dressed like a bishop, and published for Hannah More and the Evangelicals. Zachary Macaulay, Wilberforce, and the other opponents of slavery, once involved Hatchard in a libel action, in which he was found guilty. Hatchard published for Crabbe and for Tupper, and, according to Mr. Humphreys' interesting 'Piccadilly Bookmen,' Liston, Charles Kemble, and other actors, frequented the shop. So did the Duke of Wellington, who, 'when the library of the Duke's brother was sold at Evans's Auction Rooms in Pall Mall, where now stands the Carlton Club . . . sent several open commissions for books which he wished secured. Among these was a shilling pamphlet by A. G. Stapleton, with the late owner's notes in pencil. This was put up at 2s. 6d., and ultimately knocked down for £93 to Hatchard, the under-bidder being Sir A. Alison. The Duke, though very much astonished at the price such a mere fragment had fetched, yet admired the obedience to his orders.' The Horticultural Society took its rise in a meeting at Hatchard's, and he also seems to have lent his premises to the 'Outinian Society,' a species of matrimonial agency, which did not last long; but the wonder is how so respectable and cautious a personage ever harboured it. Among his assistants were Fraser, afterwards noted for his magazine, and Tilt. [Illustration: _James Toovey, Bookseller._] The two great second-hand booksellers of the Piccadilly of the latter half of the present century are James Toovey and Bernard Quaritch. Toovey's shop at 177, Piccadilly (once occupied by William Pickering, the famous publisher), was for about forty years a favourite haunt of booksellers, for Toovey was a bibliophile as well as a bibliopole. His whole life was spent among books. He was apprenticed at fourteen to a bookseller, and for some time had a shop of his own in St. James's Street. He published Newman's 'Lives of the English Saints,' and other works by the leaders of the Tractarian movement, in addition to a very fine reprint of the 'Aberdeen Breviary,' of the original of which only four imperfect copies exist. An obituary notice describes him as 'very particularly the great authority on bindings. He made a strong speciality in old French red morocco bindings, and during his frequent visits to France brought back large buyings of them. Toovey bought notable books, but unless they had the second qualification of being in a good state, and the bindings valuable, he was less anxious about them. Given a notable book in a notable binding, he would buy it at almost any cost. When the present Mr. James Toovey--James Toovey _fils_--came into the business, he made a feature of those quaint sport and pastime books which every stroller along the south side of Piccadilly has been wont to stay and look at in Toovey's window. Ten years before his death the old man retired from the business in favour of his son, but his devotion to rare books and rare bindings was his ruling passion to the last. Toovey's, during its career, has known all the prominent book-hunters and a legion of eminent people who have been more than book-collectors. In the leisured times, Toovey's, like Hatchard's further along the street, was something of a resort for literary folk generally, and many people we who are younger are familiar with have been accustomed to find their way across Toovey's doorstep. Mr. Gladstone has visited the shop, and so has Cardinal Manning, and Prince Lucien Bonaparte, and Henry Huth often.' Having acquired a considerable fortune in business, he was able to indulge in the luxury, rare amongst booksellers, of collecting a private library for his own entertainment. He retired from active business several years ago, and passed his remaining days in the ever-delightful society of his bibliographical treasures. He died in September, 1893, in his eightieth year, and his stock of books came under the hammer at Sotheby's in March, 1894, when 3,200 lots realized just over £7,090. His very choice private library is still in the possession of his son, and among its chief cornerstones is the finest First Folio Shakespeare known. Toovey, like the elder Boone, secured many excessively rare books during his personal visits to the Continent. Pickering's son, Basil Montagu Pickering, remained with Toovey for a few years after his father retired, but eventually opened a shop on his own account at 196, Piccadilly, next to St. James's Church, and possessed at one time and another many exceedingly rare books. The name is still continued under the title of Pickering and Chatto, of 66, Haymarket, who continue to use the Aldine device employed both by William Pickering and his son. There is no Pickering in the present firm. [Illustration: _James Toovey's Shop, Piccadilly._] [Illustration: _Bernard Quaritch, the Napoleon of Booksellers._] Of all second-hand booksellers, living or dead, Bernard Quaritch is generally conceded to be the king. Mr. Quaritch was born in 1819 at Worbis, Prussia, and after serving an apprenticeship to a bookseller came over to England in 1842, and obtained employment at H. G. Bohn's, with whom he remained (exclusive of two years in Paris) until 1847. He left Bohn's in April of that year, with the observation: 'Mr. Bohn, you are the first bookseller in England, but I mean to be the first bookseller in Europe.' Quaritch started with only his savings as capital, and his first catalogue was nothing more than a broadside, with the titles of about 400 books, the average price of which ranged from 1s. 6d. to 2s. His first big move was made in 1858, when the Bishop of Cashel's library was sold, when he purchased a copy of the Mazarin Bible for £595. In the same year appeared his first large catalogue of books, which comprised nearly 5,000 articles; two years later his catalogue had increased from 182 to 408 pages, and included close on 7,000 articles; in 1868 his complete catalogue consisted of 1,080 pages, and 15,000 articles; in 1880 it had extended to 2,395 pages, describing 28,000 books; but seven years later his General Catalogue consisted of 4,500 pages, containing 40,000 articles. As a purchaser, Mr. Quaritch puts the whilom considered gigantic purchases of Thomas Thorpe entirely into the shade. In July, 1873, he purchased the non-scientific part of the Royal Society's Norfolk Library; a few weeks later at the Perkins sale he bought books and manuscripts to the extent of £11,000; at the sale of Sir W. Tite's books in 1874 the Quaritch purchases amounted to £9,500; at the two Didot sales in 1878 and 1879 his purchases exceeded £11,000 in value; at the Beckford sale in 1882 a little more than half of the total (£86,000) was secured by Mr. Quaritch; at the Sunderland sale, 1881-83, Mr. Quaritch's bill came to over £33,000; at all the other great sales of the past twenty years the largest buyer has invariably been 'B. Q.' In an announcement 'To Book Lovers in all Parts of the World,' the Napoleon of bibliophiles makes the following statement: 'I am desirous of becoming recognised as their London agent by all men outside of England who want books. The need of such an agent is frequently felt abroad by the heads of literary institutions, librarians, and book-lovers generally. They shrink from giving trouble to a bookseller in matters which require more attention and effort than the mere furnishing of some specific article in his stock, and they must often wish that it were possible to have the services of a man of ability and experience at their constant command. Such services I freely offer to anyone who chooses to employ them; no fee is required to obtain them, and not a fraction will be added to the cost of the supplies. The friendly confidence which is necessarily extended to one's agent at a distance will undoubtedly in time bring an ample return for my labours, but so far as the present is concerned, I ask for nothing but the pleasure of attending to the wants of those who are as yet without an agent in London. Whether the books to be procured through my intervention be rare or common, single items or groups, the gems of literature and art or the popular books of the day, I shall be happy to work in every way for book-lovers of every degree. Commissions of any kind may be entrusted to me; I will venture to guarantee satisfaction in every case, even in the delicate matter of getting books appropriately bound. It may likewise be well to state that my offer of agency extends to the selling of foreign books here, as well as to the supply of English books hence.' There is not much that is architecturally beautiful about Mr. Quaritch's shop at 15, Piccadilly, but its interest to the book-lover needs but little emphasis after what has been said. Like all great men, Bernard Quaritch has his little eccentricities, into which we need not now enter. We apologize to him for publishing the following extract, which is, however, not our own, but comes (of course) from an American source: 'Bernard Quaritch's antiquated hat is a favourite theme with London and other bookmen. A committee of the Grolier Club once made a marvellous collection of newspaper clippings about it, and a member of the Société des Bibliophiles Contemporains wrote a tragedy which was a parody of Æschylus. In this tragedy Power and Force and the god Hephaistos nail the hat on Mr. Quaritch's head, like the Titan on the summit of overhanging rocks. Divinities of the Strand and Piccadilly, in the guise of Oceanidæ, try to console the hat; but less fortunate than Prometheus, the hat knows it is for ever nailed, and not to be rescued by Herakles. However, _tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse_, as Dumas said, for Mr. Quaritch has bought a new hat, and a journal of London announces that the epic hat is enshrined in glass in the bibliopole's drawing-room.' One of the most modern of book-thoroughfares deserves a brief reference here. Charing Cross Road has for some years been a popular and successful resort of booksellers and book-hunters. It is within convenient reach of both the Strand and Holborn, and is only two or three minutes' walk from Piccadilly Circus. The books offered for sale here are, for the most part, priced at exceedingly moderate rates. Mr. Bertram Dobell may be regarded as the chief of the trade here, possessing, as he does, two large shops well filled with books of all descriptions. Mr. Dobell's catalogues are very carefully compiled, and possess a literary flavour by no means common; his lists of privately-printed books form a most valuable contribution to the bibliography of the subject. Mr. John Lawler, for many years chief cataloguer at Puttick's, and more recently at Sotheby's, had a shop in Charing Cross Road, which he has just given up; and Mr. A. E. Cooper, who makes a speciality of first editions of modern authors and curious and out-of-the-way books, both French and English. [Illustration] FOOTNOTES: [176:A] Sewell, Cornhill, and Becket and De Hondt, Strand, were among the last to use these curious trade signs. [192:A] The identical book with which Johnson knocked down Osborne, 'Biblia Græca Septuaginta,' folio, 1594, Frankfort, was at Cambridge in February, 1812, in the possession of J. Thorpe, bookseller, who afterwards catalogued it. [192:B] Timbs, writing in the _Gentleman's Magazine_ in 1868, identified the house at which Tonson probably lived, and this house was in Timbs's time a bookseller's. Gray's Inn Lane has become so thoroughly renovated and improved that it is no longer possible to point to any particular spot where any celebrity lived. [201:A] 'One day [writes Lytton] three persons were standing before an old bookstall in a passage leading from Oxford Street into Tottenham Court Road. Two were gentlemen; the third, of the class and appearance of those who more habitually halt at old bookstalls. '"Look," said one of the gentlemen to the other; "I have discovered here what I have searched for in vain the last ten years--the Horace of 1580, the Horace of the Forty Commentators--a perfect treasury of learning, and marked only fourteen shillings!" '"Hush, Norreys," said the other, "and observe what is yet more worth your study;" and he pointed to the third bystander, whose face, sharp and attenuated, was bent with an absorbed, and, as it were, with a hungering attention over an old worm-eaten volume. '"What is the book, my lord?" whispered Mr. Norreys. 'His companion smiled, and replied by another question: "What is the man who reads the book?" 'Mr. Norreys moved a few paces, and looked over the student's shoulder. "'Preston's Translation of Boethius,' 'The Consolations of Philosophy,'" he said, coming back to his friend. '"He looks as if he wanted all the consolations philosophy could give him, poor boy!" * * * * * 'When Mr. Norreys had bought the Horace, and given an address where to send it, Harley (the second gentleman) asked the shopman if he knew the young man who had been reading Boethius. '"Only by sight. He has come here every day the last week, and spends hours at the stall. When once he fastens on a book, he reads it through." '"And never buys?" said Mr. Norreys. '"Sir," said the shopman, with a good-natured smile, "they who buy seldom read. The poor boy pays me twopence a day to read as long as he pleases. I would not take it, but he is proud."' [202:A] It was in one of these alleys or tributaries that a lawyer's clerk, returning from his office, carried home in triumph to Camden Town a copy of Marlowe's 'Tragical History of Doctor Faustus,' 1663, which he bought for 1s. [217:A] Concerning the Hande and Starre, Fleet Street, and the renowned Richard Tottell, 'printer by special Patentes of the bokes of the Common Lawe in the several Reigns of King Edw. VI. and of the quenes Marye and Elizabeth,' it may be pointed out that this house, 7, Fleet Street, exists as before, the only modern addition being the half-brick front which was placed there more than a hundred years ago. Jaggard, the bookseller, lived there after Tottell, and from thence he issued the first edition of Shakespeare's 'Romeo and Juliet,' actually printed in the rear (now Dick's Coffee-house), and the possibility of Shakespeare having often called to correct the proof-sheets is conjured up. The house was in turn occupied by many eminent law publishers and booksellers, and of late years by the late Mr. Henry Butterworth, who became himself the Queen's law publisher. [237:A] One of the reviewers of Nichols' 'Literary Anecdotes' says: 'How often have we seen him standing betwixt these, bidding "his friends good-morrow with a cheerful face," and pulling down his ruffles, already too long, till they covered his fingers. Davies had, even while in common conversation, as much of the old school of acting in his manner as his friend Gibson had upon the stage; though he is said not to have been so pompous as Berry, to whose parts he succeeded; and Berry, in this respect, was thought to have declined from Bridgewater.' [237:B] Now covered by Charing Cross Hospital. At the commencement of the third quarter of the sixteenth century, Thomas Colwell, a bookseller, had a shop at the sign of 'St. John the Evangelist,' in St. Martin's parish, near Charing-Cross, and a shop with the same sign in Fleet Street, near the Conduit. It must be remembered that at this period Holborn and Charing Cross were quite suburban villages, the former noteworthy as the thoroughfare from Newgate to Tyburn, and the latter as a sort of halfway place of stoppage between the City and Westminster. [241:A] Not quite so unprecedented as Mr. Dibdin thought. The _Grub Street Journal_ of February 3, 1731, contained an entire page devoted to the books advertisement of Tom Osborne, a much more remarkable feat, all things considered, than Thorpe's. [Illustration] WOMEN AS BOOK-COLLECTORS. IT seems a curiously contradictory fact that, although Englishwomen are on the whole greater readers than men, they are, as book-collectors or bibliophiles, an almost unknown quantity. In France this is not the case, and several books have been published there on the subject of _les femmes bibliophiles_. An analysis of their book-possessions, however, leads one to the conclusion that with them their sumptuously-bound volumes partake more of the nature of bijouterie than anything else. Many of the earlier of these bibliophiles were unendowed with any keen appreciation for intellectual pursuits, and they collected pretty books just as they would collect pretty articles of feminine decoration. They therefore form a little community which can scarcely be included in the higher category of intellectual book-collectors. It would be much easier to assert that Englishwomen differ from Frenchwomen in this respect than it would be to back up the assertion with material proof. Indeed, after all that could possibly be said in favour of our own countrywomen as book-collectors, we fear that it would not amount to very much. It is certain that our history does not afford any name of the first importance, certainly none which can be classed with Anne of Austria (wife of Louis XIII.), the Duchesse de Berry, Catherine de Médicis, Christina of Sweden, Diane de Poitiers, the Comtesse Du Barry, Marie Antoinette, the Marquise de Pompadour, or of at least a dozen others whose names immediately suggest themselves. The only English name, in fact, worthy to be classed with the foregoing is that of Queen Elizabeth, who, in addition to her passion for beautiful books, may also be regarded as a genuine book-lover and reader. There were, however, Englishwomen who collected books long before Elizabeth's time. In the year 1355, Elizabeth de Burgh, Lady of Clare--the foundress of Clare Hall, Cambridge--bequeathed to her foundation 'Deux bons antiphoners chexun ove un grayel (Gradule) en mesme le volum, 1 bone legende, 1 bone messale, bien note, 1 autre messale coverte de blank quir, 1 bone bible coverte de noir quir, 1 hugueion [? Hugh de Voræillis on the Decretals], 1 legende sanctorum, 1 poire de decretals, 1 livre des questions, et xxii quaires d'un livre appella, De causa Dei contra Pelagianos.' About seventy years after Elizabeth de Burgh's bequest, we learn that in 1424 the Countess of Westmoreland presented a petition to the Privy Council representing that the late King Henry had borrowed from her a book containing the Chronicles of Jerusalem and the Expedition of Godfrey of Boulogne, and praying that an order might be issued under the Privy Seal for the restoration of the said book. With much formality the petition was granted. But we might go back several hundred years prior to either of these dates, for the Abbess Eadburga not only transcribed books herself and kept several scholars for a similar purpose, but fed the bibliomaniacal zeal of Boniface, the Saxon missionary, by presenting him with a number of books. Appropriately enough, he presented the Abbess on one occasion with a silver pen. Two historic illuminated manuscripts, formerly the property of distinguished women, were sold from the Fountaine Collection at Christie's, in July, 1894. The more interesting item was Henry VIII.'s own copy of the 'Psalmes or Prayers taken out of Holye Scripture,' printed on vellum, by Thomas Berthelet, 1544. This book is of great historic interest. Shortly before his death he gave it to his daughter, Princess Mary (afterwards Queen Mary), who subsequently presented it to Queen Catherine Parr, with the following inscription: 'Madame, I shall desyer yor grace most humbly to accepte thys ritde hande and unworthy whose harte and servyce unfaynedly you shall be seur of duryng my lyf contynually. Your most humble dowghter and servant, Marye.' On the back of the leaf containing the foregoing inscription is written: 'Mors est ingressus quidam immortalis future quæ tamen est maxime horribilis carni Catherina Regina K. P.' On a small piece of vellum inside the cover the King has written: 'Myne owne good daughter I pray you remember me most hartely wen you in your prayers do shew for grace, to be attayned assurydly to yor lovyng fader. Henry R.' This book contains quite a number of other inscriptions by Henry, Catherine, and others, and is, on the whole, of peculiarly striking interest. It was purchased by Mr. Quaritch for 610 guineas. A beautiful companion to the foregoing is a manuscript 'Horæ' of the fifteenth century, on very pure vellum, consisting of 176 leaves (8-1/2 inches by 6 inches). This manuscript formerly belonged to Margaret, mother of King Henry VII., and has at the end this inscription, in her handwriting, addressed to Lady Shyrley, to whom she presented it: 'My good Lady Shyrley pray for Me that gevythe you thys booke, And hertely pray you (Margaret) Modyr to the kynge.' Margaret, Countess of Richmond and Derby, was the only daughter and heir of John Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, and was not only distinguished for her piety and charity, but was a great patron of Caxton, whose successor, Wynkyn de Worde, styled himself 'Her printer.' This beautiful manuscript was probably written and illuminated by her command in the reign of her son, Henry VII. It realized £350. [Illustration: _Queen Elizabeth's Golden Manual of Prayers._ Front Cover.] For all practical purposes, Queen Elizabeth may be regarded as the first distinguished _femme bibliophile_. Of this truculent and strong-minded personage much has been written, and it is scarcely likely that there is much unpublished material respecting her library. It is not necessary nor desirable to enter exhaustively into even so fascinating a topic. A few generalizations will not, however, be unwelcome. The books which she possessed before she ascended the throne are excessively rare, and even those owned by her after that event are by no means common. Elizabeth herself embroidered several books with her own hands, the most beautiful example of her work being a copy of the Epistles of St. Paul, now at the Bodleian. The black silk binding is covered with devices embroidered by the Princess during her sequestration at Woodstock, representing the Judgment of Solomon and the Brazen Serpent, and these have been reproduced by Dibdin in 'Bibliomania.' From an inventory published in _Archæologia_ we learn that, in the sixteenth year of her reign, the Queen possessed a book of the Evangelists, of which the covers were decorated with a crucifix and with her arms in silver, weighing, with the wood corners, 112 ounces. Among the books which the notorious Libri 'conveyed' were two which appear to have belonged to Elizabeth, first a volume containing Fenestella's 'De Magistratibus Sacerdotusque Romanorum' (1549), and another tract, which realized £5; and Jones's 'Arte and Science of Preserving Bodie and Soul in Healthe, Wisdome, and Catholicke Religion' (1579), beautifully bound 'à petit fers,' which realized close on £20. [Illustration: _Queen Elizabeth's Golden Manual of Prayers._ Back Cover.] The British Museum contains several books, including one or two very beautiful ones, which were formerly the Queen's, and among these perhaps the most notable is an imperfect copy of Coverdale's New Testament (_circa_ 1538). Upon the inside of the cover is the following manuscript note: 'This small book was once the property of Q. Elizabeth, and actually presented by her to A. Poynts, who was her maid of Honor. In it are a few lines of the Queen's own hand writing and signing. Likewise a small drawing of King Edward the 6th when very young [of Windsor Castle] and one of the Knights in his robes.' The 'few lines' of the Queen's are as follows: 'Amonge good thinges | I prove and finde, the quiet | life dothe muche abounde | and sure to the contentid | mynde, ther is no riches | may be founde | your lovinge | mistress Elizabeth.' An interesting point is raised in the _Library_ (ii. 65, 66), by Mr. W. G. Hardy, relative to the books of the Earl of Essex, which were believed to have become the property of Elizabeth after the unfortunate favourite's execution in 1601. The finest as well as the best known of the Queen's embroidered books, now in the British Museum, is Archbishop Parker's 'De Antiquitate Ecclesiæ Britannicæ,' 1572, presented by the author to Elizabeth, for whom also he had it specially bound. It is covered in green velvet. We give facsimiles of the two sides of the cover of the manual of prayers which the Queen is said to have carried about with her, attached by a gold chain to her girdle. It is bound in gold and enamelled, said to be the workmanship of George Heriot. The prayers were printed by A. Barker, 1574. The front side of the cover contains a representation of the raising of the serpent in the wilderness; whilst on the back is represented the judgment of Solomon. This book was for many years in the Duke of Sussex's collection; it was sold with the rest of the collection of the late George Field, at Christie's, June 13, 1893, for 1,220 guineas, to Mr. C. J. Wertheimer. [Illustration: Elizabeth P.] The Marquis of Salisbury's library at Hatfield contains a number of books which belonged to two distinguished ladies of the Elizabethan period. Lady M. Burghley's many book-treasures included a number of learned works which we do not usually associate with the women of the time. There were, for instance, Basil, 'Orationes,' 1556; Bodin, 'La République,' 1580; Erasmus, 'De Copia Verborum,' 1573; Fernelius, 'Medecina,' 1554; Hemming, 'Commentarius in Ephesios,' 1574; Haddon, 'Contra Osorium,' 1557; Jasparus, 'Encomium,' 1546; Valerius, 'Tabulæ Dialectices,' 1573; Velcurio, 'Commentarius in Aristotelis,' 1573; Whitgift's 'Answer to Cartwright,' 1574, and several others. A few of the books which were once possessed by Anne Cecil (sister of Sir Robert Cecil), Countess of Oxford, are also at Hatfield, notably a 'Grammaire Française,' 1559, and an edition of Cicero 'Epîtres Familières.' [Illustration: _The Frontispiece to 'The Ladies' Library' of Steele._ Engraved by L. Du Guernier.] During the eighteenth century, the taste for books was by no means uncommon among women, although only a bold man would declare that that period produced a genuine _femme bibliophile_. The idea of a lady's library was first suggested by Addison in the _Spectator_, No. 37. In No. 79 Steele takes up the thread of the subject, to which Addison returns in No. 92, and Steele again in No. 140. These papers created a want which Richard Steele, with a doubly benevolent object, essayed to fill. 'The Ladies' Library,' ostensibly 'written by a lady,' and 'published by Mr. Steele,' was issued by Jacob Tonson in 1714. It was in three volumes, each of which had a separate dedication; the first is addressed to the Countess of Burlington, the second to Mrs. Bovey, a learned and very beautiful widow, by some supposed to be identical with Sir Roger de Coverley's obdurate _veuve_, whilst the third, in a strain of loyal and affectionate eulogy, is to Steele's own wife, who may be supposed to be depicted in Du Guernier's frontispiece in the first volume. The 'Ladies' Library' and the _Spectator_ papers assist us somewhat in forming an opinion as to the most popular books among the ladies of the earlier part of the last century. The library of the lady whom Addison visited is described as arranged in a very beautiful order. 'At the end of the folios (which were finely bound and gilt) were great jars of china, placed one above the other, in a very noble piece of architecture. The quartos were separated from the octavos by a pile of smaller vessels, which rose in a delightful pyramid. The octavos were bounded by tea dishes of all shapes, colours and sizes. . . . That part of the library designed for the reception of plays and pamphlets was inclosed in a kind of square, consisting of one of the prettiest grotesque works that ever I saw, and made up of scaramouches, lions, monkeys, and a thousand odd figures in chinaware. In the midst of the room was a little Japan table, with a quire of gilt paper upon it, and on the paper a silver snuff-box fashioned in the shape of a little book.' On the upper shelves Addison noticed the presence of a number of other counterfeit volumes, all the classic authors, and a set of the Elzevir first editions in wood, only the titles meant to be read. Among the books Addison mentions are Virgil, Juvenal, Sir Isaac Newton's works, Locke on 'Human Understanding,' a spelling-book, a dictionary for the explanation of hard words, Sherlock on 'Death,' 'The Fifteen Comforts of Matrimony,' Father Malebranche's 'Search after Truth,' 'A Book of Novels' [? Mrs. Behn's], 'The Academy of Compliments,' 'Clelia,' 'Advice to a Daughter,' 'The New Atalantis' (with key), a Prayer-book (with a bottle of Hungary water by the side of it), Dr. Sacheverel's speech, Fielding's Trial, Seneca's 'Morals,' Taylor's 'Holy Living and Dying,' and La Ferte's 'Instruction for Country Dances,' etc. [Illustration: ELIZABETH PINDAR. God's providence is mine inheritance. Elizabeth Pindar me jure possidet. Anno Dom. 1608] The list is a quaint bit of Addisonian satire, almost worthy to rank by the side of Sir Roger de Coverley. Addison had no very elevated opinion of the intellectual gifts of his women contemporaries, as the juxtaposition of the Prayer-book with the bottle of Hungary waters (a popular stimulating perfume of the day) shows. The books above named were at that time to be found in nearly every gentleman's library, and that they should be found in the possession of women is not surprising. Addison's 'intellectual lady' and her library are a fiction, but a charming fiction withal. In spite of the literary glories of her reign, 'Glorious Anna' can scarcely be regarded as a book-collector. Queen Caroline, the consort of George II., was an enthusiastic bibliophile. Her library was preserved until recently in a building adjoining the Green Park, called the Queen's Library, and subsequently the Duke of York's. An interior view of the building is given in Pyne's 'Royal Residences.' We give on page 267 a reproduction of one of the earliest English bookplates engraved for a lady. It was discovered a few years ago in a volume of title-pages collected by John Bagford, and now in the British Museum. Of Elizabeth Pindar as a book-collector, or, indeed, as anything else, we are without any record. [Illustration: _The Eshton Hall Library._] The present century has produced two of the most distinguished _femmes bibliophiles_ which this country has ever known. The earlier collector, Miss Richardson Currer (1785-1861), of Eshton Hall, in the Deanery of Craven, York, was the owner of an exceedingly rich library of books. Of these, two catalogues were printed. The first, in 1820, under the superintendence of Robert Triphook, extended to 308 pages; the second was drawn up by C. J. Stewart in 1833. That of the latter included four steel engravings of her library. This library was especially strong in British history, and it included a copy on vellum of the St. Albans reprint of Caxton's 'Chronicle' (wanting only the last leaf), which realized £365 at her sale; of Higden's 'Polychronicon,' printed by Caxton, 1482 (not quite perfect); one of the most perfect copies of Coverdale's Bible, 1535, which sold for £250; of Norden's 'Voyage d'Egypte,' on large paper, and many other fine books. It was also rich in natural science, topography, and antiquities. Dibdin describes her as 'at the head of all the female collectors of Europe.' Miss Currer, who suffered from deafness, was an intimate friend of Richard Heber, and it was rumoured at one time that this distinguished bibliomaniac was engaged to be married to Miss Currer, but the event did not transpire. Miss Currer's books were sold at Sotheby's in July and August, 1862, and realized nearly £6,000, the 2,681 lots occupying ten days in selling. Miss Currer was great-niece of Dr. Richardson, whose correspondence was edited by Dawson Turner in 1835. Two of the views of Miss Currer's fine library in Stewart's catalogue are reproduced by Dibdin in his 'Literary Reminiscences.' Before passing on to the second famous lady book-collector--Mrs. John Rylands--a few more or less important names may be mentioned in connection with the subject. In August, 1835, Evans sold the 'valuable' library of the late Dowager Lady Elcho, but as her books were mixed with other properties, it is not now possible to distinguish one from the other. Lady Mark Sykes' musical library was sold at Puttick's in March, 1847, and eleven months later Sotheby sold some valuable books and books of prints, the property of a Miss Hamlet. H.R.H. the Princess Elizabeth, Landgravine of Hesse-Homburg, and daughter of George III., was a confirmed book-collector, and her library, divided into 1,606 lots, came under the hammer at Sotheby's in April, 1863. It occupied four days in disposal, and realized £915 12s. 6d. The books, which were chiefly in elegant bindings, were for the most part illustrated works, illuminated manuscripts, and books dealing with a very wide variety of topics; whilst many of them had an extraneous value from the fact that they contained signatures and interesting notes of the Princess and other members of the Royal Family. The libraries of the late Lady Francis Vernon Harcourt (August, 1873); of the late Mrs. Ellis, of Bernard Street, Russell Square (November, 1871); and of the late Miss Beckles (December, 1868), have been dispersed at Sotheby's. Lady Morgan's library, comprising the principal works in French, English, and Italian literature, and many scarce and curious books relating to Irish history--many of the books had the owner's autograph--was sold at the same place in April, 1863, but the 396 lots only realized £70. The library of another literary woman, Miss Agnes Strickland, the historian of the Queens of England, was dispersed at the same place in May, 1876, when a few hundred books realized £60. Some very choice books (many of them enriched with the notes of H. T. Buckle) were included in the portion of the library of the late Mrs. Benzon, of 10, Kensington Palace Gardens, sold at Sotheby's on June 14, 1880, when 379 lots realized over £775. Some books from Mrs. Jameson's library were sold at Puttick's in October, 1882, the more important items being annotated or extra-illustrated copies of her own books. The collection formed by Miss Drummond, of Berkeley Square, Bristol, and sold at Sotheby's in May, 1862 (1,339 lots realizing £1,316 6s.), was a remarkably choice library, the whole in elegant bindings, presenting a great variety of patterns, tooled in gold, with appropriate devices and other decorations. There were splendid 'Galleries,' and books of 'picturesque sceneries,' magnificent volumes on natural history, some beautiful Persian manuscripts, and the best works in standard literature. Mrs. Brassey, of Lower Seymour Street, had some good books, which were sold by Bates on December 23, 1814, and included 'The Golden Legend,' by Caxton, which realized 93 guineas. Mrs. John Rylands is the widow of the late Mr. John Rylands, of Longford Hall, near Manchester. Mrs. Rylands' career as a _femme bibliophile_ may be briefly summarised thus: In 1889 this lady formed the plan of erecting in Manchester a memorial to her late husband, which should embody one main purpose of his life, as carried out by him very unostentatiously, but with great delight, during the greater part of his career. To make the highest literature accessible to the people was with him a cherished aim, and it was accordingly resolved by his widow that the memorial should be in the form of a library. To this end Mrs. Rylands took into her confidence four gentlemen whose names are well known, and for whom the late Mr. Rylands had the greatest respect and admiration, namely, the Rev. Dr. S. G. Green, of London; the late Rev. Dr. MacFadyen, of Manchester; Mr. W. Carnelly and Mr. W. Linnell, both also of Manchester, with whose aid the preliminaries for carrying out her purpose were speedily arranged. The site in Deansgate, lying between Wood Street and Spinningfield, was purchased, and after visits to several great libraries and other public buildings, Mrs. Rylands instructed the architect of Mansfield College, Oxford, Mr. Basil Champneys, of London, to execute plans for a suitable structure, to bear the name of the John Rylands Library. About the same time she commenced the purchase of books, being aided in this by her friend, Mr. J. Arnold Green, son of the Rev. Dr. Green, who, putting himself in communication with various agents, collected a large number of standard books in English and foreign literatures, including early Bibles, first editions, and many other rare and valuable works, with several choice manuscripts and autographs. The number of volumes purchased reached many thousands, one of the acquisitions being the celebrated copy of the 'Biblia Pauperum,' once belonging to the Borghese Library in Rome, at the sale of which it fetched 15,800 francs. Up to this time a considerable amount had been spent. When the announcement was made in 1892 that Earl Spencer, the owner of the Althorp Library, was willing to dispose of that famous collection, Mrs. Rylands at once felt that its possession would be the crown of her whole scheme--accomplishing it with a completeness of which she never dreamed when first she formed her plans. Mr. Arnold Green accordingly at once communicated on her behalf with Mr. Railton, of Messrs. Sotheran and Co., a firm which had been largely employed by her in previous purchases of books. The result is that the Althorp Library passed into Mrs. Rylands' possession, the price paid being close on a quarter of a million sterling. The transaction is by far the largest of its kind which has ever taken place in this or any other country. It has been calculated that the Althorp Library cost its founder about £100,000, and that it should have more than doubled in value in less than a century is an extremely gratifying fact. It contains a large number of unique and excessively rare books, which nothing short of an upheaval in this country similar to the French Revolution could place on the market. Those who depend upon such a contingency to obtain a few of these splendid books are likely to wait for a very long time. But even with the striking examples of Miss Currer and Mrs. Rylands before us, the conclusion still forces itself upon one that the _femme bibliophile_ is an all but unknown quantity. The New Woman may develop into a genuine book-lover; it is certain that the old one will not. The Chinese article of belief that women have no souls has, after all, something in its favour. Bookstall-keepers have a deep contempt for women who patronize them by turning over their books without purchasing. It would not be possible to repeat all the hard things they say about the sex. In the words of one: 'They hang around and read the books, and though I have a man to watch them, while he is driving away one another is reading a chapter. They can read a chapter in a minute.' 'Does that not interest them in the book, so that they buy it?' asked an interlocutor. 'No, sir; it don't. It only makes them go to the other stall and read the last chapter there. Not once in a blue moon, sir, does womenfolk buy a book. A penny weekly is what they buy, and before they fix on one they read half a dozen. You take my word for it, sir, it takes a woman half an hour to spend a penny at a bookstall.' A characteristic incident once happened to an old judge's clerk who had a stall a few years ago in Gray's Inn Road. A lady, with whom there were two or three children, after waiting about the pavement, at length suddenly became interested in the humble bookstall. Several pretty picture-books attracted the attention of the children, and they became clamorous to possess them. The stall-keeper, in the politest possible manner, offered the books at her own price. The reply was: 'Oh no, thanks. We are only looking over the books to kill time.' 'Much obliged to you, ma'am, for your kindness and consideration,' was the prompt reply. [Illustration] [Illustration] BOOK THIEVES, BORROWERS, AND KNOCK-OUTS. 'FACILIS descensus Averni' might well be the motto for any article or chapter dealing with the above comprehensive 'avocations.' Once started on his career, the book-thief may be regarded as entirely lost. At the Middlesex Sessions a few years ago a genius of the name of Terry was sentenced to six years' imprisonment for stealing books. On inquiry it was found that this same person had already been in prison six times, two terms of eighteen months each, one term of five years' penal servitude, and another of seven years, all for stealing books. Each thief has his own special _modus operandi_, which he varies according to circumstances. There are those who do it without any adventitious aid, and those who cover their sin with various accessories. First, the ordinary book-thief, who watches his opportunity when the shopkeeper is not looking, and simply slips the book quickly under his coat and departs. This method is plain and simple in execution, but sometimes dangerous in practice. Then there is the man who wears an overcoat, the lining of the pocket of which he has previously removed, so that he can pass his hand right through while apparently only standing still looking on, with his hands quietly in his pocket, possibly with one hand openly touching something, whilst the other is earning his dinner. [Illustration: '_Earning his Dinner._'] An amusing incident was once the experience of a London bookseller. While sitting behind his counter inside the shop, he was amazed one day at seeing a man running at a tremendous rate, and, momentarily slackening his speed to seize a book off the stall, he had disappeared before the astounded bookseller was able to get to the door. And it is remarkable that, though many people were about, no one seems to have noticed the thief take the book, though they saw him running. Another favourite device is to carry a newspaper in the hand, and when no one is looking deposit the paper on a carefully-selected book within the folds; or having an overcoat carried on the arm to quickly hide something under cover of it. This latter method requires, of course, a well-to-do-looking man, and obviously is chiefly confined to the stealers of the higher class of valuable books. It also requires, like every well-managed business, a certain amount of capital, for it is absolutely necessary--in order to lull suspicion--that small purchases should be made from time to time in the hunting-ground that has been chosen for the season. [Illustration: _The King's Library, British Museum._] Then there is the mean man who, having money, is yet lacking in the will to spend it. Such individuals in these days of disguising bad deeds under grand names are euphemistically designated kleptomaniacs. Most London booksellers have had experience of this class. It is a known fact that a literary man whose name is familiar to many readers was expelled from the reading-room of the British Museum for this sort of conduct, stealing small trifling things that could easily have been bought, and mutilating other books by cutting out passages which he was too lazy to transcribe, and too mean, although a well-to-do man, to employ an amanuensis. 'Steal?' quoth ancient Pistol. 'Foh! a fico for the phrase. Convey the wise it call.' Had Pistol lived in these days he would have said, 'Kleptomania the wise it call.' Some years ago there resided in the West End of London a Belgian gentleman well known in literary circles, and a man of good position to boot. He possessed a valuable library, and was a frequent visitor at shops where he could add to his collections. One dealer noticed that, whenever Monsieur Y. called upon him, one or two valuable books mysteriously disappeared, and he was not long before he arrived at the conclusion that his Belgian customer appropriated his wares without attending to the customary, but disagreeable, process of exchanging the coin of the realm for his bargains. Our friend the dealer, an honest but remarkably plain-spoken and fearless individual, made careful notes of all his losses and their prices. One day he stopped Monsieur Y. just as he was leaving the shop, and remarked that he might as well pay for the little volumes he had stowed away in the pockets of the capacious overcoat he almost invariably wore. Great was the assumed indignation of the Belgian bibliophile, who asserted that he had no books on him but those he had already accounted for. 'Come, come,' said the dealer, 'that won't do; I left you alone in the room upstairs, but I watched you through the door, and saw you pocket the books, of which the price is so much. Unless you pay for them I shall send for a policeman; and whilst I am on the topic you may as well settle for those other books you have taken from my shelves at various times.' Here he produced his list, with the prices all affixed, and a certain small sum added by way of interest. Hereupon Monsieur Y. stormed and raved, swore it was an attempt to extort money from him, and threatened legal proceedings. 'If,' said the dealer, 'you can empty your pockets now without producing any book of mine, except those you have paid for, I will withdraw my claim and apologize, otherwise I shall at once send my man' (whom he then called) 'for a policeman.' Whereupon Monsieur Y. paid the full claim, walked out of the shop, and never entered it again. But the catalogues were regularly sent to him, and as the dealer constantly had books that he required, he ordered what he wanted by post, so that in the long-run the bookseller really lost little or nothing by his boldness. The same bookseller complained that people often ordered his books but neglected to pay for them, whilst intending purchasers who meant to pay ready money, and called at the shop for the books, had to be sent away disconsolate, sometimes after having come long distances to secure the long-wished-for volume. 'But first come, first served, is my motto, and if six orders come for the same book, it goes to the man whose letter or card I first receive.' A sturdy John Bull sort of man this, with a great knowledge of books, who has had to fight a long uphill battle, and is perhaps one of the best-known men in the trade. An awkward incident for the thief happened once. A bookseller, the proprietor of two or three shops, was in one of them, when a person entered and offered for sale a couple of books. The proprietor recognised one of them as being his property, he having that morning sent it to the other of his shops, from which it had been apparently almost immediately removed. When questioned, the intending vendor pretended to be much insulted, and asserted the book had been in his possession for some considerable time, and even threatened the bookseller, when he insisted on detaining the book, with the police. This was rather unfortunate, for at that moment a constable passing by was called in, and, in spite of a great deal of bluster and many threats, the thief was marched off to the nearest police-station. The other book, it was found, had also been stolen that morning from another shop, and the result was four months' imprisonment. The remarkable fact is that book-thieves are nearly always well-to-do people; if hunger induced them to steal a book to get a dinner, they would come in the category of ordinary thieves. If they stole books because they wanted to read them, and were unable to pay for them, one might overlook their crime. One of the most remarkable illustrations of the past few years is that in which an ex-lieutenant in the Royal Scots Greys was implicated. The books belonged to a lady who had let her house to the prisoner's father. She left a number of books, which were in three bookcases. They were locked, and contained valuable books. She was informed (so runs the report) that several of the books were missing, and a few weeks after she saw a number of books, including Ruskin's 'Stones of Venice' and 'Modern Painters,' which she identified as her property. The law was put into motion, and the case came into the courts. The value of the two books mentioned she estimated at £60, and the other books at £50. Mr. Reeves, bookseller, then of 196, Strand, deposed that he could identify the prisoner, and on June 21 he purchased five volumes of Ruskin's 'Modern Painters,' and gave a cheque for £16. He understood that the accused had come into possession of them through a death. On that occasion the prisoner asked the witness what he would give for three volumes of 'The Stones of Venice.' Witness offered him £9. On June 28 the prisoner brought the book, and finding it not to be in such good condition, witness offered him £7 10s. This was accepted, and witness handed a cheque to the prisoner for that amount. Witness bought other books from the prisoner for £3 2s. 6d. Mr. Reeves said that he sold 'Modern Painters' for £18, and 'The Stones of Venice' for £8 10s. Here is another illustration, gleaned from the Greenwich Police Court: A person, forty-six, of ladylike appearance, and no occupation, was charged at Greenwich with stealing a book, valued 4d., from outside the shop of Charles Humphreys, 114, South Street. She was seen to take a book from a stall, place it in a novelette, and walk away. Prosecutor followed, stopped her, and said, 'I've got you now.' She cried out, 'Oh, for God's sake, don't, don't! Let me pay for it.' But he said, 'No, not for £5, as you are an old thief.' At her house he found over a hundred books bearing his private mark, but he could not swear that they had not been bought. Once he bought some books from the prisoner which she had stolen from his shop, but he did not know that when he bought them. Prisoner pleaded guilty to stealing one book, and on her behalf a solicitor produced a certificate from a medical man, stating that she was suffering from general weakness of system, loss of appetite, sleeplessness, and evident mental disorder. Those symptoms he attributed to causes which induced the magistrate to deal leniently, and a fine of £5 was imposed. [Illustration: '_Steals a book, places it in a novelette, and walks away._'] About a couple of years ago, two maiden sisters, Grace and Blanche ----, were charged at Bow Street with theft. To all appearances they were highly respectable members of the community. Grace was seventy-four; Blanche had only seen sixty summers. They visited Shoolbred's, apparently wanting to buy some Prayer-books and Bibles. They looked at many, but none suited them. They left without purchasing anything, no suspicions being aroused on the part of the attendants. But Detective Butler and Constable 173 D, who had taken great interest in the old ladies' movements, saw Grace hand a Book of Common Prayer, a hymn-book, and ladies' companion to her sister. Shoolbred's manager identified the articles as the property of the firm, but declined to prosecute on account of the old ladies' ages. Grace admitted the theft, but said she did not know what she was doing. A small fine was inflicted. Even so astute a tradesman as Bernard Quaritch has been victimized by the book-thief. These are his own words: 'A little dark man, of about forty-five years of age, with a sallow complexion, apparently a Dutch or German Jew, speaking in broken English in an undertone, introduced himself, showing me a business card, "Wunderlich and Co." The following day the pretended Wunderlich selected books from my stock to the amount of £270, and said he would come again and select more. At the same time the little dark, sallow man saw, but refused to buy, a very sweet little "Livre d'Heures," with lovely miniatures in _camaïeu-gris_, bound in black morocco, with silver clasp. The price of this lovely MS. was 50 guineas. Since then this mysterious little dark man has disappeared, and my very sweet little "Livre d'Heures," with its lovely miniatures, has disappeared also.' In 1891 Messrs. Sotheran and Co. discovered that a number of rare books had been abstracted from their Strand shop, including a first edition of Burns's 'Poems,' 1786; Shakespeare's 'Poems,' 1640, first edition, with portrait by Marshall, and eleven extra leaves at the end; Heywood's 'Thyestes of Seneca,' 1560; and Piers Plowman's 'Vision and Crede,' 1561--all choice volumes. The Burns was valued at £30, and this was traced a month or two after its sudden disappearance to a bookbinder, who offered it to Mrs. Groves, who, however, wisely declined to lend money on it. Subsequently the book was sent to Mr. Pearson, Exmouth, who, knowing it had been stolen, at once communicated with the prosecutors. Two of the other books were traced to New York, and were returned to the firm at cost price. The enterprising bookbinder received twelve months' hard. Mr. Waller, the bookseller, formerly of Fleet Street, relates a rather amusing incident connected with Thackeray: 'I think it was a book of "Services" in four small volumes, two of which he already possessed, and one, completing the set, he saw in my window. He came in, said he wanted that book, and gleefully told how he had picked up the third a few minutes before in Holywell Street. He dived into his pocket to show me his precious "find." It was not there! Between Holywell Street and Fleet Street someone had relieved him of it, in the belief, apparently, that it was an ordinary pocket-book with valuables in it!' [Illustration: '_He had placed the book in his pocket. Someone had relieved him of it._'] A by no means uncommon person is what may be described as the conscientious thief, or the man who steals one book and replaces it by another, which he considers to be of equal value. But a much cleverer dodge was that of a wily villain who selected a book from the stock of a firm of booksellers in the Strand, asking one member of the firm to charge it to him, and then selling it to the other partner at the opposite end of the shop a few minutes later! This can scarcely be described as book-stealing, for there is no proof that the 'book-lover' did not intend paying for the article ultimately. In this case the assumption was distinctly against his doing anything of the sort. It will be seen from the foregoing facts that the book-thief hesitates at no class of book. But would he draw the line at stealing a book which deals with thieves? The late Charles Reade appears to have thought that he would not, for he has inscribed not only his name, but the following somewhat plaintive request, 'Please not to steal this book; I value it,' in a volume which Mr. Menken once possessed. The book in question is entitled 'Inventaire général de L'Histoire des Larrons,' Rouen, 1657. This singular work gives at length the stratagems, tricks, and artifices, the thefts of and assassinations by thieves, with a full account of their most memorable exploits in France. One cannot help wondering if a copy of this extraordinary book has ever been stolen from a book-collector, and of the remorse which must have overtaken the thief when he discovered the character of his prize. That indeed would be a strange irony! But the book-thief is not by any means one of the numerous penalties of modern civilization. He has an antiquity which almost makes him respectable. Hearne, in his 'Johannes Glastoniensis,' states that Sir Henry Saville once wrote a warning letter to Sir Robert Cotton, who had offered some additions to the library of the founder of the Bodleian. An appointment had been made with Sir Robert to give Bodley an opportunity of inspecting the treasures on his shelves, and it was in anticipation of this that Saville thought it his duty to warn his friend in the following terms: 'And remember I give you faire warning that if you hold any booke so deare as that you would bee loath to have him out of your sight, set him aside beforehand.' On the authority of the above extract, Gough has charged Bodley with being a suspicious character--or, in other words, a thief; but the complete letter puts a very different complexion on the extract. He tars with the same brush Dr. Moore, Bishop of Ely, Dr. Rawlinson, and his friend Umfreville. In connection with the first-named, Gough repeats an anecdote which crops up every now and then as authentic, for these half-truths have an extraordinary vitality. The anecdote runs as follows: 'A gentleman calling on a friend who had a choice library, found him unusually busy in putting his best books out of sight; upon asking his view in this, he answered, "Don't you know that the Bishop of Ely dines with me to-day?"' There can be only one inference, of course. As a matter of fact, we do not believe that there is any truth in either rumour. So far as Dr. Moore, 'the Father of Black-letter Collectors,' is concerned, there can be no doubt that he had a fairly elastic conscience in the matter of book-collecting. He is said to have collected his library by plundering those of the clergy of his diocese, justifying himself by the cynical remark, _Quid illiterati cum libris?_ We do not vouch for the truth of this anecdote, any more than for the graver charge, but probably there is some foundation for it. In the Harleian MSS. there is an interesting account of the several libraries, public and private, which existed in London during the earlier part of the last century. From this source we learn that 'in the days of Edward VI., in the chapel adjoining to the Guildhall, called my Lord Maiors Chapell, was a library well furnisht, being all MSS. Stow says the Duke of Somerset borrowed them, with a design never to return them, but furnisht his own study in his pompous house in the Strand; they were five cartloads.' Horace Walpole expressed his opinion to the effect that virtuosi have been long remarked to have little conscience in their favourite pursuits. A man will steal a rarity, who would cut off his hand rather than take the money it is worth. Yet in fact the crime is the same. He tells us of a 'truly worthy clergyman, who collects coins and books. A friend of mine mentioning to him that he had several of the Strawberry Hill editions, this clergyman said, "Aye, but I can show you what it is not in Mr. Walpole's power to give you." He then produced a list of the pictures in the Devonshire, and other two collections in London, printed at my press. I was much surprised. It was, I think, about the year 1764, that, on reading the six volumes of "London and its Environs," I ordered my printer to throw off one copy for my own use. This printer was the very man who, after he had left my service, produced the noted copy of Wilkes's "Essay on Woman." He had stolen one copy of this list; and I must blame the reverend amateur for purchasing it of him, as it was like receiving stolen goods.' The number of book-thieves has increased with the extension of public (or free) libraries. Here, the accumulated ingenuity of the literary thief has an ample scope, and he is not the man to let an opportunity escape. Some of the tribe have a mania for old directories; but novels are the most popular. The clerical thief with a thirst for sermons and theological literature is a by no means infrequent customer--and truly the indictment of a thief of this description ought to bear the fatal endorsement continued almost up to our own times, _sus. per coll._--'let him be hanged by the neck.' At one time nearly all the volumes in the very useful Bohn's Library series were kept in the Reading-room of the British Museum, but they so frequently disappeared that the authorities decided upon their permanent sequestration to a less handy part of the building. Last year Mr. C. Trice Martin's new 'Record Interpreter' was so highly appreciated both at the Record Office and at the Reading-room, that the copy at each institution was stolen from the shelves within twenty-four hours of its being placed there. Women more or less respectably dressed are often objects of suspicion to public librarians; they are also a class infinitely more difficult to deal with than men, for, whilst the receptivity of their cloaks is infinite, their 'feelings' have to be considered. Whether guilty or innocent, the suspected party is bound to create a 'scene,' probably hysterics--and what is a public librarian, or, indeed, any other man, to do under such circumstances? Libri was unquestionably the most accomplished and wholesale book-thief that ever lived. As Inspector-General of French Libraries under Louis Philippe, he had special facilities for helping himself--his known thefts have been valued at £20,000. We mention him here because his collections were sold at Sotheby's in 1860. One of the most interesting illustrations of this man's depredations was exposed in 1868, when Lord Ashburnham issued a translation of the Pentateuch from a Latin MS. which had been purchased by a previous holder of the title from Libri, who sold it under the condition that it was not to be published for twenty years. It had been stolen in 1847 from the Lyons Library, and the clause in the agreement, therefore, is easily understood. Libri evidently was not one of those whom Jules Janin describes as 'people who don't think it thieving to steal a book unless you sell it afterwards.' Unfortunately, education has knocked all the virtue out of charms and incantation. Madame de Genlis is said to have fenced the greater part of her library with the following lines: 'Imparibus meritis pendent tria corpora ramis; Dismas, et Gesmas, media est Divina Potestas; Alta petit Dismas, infelix infima Gesmas. Nos et res nostras conservet Summa Potestas!-- Hos versus dicas, ne tu furto tua perdas.' Quite a long chapter could be made up of the doggerel rhymes frequently made use of in bygone days in which the prospective thief was warned off under penalties of a prison, or even of a worse end. Here is one: 'Si quisquis furetur This little Libellum Per Phoebum, per Jovem, I'll kill him--I'll fell him-- In ventrem illius I'll stick my scalpellum, And teach him to steal My little Libellum.' And here is another: 'Qui ce livre volera, Pro suis criminibus Au gibet il dansera, Pedibus pendentibus.' A curious and interesting chapter in the history of book-stealing is furnished us by Mr. F. S. Ellis. 'Some thirty years since I was talking with Mr. Hunt, for many years Town Clerk of Ipswich, who was an ardent book-collector, and in the course of conversation he lamented how some ten years previously he had missed an opportunity of buying a first edition of "Paradise Lost" under the following circumstances. There was a sale in the neighbourhood of Ipswich, in which a number of books were included. These were all tied in bundles and catalogued simply as so many books in one lot. Going over one of these bundles, what was his surprise to find a first edition of "Paradise Lost," with the first title-page, and in the original sheepskin binding! He said nothing, but went round to the auctioneer's house and asked him if he would be willing to sell him a particular book out of the collection previous to auction. "Oh, by all means," said the auctioneer; "just point me out the volume and say what you are willing to give me for it, and you can take it out at once." What was Mr. Hunt's chagrin and disappointment, on again taking up the bundle, to find that the number of books was all right according to the catalogue, but Milton's "Paradise Lost" had disappeared. Someone with as keen an eye as the Town Clerk had also discovered the jewel, and had put in practice the theory that exchange is no robbery, and had substituted some other volume for the Milton without going through the formality of a consultation with the auctioneer. Not long after this, a "Paradise Lost," which I have every reason to believe was _the_ "Paradise Lost" described above, in the original sheepskin binding, and having the "first" title-page, was offered for sale to Mr. Simpson, who carried on an old-book business for Mr. Skeat, in King William Street, Strand. He purchased it for what in those days was considered a high price; but how much it was below what is now esteemed its value is witnessed by the fact that he offered it to the late Mr. Crossley, of Manchester, and after much haggling sold it to him for £12 12s. When Mr. Crossley had secured it, he quietly remarked, "And now let me tell you that if you find a dozen more copies in similar condition, I will give you the same price for every one." It remained in Mr. Crossley's library for many years, and at the sale of his books in 1884 realized what was considered the very high price of £25. Eight years after it had advanced to £120.' The book-borrower is, perhaps, a greater curse than the thief, for he simulates a virtue to which the latter makes no pretension. The book-plate of a certain French collector bore this text from the parable of the Ten Virgins: 'Go ye rather to them that sell, and buy for yourselves.' 'Sir,' said a man of wit to an acquaintance who lamented the difficulty which he found in persuading his friends to return the volumes that he had lent them, 'Sir, your acquaintances find, I suppose, that it is much more easy to retain the books themselves than what is contained in them.' A certain wise physician took a gentle way of reminding the borrower who dog-eared or tore the pages of his books: pasted on the fly-leaf of each of his books is a printed tag, bearing this legend: 'Library of Galen, M.D. "And if a man borrow aught of his neighbour and it be hurt, he shall surely make it good," Exodus xxii. 14.' A much more effective plan is that described some time ago in the _Graphic_ by Mr. Ashby Sterry. In all the books of a certain cunning bibliophile he had the price written in plain figures; when anyone asked him for the loan of a book he invariably replied, 'Yes, with pleasure,' and, looking in the volume, further added, 'I see the price of this work is £2 17s. 6d.'--or whatever the value might happen to be--'you may take it at this figure, which will, of course, be refunded when the volume is returned.' If a person really wished to read the volume he would of course be glad to leave this deposit; and if he did not return it he would not be altogether an unmitigated thief. Mr. John Ashton relates, in his volume on the 'Wit, Humour, and Satire of the Seventeenth Century,' a curious anecdote which may be here quoted: 'Master Mason, of Trinity Colledge, sent his pupil to another of the Fellows to borrow a Book of him, who told him, _I am loathe to lend my books out of my chamber, but if it please thy Tutor to come and read upon it in my chamber, he shall as long as he will._' When Harrison Ainsworth was a youth and living at Manchester, he contracted an enthusiastic admiration for Elia, to whom he sent some curious books on loan. One of these was a black-letter volume entitled 'Syrinx or a sevenfold History, handled with a variety of pleasant and profitable both comical and tragical Arguments,' etc., by W. Warner, 1597. Lamb replied, December 9, 1823: 'I do not mean to keep the book, for I suspect you are forming a curious collection, and I do not pretend to anything of the kind. I have not a black-letter book among mine, old Chaucer excepted, and am not bibliomanist enough to like black-letter. It is painful to read; therefore I must insist on returning it, at opportunity, not from contumacy and reluctance to be obliged, but because it must suit you better than me.' The copy of Warner's 'Syrinx' Ainsworth had borrowed from Dr. Hibbert-Wade, and therefore it was not the future novelist's book to give. Ignoring, however, his expressed determination to return it, Elia lent the book to another friend, who shortly after went to New York, and may have taken the Warner with him, much to Dr. Hibbert-Wade's annoyance, of which he did not, it is said, fail to let Harrison Ainsworth know. It appears, however, to have returned again--indeed, it is probable that the book never left England--for it is now in the Dyce Collection at South Kensington, with 'Mr. Charles Lamb' written on one of the fly-leaves, and Dyce's note, 'This rare book was given to me by Mr. Moxon after Lamb's death.' The ranks of London book-borrowers, as those of book-thieves, have included a number of men eminent or distinguished in some particular way. The Duke of Lauderdale was one of these. Evelyn tells us that he was a dangerous borrower of other men's books, as the diarist knew to his cost. Coleridge was a wholesale book-borrower, and the manner in which he annotated the books of his friends caused much strong and deep lamentation at the time. These 'annotated' books have now acquired a very distinct commercial and literary value. The _London Chronicle_ of December 3-5, 1767, contains a curious advertisement, headed 'Book-Missing.' It goes on, 'Whereas there is missing out of the late Dr. Chandler's Library the _fifth Volume of Cardinal Pool's Letters_, and it is presumed that the said volume of Letters was borrowed by some friend of the Doctor's; it is earnestly requested by the Widow and Executrix of the said Dr. Chandler that whoever is in possession of the said volume would be so kind as immediately to send it to Mr. Buckland, Bookseller, Paternoster Row, and the favour will be gratefully acknowledged.' When Sir Walter Scott lent a book, he put in its place a wooden block bearing the name of the borrower and the date of the loan. Charles Lamb, tired of lending his books, threatened to chain Wordsworth's poems to his shelves, adding, 'For of those who borrow, some read slow; some mean to read, but don't read; and some neither read nor mean to read, but borrow to give you an opinion of their sagacity. I must do my money-borrowing friends the justice to say that there is nothing of this caprice or wantonness of alienation in them. When they borrow money they never fail to make use of it.' Just as the difference between the book-thief and the book-borrower is of too slight a nature to warrant independent chapters, so the hero who indulges in the luxury of a 'knock-out' is more or less of a thief, and this company is, essentially, a very proper place in which to find him. A 'knock-out,' it may be briefly explained to the uninitiated, is a system by which two or more booksellers--or, for the matter of that, any other tradesmen--combine to procure certain books at a lower than normal auction value. An American paper stated, some time ago, and among many other remarkable things, that 'a private buyer cannot obtain a book by auction in London at any price.' The extreme foolishness of such a statement need not be enlarged upon in this place. That the knock-out system does exist in London no one but a fool would deny. That it does occur now and then at such places as Sotheby's, Christie's, Puttick and Simpson's and Hodgson's, is without any manner of doubt, but not to any extent worth mentioning. Where the system is in vogue is at sales held in private houses, and at auction-rooms where books are not generally sold. At such places books are usually knocked down at absurdly low figures, until the private person steps in, when the prices begin to go up with a bound; they then realize oftentimes figures far above those at which they may be acquired at the shops. After the private bidder has been excited into paying an excessive price for his lots, he realizes that he is doing a foolish thing, and resigns the game into the hands of the trade, when the prices again begin to assume their former very low levels. The knock-out books are taken away by their nominal purchaser, and in a convenient back parlour of some handy 'pub' they are put up again for competition among the clique, when all profits realized are thrown into a pool, and afterwards equally divided. 'The two books you commissioned me to get were knocked down at £1 15s. and 10s. respectively,' said a bookseller to a well-known collector only the other day; 'and if you insist upon having them at these prices, plus the commission, you must have them. But as a matter of fact they cost me £1 over and above the total of £2 5s.' The reply to the collector's demand for an explanation was, 'Smith agreed to let me have these two books if I did not oppose his bidding for the Fielding.' It is scarcely necessary to say that the total cost, with the £1 thrown in, was much below the original commission, whilst the Fielding ran up to considerably over the price Smith intended to have given. By striking a balance, the two cronies each obtained what he wanted. An arrangement of this sort is nearly invariably the explanation of two extreme prices being paid for equally good copies of one book in a single season. In 1781 a portion of the library formed by Ralph Sheldon, of Weston, Warwickshire, chiefly in the third quarter of the seventeenth century, was sold at Christie's, but the auctioneer throughout appears to have been victimized by the knock-out system. One of the lots, comprising a large collection of scarce old plays in fifty-six volumes, quarto, was knocked down to one bookseller for £5 5s.; he then passed it on to another for £18, and the collection was sold on the spot to Henderson the actor for £31 10s. At this same sale the English Bible, 1537, realized 13s.; two copies of the Common Prayer Book, 1552, 8s.; the First Folio Shakespeare, with two other books, £2 4s.; the 'Legenda Aurea,' printed by Notary, 1503, 10s. 6d. It would not be difficult to extend this list of illustrations, but perhaps one example is as good as a hundred. We may, appropriately enough, conclude this brief but sufficiently lengthy notice of the knock-out system with an anecdote which shows that, in this case, a 'knock-out' would have been justifiable. At a certain famous book-sale a few years ago, a volume of no particular interest, except that it contained the autograph of the Earl of Derwentwater, was possibly worth £5. But the bidding was brisk, two of the dealers being evidently bent on having the prize. To the astonishment of everybody, the price went up to about 120 guineas, when one of the dealers gave in. Taking the other man aside, he said, 'Who have you been bidding for?' 'Mr. So-and-So.' 'So have I.' Another illustration of the unexpected and incomprehensibly sudden rise in the auction value of books is explained in the following extract of a letter from Horace Walpole: 'I cannot conclude my letter without telling you what an escape I had, at the sale of Dr. Mead's library, which goes extremely dear. In the catalogue I saw Winstanley's "Views of Audley End," which I concluded was a thin dirty folio, worth about fifteen shillings. As I thought it might be scarce, it might run to two or three guineas; however, I bid Graham _certainly_ buy it for me. He came the next morning in a great fright, said he did not know whether he had done right or very wrong; that he had gone as far as _nine and forty guineas_. I started in such a fright! Another bookseller had, luckily, as unlimited a commission, and bid fifty. I shall never give an unbounded commission again.' [Illustration] [Illustration] SOME HUMOURS OF BOOK-CATALOGUES. AN interesting and curious pendant to Mr. H. B. Wheatley's 'Literary Blunders' might be made up of the errors which have occurred from time to time in booksellers' catalogues. These errors are sometimes grotesquely amusing, and are perhaps as often attributable to the ingenuity of the printer as to the ignorance of the cataloguer. Booksellers usually content themselves with seeing one proof of their catalogues, and as the variety of books dealt with is so great, it would need at least half a dozen careful revisions to secure anything like correctness. As a general rule, the catalogues of London booksellers are exceptionally free of blunders, provincial compilers (notably one or two in Birmingham) being far behind their Metropolitan rivals. The example of 'Mill, John S., On Liberty, " " On the Floss,' is almost too well known to again bear repeating; the same may be said of the instance in which Ruskin's 'Notes on the Construction of Sheepfolds' was catalogued as a book for farmers, and of that in which Swinburne's 'Under the Microscope' was classed among optical instruments. The cross-reference of 'God: _see_ Fiske, J.,' is a gem of absent-mindedness. Here are four more gems which appeared in the catalogue of a public library: 'Aristophanes: The Clouds of the Greek Text.' 'Boy's Own Annual: Magazine of Gymnastics.' 'Swedenborg: Conjugal Love and its Opposite.' 'Tiziano (Titian), Vicelli Da Cadore.' The following is a good specimen of a bookseller's inspiration in reference to the entry 'Bible--2 vols., 12mo., _Edin._, 1811' in his catalogue: 'Sir Brunet and Dibdin in praise of this beautiful edition. As most nearly approaching unimaculateness a better copy than the present one could not be found.' This example is on a par with that in which an early Missal is catalogued as an 'extremely rare old printing and engraved work,' its author being 'Horæ B. V. Mariæ and usum Romanum,' whilst it is stated to be bound by 'Chamholfen Duru,' whoever he may be. Equally intelligent is another item from the same source, 'Newcastle (Marguis de Methode, etc.), oeuvre auquel on apprende,' etc. Perhaps it was the cheapness--sixpence each--which prevented two items from having fuller descriptions: 'Horace, the Poems of, very interesting.' 'Jokely, very interesting, 12 months.' Perhaps '12 months' is the term of imprisonment which any bookseller deserves for publishing such absurdities. Another gem in the way of blunders is the following: 'There's (Lord and Lady) Legends of the Library at Lilies, 2 vols., 8vo., bds., 2s. 6d., 1832.' The book catalogued in this puzzling manner is by Lord and Lady Nugent, and is entitled 'Legends of the Library at Lilies [the Nugents' residence], by the Lord and Lady thereof.' A similar carelessness resulted in Sir Astley Cooper's 'Treatise on Dislocations,' 1822, being catalogued as follows: 'Bart (C. A.), a Treatise on Discolourations and Fractures of the Joints,' etc., and also of books by Sir James Y. Simpson, Bart., as by 'Bart (S.)' and 'Bart (J.).' The following entries speak for themselves: 'Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Pottery.' 'The New Wig Guide.' 'The Rose and the Ring by R. Browing.' 'Marryat's "Pirate and Three Butlers."' Under 'Devil, The,' we find the following entry: 'Le Deuil sou observation dans tous les Temps,' 1877; and under Numismatics the following delightful bull: 'Money, a comedy, a poor copy, 1s.' As an instance of official cataloguing, it would be difficult to beat the following description of a familiar classic which appeared in a list issued a few years ago (according to a writer in _Notes and Queries_) in a certain presidency of India, 'by order of the Right Hon. the Governor in Council': 'Title--Commentarii (_sic_) De Bello Gallico in usum Scholarum, Liber Tirtius (_sic_). Author--Mr. C. J. Caesoris. Subject--Religion.' Nichols, in his 'Literary Anecdotes' (iv. 493), mentions that Dr. Taylor, who about the year 1732 was librarian at Cambridge, used to relate of himself that one day throwing books in heaps for the purpose of classing and arranging them, he put one among works on Mensuration, because his eye caught the word _height_ in the title-page, and another which had the word _salt_ conspicuous he threw among books on Chemistry or Cookery. But when he began a regular classification, it appeared that the former was 'Longinus on the Sublime,' and the other a 'Theological Discourse on the _Salt_ of the World, that good Christians ought to be seasoned with.' Thus, in a catalogue published about eighty years ago the 'Flowers of Ancient Literature' are found among books on Gardening and Botany, and Burton's 'Anatomy of Melancholy' is placed among works on Medicine and Surgery. Some blundering bibliographer has classed the 'Fuggerarum Imagines,' the account of the once mighty Italian family, among botanical works, under the 'Resemblance of Ferns.' Dibdin states that he once saw the first Aldine Homer in a country bookseller's catalogue described as 'a beautiful copy of the _Koraun_.' The Rev. John Mitford sent to a Woodbridge bookseller for a copy of Shelley's 'Prometheus Unbound,' and received the answer that no copy of 'Prometheus' _in sheets_ could be obtained--a misconception which Bernard Barton promptly forwarded to London, to Charles Lamb's great content. We have heard of the following blunder, but have never actually seen it: 'SHELLEY--Prometheus, unbound,' etc. ' ---- ---- another copy, olive morocco,' etc. The nearest approach to it occurred a few years ago in a Glasgow auctioneer's catalogue: 'Lot 282, Sir Noel Paton's Illustrations, Shelley's _Prometheus_, unbound, 12 plates, N.D.' As a matter of fact, the copy was bound in cloth. 'Please send the ax relating to a justus pease' is a phrase which will be remembered by readers of 'Guy Mannering.' Only recently a post-card reached Messrs. Smith, Elder and Co. requesting the immediate despatch of a copy of 'Hard on Horace,' which was the inaccurate, or perhaps waggish, sender's rendering of the 'Hawarden Horace.' This will be remembered with the request for 'The Crockit Minister,' by Stickett, and 'Sheep that Pass in the Night.' Some of the foregoing budget can scarcely be placed to the discredit of the cataloguer, but they are sufficiently _apropos_ to be included here. The following amusing entry occurs in the sale catalogue of the library of the late Mr. R. Montgomery, which was dispersed by auction at Antwerp the other day: 'Plain or Ringlets? by Alfred Tennyson, Poet Laureate, with illustrations by John Leech. London, s.d., 8{o} d. rel. dos et coins chagr. rouge, tête dorée, figg. coloriées et noires.' Messrs. Longmans had a letter a few weeks ago asking for a copy of 'Chips from a German Workshop,' by Max Müller, for review in a trade paper dealing with carpentering, etc.! This reminds one of the story of Edwardes, the Republican bookseller of a century ago, who put a Government spy to confusion by re-binding a Bible and giving it the seditious title, 'The Rights of Man.' Burke's 'Thoughts on the French Revolution' was advertised by him as 'The Gospel according to St. Burke.' Outside a certain bookseller's shop, Mr. R. C. Christie once saw a book in six duodecimo volumes, bound in dark antique calf, and lettered 'Calvini Opera.' Knowing of no edition of the works of Calvin in that form, Mr. Christie took down a volume, and found it was 'Faublas!' It was the original edition in thirteen parts, with the seventeen engravings, and was so lettered, no doubt, by its former owner to shelter it from indiscreet curiosity! The practice of giving books of poetry, novels, etc., what may be described as floricultural titles, has landed cataloguers into an astonishing number and variety of errors, some of which have been pointed out by Mr. B. Daydon Jackson in the _Bibliographer_. The chief sinners have been foreign bibliographers, who, not being able to examine the books which they catalogue, depend entirely upon the titles. The same error occurs frequently here in this country. An English trade journal included Dr. Garnett's selection from Coventry Patmore's poems, 'Florilegium Amantis,' under 'Botany, Farming, and Gardening.' Two of Mayne Reid's novels, 'The Forest Exiles' and 'The Plant-Hunters,' have been included among scientific books, but in these cases the errors seem to have arisen from the misleadingly translated titles, the former in Italian ('Gli esuli nella foresta; cognizioni di scienza fiscia e naturale'), and the latter in French, 'Le Chasseur de Plantes.' The learned Pritzel included among botanical treatises 'The Lotus, or Faery Flower of the Poets.' In the earlier part of the century a story was in circulation relative to an erudite collector who was accustomed to boast of his discoveries in Venetian history from the perusal of a rare quarto, 'De Re Venaticâ.' A brother bibliographer one day lowered his pretensions by gravely informing him that the historical discoveries to which he laid claim had been anticipated by Mr. Beckford, who, towards the close of the last century, published them to the world under the analogous title of 'Thoughts on Hunting.' There is a good deal of amusement to be got sometimes out of even such an unpromising source as an auctioneer's catalogue, especially when it includes books. The list of a miscellaneous lot of things lately sold at a South London depository comes in this category. One of the items, for example, is entered as 'Dickin's works bound in half,' but who Mr. 'Dickin' is, or was, or what the 'half' indicates, the reader is left to find out. 'Goldsmith lover' also seems a trifle confusing, until the lot is hunted up and the discovery made that Goldsmith's 'Works' is intended. Lytton's 'King John' suggests a work hitherto unknown to readers of the author of 'My Novel,' until examination proves it to be 'King Arthur,' and 'McCauley's History of England' is rather suggestive of a scathing indictment of English misrule by an author from the 'distressful country' than of the picturesque prose of the whilom Whig statesman and book-collector. [Illustration] [Illustration] SOME MODERN COLLECTORS. WE have already referred, in a preceding chapter, to the origin and early history of the Roxburghe Club, and also to the disrepute in which its too zealous members, Hazlewood and Dibdin, contrived to place it. The club still exists, and flourishes in a manner which renders it unique among book-clubs. A complete set of its privately-printed booklets is an almost impossible feat of book-collecting, and an expensive luxury in which but few can afford to indulge. The present constitution of the club, the members of which dine together once a year, is as follows: President: The Marquis of Salisbury, K.G.; S.A.R. le Duc D'Aumale; the Duke of Buccleuch, K.T.; the Duke of Devonshire, K.G.; the Marquis of Bute, K.T.; the Marquis of Lothian, K.T.; the Marquis of Bath; Earl Cowper, K.G.; Earl of Crawford; Earl of Powis; Earl of Rosebery; Earl of Cawdor; Lord Charles W. Brudenell Bruce; Lord Zouche; Lord Houghton; Lord Amherst of Hackney; the Lord Bishop of Peterborough; the Lord Bishop of Salisbury; the Right Hon. A. J. Balfour, M.P.; Sir William R. Anson, Bart.; Charles Butler, Esq.; Ingram Bywater, Esq.; Richard Copley Christie, Esq.; Charles I. Elton, Esq.; Sir John Evans, K.C.B.; George Briscoe Eyre, Esq.; Sir Augustus Wollaston Franks; Thomas Gaisford, Esq.; Henry Hucks Gibbs, Esq. (vice-president); Alban George Henry Gibbs, Esq.; A. H. Huth, Esq. (treasurer); Andrew Lang, Esq.; J. Wingfield Malcolm, Esq.; John Murray, Esq.; Edward James Stanley, Esq.; Simon Watson Taylor, Esq.; Sir Edward Maunde Thompson (principal librarian of the British Museum); Rev. Edward Tindal Turner, Esq.; V. Bates Van de Weyer, Esq.; and W. Aldis Wright, Esq. [Illustration: _The late Henry Huth, Book-collector._] The finest and most select, and perhaps the most extensive, collection of books owned by any member of the Roxburghe Club is the noble library of Mr. Huth, whose father, the late Henry Huth, founded it. A very interesting account of this library, from two points of view--Mr. F. S. Ellis's and Mr. A. H. Huth's--appears in Part II. of Quaritch's 'Dictionary of English Book-collectors,' whilst the fullest account of all the rarities which it contains is comprised in the catalogue in five imperial octavo volumes. It is impossible to do justice to it in the brief space at our disposal. But a few rarities may be enumerated as showing its extremely varied nature. Nearly all the early printers are represented in the Huth Library--there are the Gutenberg and Fust and Schoeffer Bibles; the Balbi Catholicon, 1460; there are over seventy Aldines, including the rare Virgil of 1501, with the bookplate of Bilibald Pirkheimer. There are no less than a dozen fine examples of Caxton's press; the only known copy on vellum of the 'Fructus Temporum' of the St. Albans press; about fifty works from the press of Wynkyn de Worde, of which several are unique; and sixteen works printed by Richard Pynson. Of Shakespeare quartos the late Mr. Huth secured a very fine series at the Daniel sale in 1864, including 'Richard II.,' 1597; 'Henry V.,' 1600; 'Richard III.,' 1597; 'Romeo and Juliet,' 1599; 'Midsummer Night's Dream,' 1600; 'Merchant of Venice,' 1600; 'Merrie Wives of Windsor,' 1602; 'Othello,' 1622; 'Titus Andronicus,' 1611; and 'Pericles,' 1609. The library is equally rich in the production of Elizabethan and Jacobean literature, many of the items being either unique or very nearly so; it is especially rich in first editions of the English poets from the earliest times down to Goldsmith, Keats, Shelley, etc. Indeed, the collection seems to contain the first or best editions of every English work of note; there are many fine manuscripts, and some highly interesting autographs. Mr. Ellis tells us that Mr. Huth always bought on his own judgment, without consultation and without hesitation, 'and I believe it may be safely affirmed that it would be difficult to name any collector who made fewer errors in his selection. He was never known to bargain for a book or to endeavour to cheapen it. The price named, he would at once say 'Yea' or 'Nay' to it, and though it was supposed at the time that he paid high prices for his books, it may be confidently asserted that as a whole they are worth very much more than he paid for them, which, I think, could not have been much less altogether than £120,000.' Joseph Lilly is said to have sold to or purchased for Mr. Huth books to the value of over £40,000. Mr. Huth was born in 1815, and died in 1878. The library is, as we have said, now the property of his son, Mr. Alfred H. Huth, who has made a number of important additions to it, and who is as ardent and as genuine a bibliophile as his father. [Illustration: _Mr. Henry H. Gibbs, Book-collector._] Without approaching either in size or interest to that of Mr. Huth, the choice collection of books formed by Mr. Henry Hucks Gibbs, and lodged at his town-house at St. Dunstan's, Regent's Park, is full of attraction to the student of English literature. Early in the present century St. Dunstan's was inhabited by the Lord Steyne of Thackeray's 'Vanity Fair,' and it was here that the orgies took place which resulted in the sensational trial of Nicholas Suisse, the confidant of Lord Hertford. The library at St. Dunstan's is a lofty, well-lighted room of about 28 feet by 20 feet, and the bookcases are made of Thuya wood from Australia, a wood which is exceedingly beautiful when polished. Mr. Gibbs's first book of note was purchased at Bright's sale in 1845, and was St. Augustine's 'De Arte Predicandi,' a volume of twenty-two leaves, and of well-known interest to students of early typography. Of Bibles there are over fifty examples, including Coverdale's, 1535, Matthew's, 1537, Cromwell's, 1539, a very large copy, and Cranmer's, 1540. The fine series of Prayer-Books comprises forty-seven in English, from the time of Edward VI. (1549) to that of Queen Victoria, whilst thirty-five others are in foreign languages. There are nine Primers from the time of Henry VIII. to Elizabeth; and there are no fewer than thirty-one editions of the New Testament. Examples of some of the choicest known Books of Hours and Missals are also in this collection, whilst among the six editions of the 'Imitatio Christi' there is a sixteenth-century manuscript on two hundred and forty-seven folios of paper, written by Francis Montpoudie de Weert, for the use of Bruynix, Priest, Dean of Christianity. Among the _incunabula_ there is a very large copy of the 'Chronicon Nurembergense,' 1495, and two Caxtons: first, the 'Polychronicon' of Ralph Higden, 1482; and, secondly, the 'Golden Legend,' 1483, which latter was successively in the Towneley and the Glendening collections. The other more notable articles include fine copies of the four Folio Shakespeares, first editions of Milton's 'Comus,' 'Lycidas,' 'Eikonoklastes,' 'Paradise Lost,' and 'Paradise Regained,' several Spensers, and very complete sets of the privately-printed books edited by the Rev. A. B. Grosart, Halliwell-Phillipps, H. Huth, E. Arber, and E. W. Ashbee. A very interesting _catalogue raisonné_ of Mr. Gibbs's choice library has been printed, to which the reader is referred for further particulars. [Illustration: _Mr. R. Copley Christie, Book-collector._] Just as the minds of no two men run in precisely similar grooves, so no two libraries are found to be identical. Many bear a very striking resemblance to one another, but in more than one respect they will be found to differ. The splendid library formed by Mr. R. Copley Christie, the president or past-president of quite a number of learned societies, is altogether unique, so far as this country is concerned, and his library in a garden--truly the _summum bonum_ of human desires!--at Ribsden, near Bagshot, is certainly one of the most remarkable which it has been our privilege to examine. Mr. Christie has not endeavoured to collect everything, but he has no rival in the specialities to which he has devoted his particular attention. He is the author of the only complete monograph on Etienne Dolet, which has been translated into French, and of which M. Goblet, when Minister of Public Instruction, caused 250 copies to be purchased for distribution among the public libraries of France. Of the eighty-four books (many of which are now lost) printed by Dolet, there are three collections worthy of the name, and the relative value of these will be seen when we state that Mr. Christie possesses copies of forty-four, the Bibliothèque Nationale thirty, and the British Museum twenty-five. Mr. Christie's collection of the editions of Horace is probably the finest in existence outside one or two public libraries; he has about 800 volumes, and among these are translations into nearly every European language. He has upwards of 300 Aldines, nearly forty of which are _editiones principes_. The works of the early French printers generally are objects of special interest; he has, for example, about 400 volumes printed by Sebastian Gryphius, at Lyons, from 1528 to 1556. Mr. Christie's library is also very rich in works of or relating to Pomponatius, Hortensio Landi, Postel, Ramus, J. Sturm, Scioppius, Giulio Camillo, and particularly Giordano Bruno. A considerable number of the members of the Roxburghe Club come in the category of book-lovers rather than book-collectors. The Earl of Rosebery is understood to possess many valuable books and manuscripts relating to Scottish literature, particularly in reference to Robert Burns; but beyond this he has no fixed rule regarding additions to his library, 'except his course of reading for the moment.' The father of the present Lord Zouche formed a small but valuable library, which is now at Parham Park, Steyning, Sussex; it consists of some rare Syriac, Greek, Coptic, Bulgarian, and other manuscripts, of a Biblical nature, some of which are now on loan to the British Museum. In addition to these, there are a good many early printed books, first editions, and so forth, and also an extensive reference library, to which the present Lord Zouche has made some important additions. The extensive library of the Marquis of Bath, at Longleat, Warminster, has been formed at different times and by different persons; and what the present holder of the title has added has been bought without any method on various subjects in which his Grace happened to take an interest at the time. Sir John Evans's library is for the most part comprised of archæological, numismatical, and geological publications, with a certain number of old volumes 'which, though of intrinsic interest, cannot be regarded as bibliographical treasures.' Both Sir William Reynell Anson and the Right Hon. A. J. Balfour, M.P., possess good working libraries, but disclaim the possession of what are known as 'collector's' books. The present Marquis of Bute possesses several extensive libraries of books at his various seats, and chiefly composed of works relating to Scottish history, to liturgical, philological, and archæological subjects. The first Marquis of Bute formed an excellent collection of Spanish, Italian, and French classics, of books of memoirs, and of works relating to the English Reformation. The third Marquis formed another library, chiefly of a historical character, an exceedingly important portion of it being an extensive series of books and pamphlets relating to the Franco-Prussian War and the Commune. The Duke of Buccleuch has also several fine libraries at his various seats, the chief collections being at Dalkeith and Bowhill, Selkirk; his Grace keeps very few books in London. The books at Dalkeith have been catalogued by Mr. A. H. Bullen, who proposes to print some notes on the subject. The Duke of Devonshire's library at Chatsworth is one of the most varied and extensive in the kingdom. An admirable catalogue of it was printed in four volumes in 1879, and its value as a bibliographical compilation may be estimated by the fact that the only copy which occurred in the market during the past eight years fetched £10. The library has been formed by the taste and learning of several generations of the Cavendish family, from the middle of the sixteenth century to the present day. The rarest book which it contains is the 'Liber Veritatis,' or collection of original designs of Claude Lorraine. The greatest additions were made to the library by William Spencer, sixth Duke, who, indeed, may be called its founder in its present form. This nobleman, on the advice of Tom Payne, offered £20,000 for the purchase of Count McCarthy's celebrated collection. The offer was declined, but the Duke was a purchaser to the extent of £10,000 of the choicer portions of the library of Thomas Dampier, Bishop of Ely, composed, for the most part, of Greek and Latin classics. The Duke bought largely at the Stanley, Horn Tooke, Towneley, Edwards, and Roxburghe sales. The library possesses the unique collection of plays formed by John Philip Kemble, and for which £2,000 were paid in 1821. The chief features of the library comprise a fine series of the editions of the Bible and of Boccaccio; there are also twenty-three works of Caxton, the most extensive in private hands, now that the Althorp collection has, or is about to, become public property. There are two dozen books from the press of Wynkyn de Worde, and no less than 200 editions of Cicero, including a magnificent copy of the _editio princeps_. The libraries of two members of the Roxburghe Club have been dispersed by auction during the last few years--the Earl of Crawford's, in 1887 and 1889, to which reference has already been made; and Mr. Thomas Gaisford's, in 1890. The former has still a considerable number of important books, to which he is constantly adding; whilst his eldest son is worthily sustaining the reputation of the family for its love of rare and beautiful books. Mr. Gaisford has also a very large library, but he himself describes the books as of no special interest. The Marquis of Salisbury possesses, at Hatfield, a fine library, which, like that of the Duke of Devonshire at Chatsworth, is rather the accumulation of centuries than the formation of any particular head of the house. Many of the oldest and rarest books were at one time the properties of either Lord Burghley, Sir Robert Cecil, or of some other distinguished member of the family. We may mention a few of the _incunabula_: Æneas Silvius, 'Epistolæ,' 1496; St. Augustine, 'De Civitate Dei,' 1477; a copy of the magnificently-printed edition of Aulus Gellius, 'Noctes Atticæ,' Jenson, 1477, a very rare work; Cicero, 'Ad Atticum,' 1470, also printed by Jenson; an example of the _editio princeps_ Homer, Florence, 1488; Juvenal, 'Satyræ,' 1474; the very rare second edition of Lactantius, 'Opera,' printed at Rome by Sweynheym and Parmartz, 1468; Livy, 'Historiarum Romanorum,' printed by Zarothus, 1480; Pomponius Mela, 'Cosmographia,' 1482; Ruffus, 'Opera,' 1472. Lord Salisbury's library includes several books which once belonged to Roger Ascham, notably a copy of Aristophanes, 'Comodiæ,' 1532; Aristotle, 'Opera,' 1531; Peter Martyr, 'Tractatio et Disputatio de Sacramento Eucharistiæ,' etc., 1549, one of the only two copies of which we have any record, the other example being in the Lambeth Library; and a large number of tracts of the time of Henry VIII. Of about 200 books which belonged to Sir Robert Cecil, we may mention two editions of Aristotle, 'Ethica,' 1572 and 1575; Baret, 'An Alvearie, or triple Dictionarie,' in English, Latin, and French, 1573; French Bible, 1546; Bodin, 'La Demonomanie des Sorciers,' 1580; Brache, 'Epistolarium Astronomicorum,' 1596; 'Astronomiæ Instauratæ,' 1602, and 'De Mundi Ætherei,' 1603; two editions of Cicero, 'Rhetorica,' 1552, 1562; Henning's 'Theatrum Genealogicum,' 1598; Galen, 'De Alimentis,' 1570; three editions of 'Natura Brevium,' one of 1566, and two of 1580; Ubaldino, 'Lo Stata Della Tre Corti,' 1594. The books of Lord Burghley include Aristotle, 'Ethica,' 1535; 'Opera,' 1539; 'Politica,' 1543; Ashley, 'Mariner's Mirror,' 1586; Basilius, 'Homiliæ,' 1528, and 'Opera,' 1551; Beda, 'Historia Ecclesiastica'; St. Chrysostom, 'Opera,' 1536; Cyrillus, 'Opera,' 1528; Demosthenes, 'Orationes,' 1528. The edition of Dioscorides, 'Opera,' 1529, belonged, respectively, to Lord Burghley and Sir John Cheke. The library of Mr. John Murray, the eminent publisher, of Albemarle Street, is a small one, but every item is either excessively rare or unique. Its formation was begun by Mr. Murray's grandfather, whilst his father made considerable additions. Naturally, it is very strong in manuscripts and first editions of Byron. It contains, for example, not only the original manuscript of 'The Waltz,' but the several proof-sheets up to a very fine copy of the perfect book. There are also the manuscript of the four cantos of 'Childe Harold' and the various proof corrections. There are also first editions of Goldsmith's 'Traveller,' 'The Deserted Village,' 'The Haunch of Venison,' and 'The Captivity,' with the receipt for the ten guineas which Goldsmith received for it from Dodsley. Mr. Murray possesses the entire manuscript of Sir Walter Scott's 'Abbot.' This was originally minus three leaves. One of these leaves occurred in the market a few years ago, and passed into the possession of an American collector for £17 10s.; a second was secured, also at an auction, for £6 by Mr. Murray, so that the manuscript is only now wanting two leaves. The very interesting commonplace book of Robert Burns was given by Mr. Murray's grandfather to J. G. Lockhart, who left it to his son-in-law, Mr. Hope-Scott, from whom it again passed into the possession of the late Mr. John Murray. The manuscript 'Journal' of Thomas Gray's travels in England, for the most part unpublished, is also in Albemarle Street, as is also the manuscript of Washington Irving's 'Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey.' The first edition of Pope's 'Dunciad,' successively in the possession of Malone, Elwin and Peter Cunningham; Pope's own copy of Sir Richard Blackmore's 'Paraphrase of Job,' 1700, with numerous suggested improved readings in Pope's own handwriting; the _Quarterly Review_ article of Southey on Nelson, with the extensive elaborations from which the printed edition of the book was set up; a fine copy of the First Folio Shakespeare, 1623; a very fine copy of the _editio princeps_ St. Augustine, 'De Civitate Dei,' Rome, 1468; the _editio princeps_ Homer, Florence, 1488; a good copy of the first edition of Shakespeare's 'Midsummer-Night's Dreame,' James Roberts, 1600; a copy of the Prince Consort's 'Speeches,' presented to Mr. John Murray, with an autograph letter from the Queen--these are a few of the many notable books of which Mr. Murray is the fortunate owner. But among the more interesting of the manuscripts are the volumes of notes made at various times and on divers occasions by the late John Murray in his travels in North Germany, France, Switzerland, and South Germany, and from which the celebrated guide-books were printed--practically every word in the first and early editions of these widely-known books was written by the compiler. New Lodge, Windsor Forest, the residence of Colonel Victor Bates Van de Weyer, contains a collection of books of a unique character, collected at vast trouble and expense by his father, the late M. Sylvain Van de Weyer, one of the founders of the Belgian monarchy, and for many years Ambassador to the Court of St. James's. M. S. Van de Weyer, who was born in 1802, and died in 1874, stood in the front rank of modern bibliophiles, and the magnitude of his collections may be estimated from the fact that, with town and country house full to overflowing, he had 30,000 volumes in the Pantechnicon when it was burnt down. He was an indefatigable and discriminating reader as well as a munificent purchaser. The library is rich in rare editions beautifully bound by men whose names rank first in the art of bibliopegy. There is a wonderful collection of fables, and a most complete library of _ana_. The presentation copies of books are numerous and interesting, bearing as they do the autographs of individuals famous in politics, literature, and art. The present owner, who succeeded his father as a member of the Roxburghe Club, has had the books in the library catalogued, and the welfare of this noble collection is well thought of. Both Lord Houghton and Lord Amherst of Hackney possess fine libraries of rare and interesting books. That of the latter includes a Caxton, 'The Laste Siege and Conquest of Jherusalem,' 1481; Henry VIII.'s copy of Erasmus, 'Dialogi,' 1528; the same King's copy of Whytforde's 'The Boke called the Pype or Toune of the Lyfe of Perfection,' 1532; Grolier's copies of Stoplerinus, 'Elucidatio fabricæ usuque Astrolabii,' 1524, and of 'Prognosticatio Johannis Liechtenbergers,' 1526; Maioli's copy of 'Clitophonis Narratio Amatoria,' Lyons, 1544; books bound by Nicholas Eve; early English bindings; and many others. Mr. C. I. Elton, Q.C., M.P., has a fine library, of which a _catalogue raisonné_ has been drawn up and printed. Mr. Charles Butler and Mr. Ingram Bywater possess a number of interesting and rare books. Many of the more notable specimens of the bindings in the libraries of the three last-mentioned gentlemen were exhibited at the Burlington Fine Arts Club in 1891, and are described in the catalogue. Mr. Andrew Lang is not only a distinguished bibliophile, but a prolific writer on the subject of books. He is understood to have an extensive library of an exceedingly miscellaneous character. He has an especial liking for books which bear the traces of former distinguished owners. He himself has pointed out that, 'as a rule, tidy and self-respecting people do not even write their names on their fly-leaves, still less do they scribble marginalia. Collectors love a clean book, but a book scrawled on may have other merits. Thackeray's countless caricatures add a delight to his old school books; the comments of Scott are always to the purpose; but how few books once owned by great authors come into the general market. Where is Dr. Johnson's library, which must bear traces of his buttered toast? Sir Mark Sykes used to record the date and place of purchase, with the price--an excellent habit. The selling value of a book may be lowered even by a written owner's name, but many a book, otherwise worthless, is redeemed by an interesting note. Even the uninteresting notes gradually acquire an antiquarian value, if contemporary with the author. They represent the mind of a dead age, and perhaps the common scribbler is not unaware of this; otherwise he is, indeed, without excuse. For the great owners of the past, certainly, we regret that they were so sparing in marginalia. But this should hardly be considered as an excuse for the petty owners of the present, with "their most observing thumb."' Mr. Lang is the lucky owner of a copy of Stoddart's poem, 'The Death Wake' (1831), that singular romantic or necromantic volume, which wise collectors will purchase when they can. It is of extreme rarity, and the poetry is no less rare, in the French manner of 1830. On this specimen Aytoun has written marginalia. Where the hero's love of arms and dread of death are mentioned, Aytoun has written 'A rum cove for a Hussar,' and he has added designs of skeletons and a sonnet to the 'wormy author.' 'A curse! a curse!' shrieks the poet. 'Certainly, but why and wherefore?' says Aytoun. There is nothing very precious in his banter; still it is diverting to follow in the footsteps of the author of 'Ta Phairshon.' Mr. Lang also possesses John Wilkes' copy of the second edition of 'Theocritus, Bion and Moschus,' in French, with Eisen's plates; he has Leon Gambetta's copy of the 'Journée Chrétienne,' Collet's copy of his friend Crashaw's 'Steps to the Temple,' and a copy of Montaigne, with the autograph of Drummond of Hawthornden. [Illustration: _The late Frederick Locker-Lampson._ From a Portrait by Mr. Du Maurier.] The late Frederick Locker-Lampson, whose lamented death occurred whilst the earlier pages of this book--in which he took much interest--were passing through the press, was an ideal book-collector. He cared only for books which were in the most perfect condition. The unique character of the Rowfant library, its great literary and commercial value, and its wide interest, may be studied at length in its admirable catalogue, which of itself is a valuable work of reference. Mr. Locker, for it is by this name, and as the author of 'London Lyrics,' that he will be best remembered, devoted his attention almost exclusively to English literature, although of late years he had devoted as much attention as his frail health would allow to the formation of a section of rare books in French literature. It would be impossible to describe in this place all the many book rarities at Rowfant; we must be content, therefore, with indicating a few of the more interesting ones: Alexander Pope's own copy of Chapman's translation of Homer, 1611; one of the largest known copies of the First Folio Shakespeare, 1623; an extensive series of the first or early quarto editions of Shakespeare's plays, about fifty in number--including the spurious plays--many of which were at one time in the collections of Steevens, George Daniel, Tite, or Halliwell-Phillipps. The library is rich in other writers of the Elizabethan period--of Nash, Dekker, Greene, Gabriel Harvey. There are also a long series of the first editions of Dryden; the earliest issues of the first complete edition of 'Pilgrim's Progress'; of 'Robinson Crusoe' (the three parts); of 'Gulliver's Travels,' besides about a score of other _editiones principes_ of Swift, Pope, Goldsmith, Fielding, Richardson, Johnson, Gay, Gray, Lamb, Byron, Shelley, Wordsworth, Thackeray, Dickens and many others. The two early printed books of especial interest are the 'De Senectute,' printed by Caxton, 1481, and Barbour's 'Actis and Lyfe of the maist Victorious Conquerour, Robert Bruce, King of Scotland,' printed at Edinburgh by Robert Lepruik in 1571. The room in which the books are kept is virtually a huge safe; it was at one time a small ordinary room, and it has been converted into a fireproof library, with brick walls within brick walls; the floor of concrete, nearly two feet thick, and a huge iron door, complete an ingenious and effective protection against the most destructive of all enemies of books--fire. [Illustration: _Portrait Bookplate of Mr. Joseph Knight._] The library of Mr. Joseph Knight, the editor of _Notes and Queries_, more nearly resembles a select and orderly bookseller's premises than a private individual's. It seems almost impossible to believe that the comparatively small house in Camden Square could contain between 12,000 and 13,000 volumes, and yet such is undoubtedly the case. Every room is crowded, and all the sides of the staircases are crowded with books from top to bottom. Mr. Knight's library is essentially a working one, but it is also something more. It is rich in editions of Froissart's 'Chronicles'; in editions of Rabelais--notably the excessively rare one printed by Michel le Noir, 1505; in Elzevir editions it includes a very extensive series; the series of the 'Restif de la Bretonne' includes about 200 volumes, being one of the few complete sets in London. A few of Mr. Knight's greatest rarities have come to him at very cheap rates--_e.g._, the 'Apologie pour Herodote,' 1566, without any of the _cartons_, or cancels, upon which the Genevese authorities insisted. This little volume, of which there are very few copies known, cost Mr. Knight 16s., neither buyer nor seller knowing its value at the time of the transfer. Another 'bargain' is the fine copy of Baudelaire, 'Les Fleurs de Mal,' 1857, which was fished out of a fourpenny box in High Street, Marylebone! Mr. Knight's collection of French plays and of works relating to the French stage is, like that of the English dramatists--ancient and modern--exceedingly extensive. He possesses, also, a few good Aldines, a number of Bodonis, and some books of Le Gason. Mr. Gladstone is, of course, a book-collector, as well as an omnivorous reader. The Grand Old Book-hunter's literary tastes cover almost every conceivable phase of intellectual study. His library contains about 30,000 volumes, to which theology contributes about one-fourth. The works are arranged by Mr. Gladstone himself into divisions and sections. For many years he was an inveterate bookstaller, a practice which of late years has brought with it a certain amount of inconvenience. After attending Mr. H. M. Stanley's wedding, for example, in 1890, Mr. Gladstone went on one of his second-hand book expeditions, this time to Garratt's, in Southampton Row. The right hon. gentleman walked with his customary elasticity, and was followed to the shop by a large crowd of admirers, chiefly consisting of working men, whose enthusiasm was kept in order by three policemen. Outside the bookseller's several hundred people gathered, and they were not disappointed in their wish to see the Grand Old Man, for Mr. Garratt's shop does not boast of a back-door through which fame can escape its penalties. On coming out, Mr. Gladstone, looking, as a working man standing on the kerb expressed it, 'as straight as a new nail,' received quite an ovation, the people waving their hats and cheering vigorously as he drove away in a cab. Mr. Gladstone's marked catalogues are a familiar and a peculiarly welcome feature with second-hand booksellers, who proudly expose them in their windows. A bookseller who exhibited one of these catalogues before the Old Man retired from the Premiership was accosted by a strong Tory with the remark: 'I see you've got a list marked by Gladstone's initials in the window;' and then, whispering fiercely in the bookseller's ear, he added, 'Does he pay you?' We give a facsimile of one of Mr. Menken's catalogues with an order for books from Mr. Gladstone. [Illustration: '_An Order from Mr. Gladstone._'] Mr. Henry Spencer Ashbee, of Bedford Square, has a small but charming library, nearly every volume being beautifully bound. The books are, for the most part, modern, and chiefly French. There are, for example, Sainte-Beuve's 'Livre d'Amour,' which was suppressed after a few copies were struck off, with the author's own corrections; the Fortsas 'Catalogue,' the cruel joke of M. Renier Chalon; first editions of 'The English Spy,' an exceptionally fine copy; Coryat's 'Crambe, or, his Colwork,' 1611; Roger's 'Poems' and 'Italy'; a number of books illustrated by Chodowiecki, the Cruikshank of Germany; practically all the books published by M. Octave Uzanne and Paul Lacroix in the finest possible states. Mr. Ashbee possesses several extra-illustrated or grangerized books of exceptional interest--the nine volumes of Nichols' 'Literary Anecdotes' are extended to thirty-four, there being upwards of 5,000 additional portraits, views, and so forth. Mr. Ashbee's library comprises several thousand volumes, the binding alone of which must have cost a small fortune. [Illustration: _Portrait Bookplate of Mr. H. S. Ashbee._] [Illustration: _Mr. T. J. Wise, Book-collector._] The libraries of Mr. Thomas J. Wise and Mr. Walter Slater may be bracketed together, partly because they have been formed side by side. They differ in many respects, however. Mr. Wise's is a small but choice collection of books, autographs, and manuscripts of modern writers. He possesses, for the most part, in first editions of the finest quality, practically everything written by Matthew Arnold, William Blake, Robert Browning and Mrs. Browning, Byron, Coleridge, Shelley, George Eliot, Leigh Hunt, Charles Lamb, Landor, Meredith, William Morris, John Ruskin, Swinburne, and Tennyson. Of Shelley, for example, Mr. Wise has a collection of 400 books and pamphlets by or concerning him. There is only one other collection comparable to it, and it is that possessed by Mr. Buxton Forman. Of Byron Mr. Wise has everything, including 'The Waltz,' 'Poems on Various Occasions,' and all the other excessively rare publications of this prolific poet, the only exception, indeed, being 'The Curse of Minerva,' 1812. Mr. Wise's collection of Ruskiniana is practically complete, and includes a number of privately-printed pamphlets issued to a few personal friends. Mr. Walter Slater's books and manuscripts include a unique series of both Dante G. Rossetti and Walter Savage Landor. Of the former, it contains the manuscript of three-fourths of the 'House of Life' series of sonnets, the manuscript of 'St. Agnes,' and the whole of the extant manuscript of 'The King's Tragedy'; these manuscripts usually include not only the 'copy' as it was sent to the printer, but usually the first and second drafts. The series of Landor books and pamphlets is quite complete, from his first book of poems, 'Moral Epistles,' issued in 1795, and the equally excessively rare 'Poems from the Arabic and Persian,' issued at Warwick in 1800, to 'Savonarola,' in Italian, 1860. Mr. Slater has a complete series of the first editions of the curious works of Mrs. Behn. [Illustration: _Mr. Clement Shorter's Bookplate._] Mr. Clement K. Shorter, the editor of the _Illustrated London News_, the _Sketch_, and several other publications, is a book-collector who, like Mr. Wise and Mr. Slater, has pitched his 'tent' on the northern heights of London. Mr. Shorter has an unusually complete set of the works of Thomas Hardy, George Meredith, Sir Walter Scott, Charlotte Brontë--besides the 'Cottage Poems' of old Mr. Brontë--and Matthew Arnold. Of the last named there are copies of the very limited editions of 'Geist's Grave,' 'St. Brandran,' 'Home Rule for Ireland,' and 'Alaric at Rome.' Mr. Shorter's Ruskin treasures include a volume of the plates of 'Modern Painters,' on India paper, bound up in vellum. There are also several first editions of the earlier works of Carlyle, and William Watson's 'Lachrymæ Musarum,' on vellum, with the original manuscript bound up with it. Mr. Shorter has many interesting manuscripts and books by Oliver Wendell Holmes, R. L. Stevenson, and A. C. Swinburne, with autographs or notes by their respective authors. Mr. Richard le Gallienne, the well-known author, has for many years been a confirmed book-hunter, and has come across some rare and interesting finds. Mr. Henry Norman, the traveller and assistant editor of the _Daily Chronicle_, has a number of choice and rare books, chiefly first editions of American authors--J. Russell Lowell, Longfellow, O. W. Holmes, Emerson, Walt Whitman, and Whittier--nearly all of whom were personal friends of Mr. Norman's. Mr. Norman has gone to the extravagance of two sets of the first editions of Thomas Hardy's books, whilst of George Meredith there is one complete set. [Illustration: _Mr. A. Birrell, Book-collector._] The House of Commons contains several men who have very excellent libraries and excellent judgments of books. Mr. Leonard Courtney has been guilty of bookstalling a good many times in his successful career, and is, perhaps, an exception to the general rule that good political economists usually make poor book-hunters. Mr. Courtney possesses a good many uncommon books, which he has picked up from time to time. Mr. Augustine Birrell, Q.C., the author of 'Obiter Dicta,' and son-in-law of the late Frederick Locker-Lampson, has a good library of from 5,000 to 6,000 books. Among these may be noticed the first edition of Gray's 'Elegy,' picked up at Hodgson's for 3s. 6d.; first edition of Keats' 'Endymion,' purchased off a stall in the Euston Road for 2s. 6d.; first edition of 'Wuthering Heights'; and an extensive series of books relating to or by Dryden, Pope, Swift, and others of that period, as well as a number of presentation copies of books by Matthew Arnold, Browning, and Tennyson, etc. Mr. T. R. Buchanan, M.P., who was for many years librarian of All Souls' College, Oxford, has a small but select library of books which are, for the most part, remarkable on account of the beauty or rarity of their bindings. It is especially strong in fine specimens of early English and Scotch bindings; there are a few examples from De Thou's library, and a few characteristic specimens of Italian and Flemish bindings of the best periods. The books themselves are principally editions of the classics; but the section of Bibles printed in England and Scotland is a full one. There are also many volumes with a personal interest; for example, the copy of Locke's 'Essay concerning the Human Understanding' was once Coleridge's, and contains a note by him to this effect: 'This is, perhaps, the most admirable of Locke's works; read it, Southey,' etc.; and the copy of the 'Libri Carolini,' 1549, was Scaliger's. Captain R. S. Holford, of Dorchester House, Park Lane, has a choice library of beautiful and rare books, formed by his father, the late H. S. Holford. For many years its chief treasure was the only known first edition of 'Pilgrim's Progress,' 1678, which was valued at £50; during the last few years, however, four other copies have turned up, without, however, lessening the commercial value of the Holford copy, which would probably fetch two or three times the amount at which it was valued thirty years ago. The facsimile of the first edition issued a few years ago was made from Mr. Holford's copy. A few other treasures of Captain Holford's library may be briefly mentioned as follows: A fifteenth-century manuscript of Livy's 'Historia,' on vellum, in a Venetian binding, with the arms of Aragon; Cardinal Hippolyto d'Este's copy of Rhinghier, 'Cento Giuochi Liberali, et d' Ingegno,' Bologna, 1551; Grolier's copy of Pliny, 'Epistolæ,' etc., Venice, 1518; of Valerius Maximus, Venice, 1534; and of 'Epitomes des Roys de France,' Lyons, 1546; the Maioli copy of Homer, 'Odyssea,' Paris, 1538; Du Bellay's 'Memoirs,' 1572, with the arms of Henri de Bourbon, Prince de Condé; and the copy of 'Liber Psalmorum Davidis,' 1546, bound by Nicholas Eve for De Thou. [Illustration: _Facsimile of Title-page, 'Pilgrim's Progress,' First Edition._] Dr. W. H. Corfield, Mr. C. E. H. Chadwyck-Healey, Q.C., Sir Julian Goldsmid, M.P., Mr. C. F. Murray, Mr. George Salting, Mr. Samuel Sandars, Mr. H. Yates Thompson, Mr. H. Virtue Tebbs, and Mr. T. Foster Shattock, are understood to possess choice libraries of books noted chiefly for the beauty or rarity of their bindings. M. John Gennadius, late Greek Minister at the Court of St. James's, possessed one of the finest libraries formed during recent years. This collection was destined to supplement and ornament the National Library of Greece, founded at Athens by his Excellency's father, on the very morrow of her liberation. Fate, however, ordered otherwise, and these beautiful books were, consequently, dispersed at Sotheby's, from March 28 to April 9, the eleven days' sale of 3,222 lots realizing £5,466. The library of Mr. W. Christie-Miller, of Britwell Court, Maidenhead, is understood to include many choice books, particularly early printed works, but no particulars of it are available. Holland House Library is one of great historic value and interest. It is fully described by the Princess Marie Liechtenstein, in her monograph on the place. Macaulay has described the appearance of the library in his famous essay on Lord Holland. It is rather a collection formed by a statesman and a literary man than by a bibliophile; there are over 10,000 volumes, many of which are privately printed books, presentation copies; there is a large collection of historical works relating to Italy, Portugal, and France; Spanish literature, a memento of the taste of the third Lord Holland, is well represented; the collection of Elzevirs is very fine, as is also that of the Greek and Latin classics, and the highly curious collection of various copies of Charles James Fox's 'James II.,' which belonged to different celebrities, is housed here. Mr. C. J. Toovey inherited from his father, the late James Toovey, a fine library of exceptionally choice books; it is rich in monuments of the Early English printers, one of its gems being a fine copy of the 'Boke of St. Albans'; Aldines probably form one of its largest sections, whilst in bindings by the great masters of the French school of bibliopegic art the library has very few equals. Many of these were purchased by the late Mr. Toovey in Paris, long before the present rage for them had commenced, so that, as an investment, they will doubtless yield a handsome profit if they ever come into the market. The series of Walton's 'Angler' includes the first edition, with a presentation inscription by the author; there is also the largest known First Folio edition of Shakespeare, to which reference has already been made. [Illustration] [Illustration] INDEX. ADDISON, JOSEPH, 39, 108, 265, 267 Advocates, Library of the College of, 116 Ainsworth, W. Harrison, 83, 288, 289 Alchorne, S., 109 Alcuin, 2, 3, 139 Alde, John, 183 Aldersgate Street, 39 Aldine editions, 129-131, 300, 304 Aldus, 129 Alfred, 3 Allen, Thomas, 31 Almon, J., 250 Althorp Library, the, 50, _et seq._ America, book trade with, 189 America, tracts on, 90 Amherst of Hackney, Lord, 309 Anacreon, Stephen edition, 129 Anderson, Adam, 219 Anderson, G. B., 94 Anderson, John, 193 Anglesey, Earl of, 27, 101 _note_ Angling books, Francis's, 93 Anson, Sir W. R., 305 'Anthologia Græca' (1494), 130 'Apologie pour Herodote,' 314 Arch, J. and A., 186 Archaica Club, 79 Archer, Sir Anthony, 16 'Aristophanes' (1498), 129 Aristotle (1495-98), 130 Arthur, Thomas, 230 Arundel, Henry, Earl of, 15, 16, 18 Ascham, Roger, 307 Ascham's 'Toxophilus,' 120 Ashbee, Mr. H. S., 315 Ashburnham, Lord, 126, 285 Ashmole, Elias, 18 Askew, Dr. A., 41 Askew Sale, the, 128, _et seq._ Asperne, James, 186 Athelstan, 3 'Atticus,' 46 Auctions, book, 98, _et seq._, 210 Aulus Gellius, 'Noctes,' 307 Aylesford, Earl of, 89, 117 Bacon, Francis, 19 Bacon, Roger, 6 Bagford, John, 30, 31, 204, 268 Bagster, S., 235 Bain, James, 240 Baker, Mr. E. E., 91 Baker, H., 249 Baker, Samuel, 100 _note_, 102, 103, 223 Baker, Thomas, 34 'Balbi Catholicon,' the, 127, 300 Baldwin and Cradock, 210 Bale, John, 13 Bale's 'Image of Both Churches,' 196 Balfour, Mr. A. J., 305 Ballads, 74 Ballard, T. and E., 103 Ballards of Little Britain, 173 Banks, Dr., 219 Bannatyne Club, the, 62 _note_ Baptist Library at Bristol, 138 Barbican, the, 176, 177 Barclay's 'Ship of Fools,' 120, 121 Barnard, Sir John, 238 Barnfield's 'Encomion of Lady Pecunia,' 41 'Baroccio,' 69 Barrett, Thomas, 35 Barton, Bernard, 76, 296 Bassett, Thomas, 219 Batemans of Little Britain, 171 Bates, Dr., 39 Bath, Marquis of, 304, 305 Bathoe, Sam., 103 Bathoe, W., 234 Baudelaire, 'Les Fleurs de Mal,' 314 Bauduyn (Piers), stationer, 10 Baylis, Alderman, 223 Baynes, W., 211 Beauclerk, Topham, 55 and _note_, 111 Beckett-Denison, C., 117 Becket, Thomas, 176 _note_, 236 Beckford, Peter, 49, 297, 298 Beckford, William, 48-50, 256 Bede, the Venerable, 3 Bedford, Francis, 87 Bedford, John, Duke of, 9, 17 Bedford Missal, the, 9, 109 Bedford Street, Strand, 241 Beet, Thomas, 251 Bell and Sons, George, 244 Benedict Biscop, 2, 3 Bennett, T., 187 Bentham, W., 61 Bentley, Dr. R., 116, 195, 196 Benzon, Mrs., 270 Berkeley, Earl of, 25 Bernard, Dr. Francis, 34, 132 Bernard, Sir Thomas, 71 Berthelet, Thomas, 261 Bibles and New Testaments, 136-140, 212, 261, 262, 285, 291, 302, 306 'Biblia Pauperum,' 272 Coverdale's (1535), 72, 89, 138, 263, 268, 302 Cranmer's (1540 and 1553), 72, 302 Cromwell's (1539), 302 Douay (1663), 120 Eliot's Indian, 119 Fust and Schoeffer (1462), 126, 300 German, 95 Græca Septuaginta, 192 _note_ Gutenberg (or Mazarin) (1455), 58, 72, 89, 90, 114, 125, 126, 255, 300 Hayes (1674), 21 Matthew's (1537), 72, 302 Tyndale's (1525-1526, 1533), 89, 137, 138 St. Jerome's MS., 140 Bibliomania, the decay of, 69 Bibliomaniac, A, 78 Bibliomaniac, the 'Library' of a, 200 Bibliophile, A, 78 Bibliophobia, 108 Bindley, James, 43, 66, 108, 109 Birrell, Mr. A., 145, 319 Bishopsgate Churchyard, 161 Black-letter books, 136 Black-letter booksellers, the, 236 Black-letter collectors, 'Father' of, 27 _note_ Black-letter mania, 59 Blackwell's 'Herbal,' 105 Blake, W., 93 Blandford, Marquis of, 61 _note_, 109, 124 Block book, 89 Bloomfield, R., 154 Boccaccio, the Valdarfer, 52, 61, 93, 123-125 Boccaccio, 'Les Illustres Malheureux,' 50 Bodleian, the, 23, 67 Bodley, Sir T., 22, 283 Boethius, 'Consolation of Philosophy,' 4 Bohn, H. G., 50, 243, 244, 255 Bohn, James, 243 Bohn, J. H., 243, 244 'Boke of St. Albans,' 136, 322 Bolland, Sir W., 61, 69 Bonaparte, Prince L. L., 95, 96, 254 Bonaventure's 'Life of Christ,' 9 Bond Street, 249, _et seq._ Book auctions and sales, 98, _et seq._ Book-borrowers, 274, _et seq._ Book catalogues, some humours of, 293-298 Booker, John, 18 Book-ghouls, 160 Book-hunting, early, 1 Book-marking, Lamb's notion of, 76 Book-pluralists, 46 Books and their prices, 118, _et seq._ 'Booksellers,' the, a poem, 193 Booksellers' Row. _See_ Holywell Street Bookstalls and bookstalling, 149-167 Book-thieves, 274, _et seq._ Boone, T. and W., 246, 250 Booth, Lionel, 116 Boswell, James, 108, 229 Boucher, Jonathan, 70 Bourne, Zacharius, 100 Bovey, Mrs., 265 Bowles, Rev. J., 220 Bowyer, Jonah, 216 Bowyer, William, 216 Boydell, Alderman, 251 Bozier's Court, 201 Brabourne, Lord, 93, 106 Bradbury and Evans, 116 Brand, Rev. John, 112, 179, 190, 207 Brassey, Mrs., 271 Bremner, David, 241 Bridges, John, 34, 121, 122 Bright, B. H., 108, 143 _note_, 302 Brindley, J., 249 Bristol, Earl of, 26, 31 British Museum copies of the classics, 128-131, 139, 166 British Museum, 276 Britten, Mr. James, 151 Britton, Thomas, 172, 173 Broadly, John, 109 Brooke, Lord Warwick, 100 Brown, Mr. J., 200 Brown, 'Old,' 157 Bruck, Cudworth, 193 Bruscambille on 'Long Noses,' 152 Bryant, W., 112 Brydges, Sir Egerton, 47, 59 Buccleuch, Duke of, 90, 305 Buchanan, Mr. T. R., 319 Buckley, Samuel, 174 Buckley, W. E., 94 Bull and Auvache, 206 Bumstead, G., 245 Bunyan, John, 183 Bunyan's 'Pilgrim's Progress,' 145, 146, 312, 320, 321 Burbidge, Prebendary E., 18 Burdett-Coutts, Baroness, 141, 142 Burgess, F., 95 Burghley, Lady M., 264 Burghley, Lord, 306 Burlington, Countess of, 265 Burnet, Bishop, 234 Burnet, Rev. Gilbert, 232 Burney, Dr., 238 Burns, R., 281, 304, 308 Burton, Robert, 23 Butcher Row, 223-225 Bute, Marquis of, 305 Butler, Mr. Charles, 310 Butler's 'Hudibras,' 219 Butterworth, Henry, 217 _note_ Byng, Mr., 144 Byron, Lord, 109, 316 Byron's 'Childe Harold,' 308 Byron's 'English Bards,' 85 Byron's 'Waltz,' 308 Bywater, Mr. Ingram, 310 Cadell, Thomas, 235 Cadell and Davis, 235 Cæsar's (Sir Julius) Travelling Library, 22, 23, 110 Cæsar's 'Commentaries,' 55 Caldecott, Thomas, 68 Camden, W., 21 Campbell, Mr. Dykes, 106 Canonbury Tower, 72 and _note_, 73 Carbery, Lord, 31 Caroline, Queen, 268 Casaubon, Dr. M., 25 Cashel, Bishop of, 255 Cassell and Co., 116 Castell, Dr., 100 Catalogues. _See_ Book Catalogues Cater, W., 193 Caviceo, 'Dialogue,' etc., 93 Cawthorn and Hutt, 208 Caxton, W., 12, 30, 60, 61, 72, 109, 111, 132, 135, 190, 247, 248, 262, 268, 300, 306 'Arthur, King,' 133 'Book called Cathon,' 132, 133 (_bis_) 'Book of Chivalry,' 136 'Book of Good Manners,' 33 'Chastising of God's Children,' 13, 132 'Christine of Pisa,' 89 Chaucer's 'Canterbury Tales,' 136 'Chronicles of England,' 90, 132, 133 Cicero ('De Senectute'), 'Of Old Age,' 89, 132, 133, 313 'Dictes and Sayings,' 90, 132 'Doctrinal of Sapience,' 132, 133 'Faits d'Armes et de Chevalerie,' 13 'Game and Playe of Chesse,' 90, 132, 133, 135 'Godfrey of Bulloigne,' 13, 33, 132 'Golden Legend,' 13, 93, 133, 271, 303 Gower's 'Confessio Amantis,' 133 Higden's 'Description of Britayne,' 90 Higden's 'Polychronicon,' 89, 303 'Historyes of Troy,' 132 (_bis_) 'History of Blanchardyn and Eglantine,' 133 'History of Jason,' 132, 133 (_bis_) 'Life of St. Katherine,' 220, 221 Lydgate's 'Life of our Lady,' 220 'Lives of the Fathers,' 220 'Mirrour of the World,' 90, 95, 133 'Royal Book, or Book for a King,' 90 Russell's 'Propositio,' 134 'Siege and Conquest of Jerusalem,' 309 'Troylus and Creside,' 133 Virgil's 'Æneid,' 13, 133 Caxton Head Catalogues, 204 Caxton, the highest paid for a, 133 Caxtons, the Althorp, 133 Cecil, Sir Robert, 306 Chadwyck-Healey, Mr. E. H., 320 Chained books at Hereford Chalmers, George, 69, 70 Champernoun, Mr., 57 Chandler, Dr., 289 Chapman, Henry, 235 Charing Cross, 235-246 Charing Cross Road, 258 Charles I.'s Prayer-Book, 87 Charles II., 21 Charlotte, Queen, as a book-hunter, 215 Charnock, Dr. S., 100 Cheapside, 184, 185 Chetham Library, the, 118 Child, Alderman, 56 Chiswell, R., 33, 100, 213 Chodowiecki, 316 Christ Church (Canterbury), Books at, 7, 9 Christ's Hospital, Newgate Street, 8 Christie, James, 100 _note_, 103, 117, 291 Christie, Manson and Woods, 117 Christie, Mr. R. C., 297, 303 'Chronicon Nurembergense,' 303 Churchill, A. and J., 210 Cicero, 306. _See_ also Caxton Cicero, 'Ad Atticum,' 307 Circulating Library, the first, 234 Clare Hall, Cambridge, 260 Clare Market, 232 Clarendon, Earl of, 117 Clarke, W., 135, 251 Classics, their market value, 127-131 Claude's 'Liber Veritatis,' 305 Clavell, Robert, 214 Clement's Inn Passage, 225, 226 Clovio, Giulio, 57 Cochrane, J. G., 113, 221 Cock, auctioneer, 103 Cockaine, Sir Aston, 36 Coke, Sir Edward, 25 Colebrook Row, Islington, 76, 77 Coleridge, S. T., 76-78, 289, 320 Collier's 'Ecclesiastical Library,' 16 Collier, John Payne, 74-76, 230 Collins, Mr. Victor, 95, 96 Collins, W., 185 Columbus letter, the, 94 Comerford, James, 86 Compton, 113 Conant, N., 221 Conway, Lord, 24 Conyers, George, 216 Cooke, R. F., 94 Cook, Sir Robert, 25 Cooper, Mr. A. E., 258 Cooper, William, 99, 100 Copinger, Dr., 97 Corfield, Dr. W. H., 320 Corney, Bolton, 71 Cornhill, 184-186 Cosens, F. W., 93 Cosin, Dr., 24, 26 Cotton, Charles, 36 Cotton, Sir Robert, 21, 22, 283 Courtney, Mr. Leonard, 319 Cowper, W., 215 Coxhead, J., 196 Cracherode, C. M., 64-66, 238 Craig, J. T. Gibson, 88, 89 Cranmer, Archbishop, 16, 18 Crawford, Earl of, 88, 89, 126, 306 Crawford, W. H., 93 Crockford's, 226 Crofts, Rev. Thos., 111 Croker, Thomas C., 81, 82 Crossley, James, 287 Crowinshield, Edward, 115 Crowley, Robert, 191 Crozier, of the Little Turnstile, 202, 203 Cruden, Alexander, 185 Cruikshankiana, 90 Cunning bookseller, the, 250 Curll, Edmund, 219 Currer, Miss R., 268-270 Dalrymple, Alex., 56 Dampier, Dean, 238, 306 Daniell, Mr. E., 106 Daniel, G., 72-74, 141-143, 143 _note_ Daniel's, 'Delia,' 87 Dante, the Landino edition, 93 Darton and Hodge, 116 Darton, W., 196-198 Davies, Tom, 237 Davis, Arthur, 28 Davis, Charles, 187, 197 Davis, Lockyer, 199, 236 Davis, W., 199 Day and Son, 116 Day's circulating library, 208 Debrett, J., 250 De Bury, Richard, 7 Dee, Dr., 18 Defoe, Daniel, 156 Delafaye, Charles, 219 Denbigh, Lord, 31 Denham, Henry, 210 Denis, John, 181 Dent, J., 61, 62, 68, 69 Derby, Lord, 31 Dering, Sir Edward, 115 Derwentwater, Earl of, 292 Devonshire, Dukes of, 61 _note_, 124, 133, 141, 142, 173, 305, 306 Dibdin, T. F., 57, 61, 63, 64, 109 Dickens, Charles, 83, 86 Digby, Sir Kenelm, 26, 31, 100, 120 Dilke, C. W., 64, 202, 203 Dilly, C. and E., 183, 184 Dimsdale sale, the, 108 Diodorus Siculus (1539), 130 D'Israeli, Isaac, 71 Dobell, Mr. B., 106, 258 Dobson, Mr. Austin, 45 Dodsley, James, 251 Dodsley, R., 251 Dolben, Sir John E., 56 Dolet, Etienne, 304 Dorset, Earl of, 170 Douce, Francis, 67 Drake, Sir Francis, 19 Dramatic library of F. Burgess, 95 Dramatic library of F. Marshall, 93 Drama, works on the, 68, 291, 306 Drayton, M., 84, 158 Droeshout portrait of Shakespeare, 91 Drummond of Hawthornden, 311 Drummond, Miss, 271 Drummond's 'Forth Fasting,' 86 Drury, H. J. T., 70 Dryden, John, 35 Duck Lane, 175, 176 Duck, Stephen, 219 Duerdin, J., 115 Duke Street, Little Britain, 175, 176 Dulwich College Library, 204 Dunmore, John, 213 Dunton, John, 100-102 Dutens, Rev. L., 117 Dyce, Alexander, 47, 83-85, 289 Dyson, H., 35 Eadburga, Abbess, 260 East End, book-hunting in, 155, _et seq._ _Editiones Principes_, 128-131 Edmonds, Sir Clement, 211 Edward I., 3 Edward IV., 10, 33 Edward VI., 13 Edwards, E., 7, 31 Edwards, James, 117, 249 Egbert, 2 Egerton, T. and J., 113, 236 'Eikon Basilike,' 101 _note_ Elcho, the Dowager Lady, 270 Eliot's Indian Bible, 119 Elizabethan literature, 301 Elizabeth de Burgh, 260 Elizabeth (Princess), of Hesse-Homburg, 270 Elizabeth, Queen, 17, 18, 260, 262-264 Ellis, Mr. F. S., 35, 245, 246, 286, 300, 301 Ellis, Mr. G. I., 106, 246 Elmsley, Peter, 238, 240 Elton, Mr. C. I., 310 Elyot's 'Castell of Helth,' 166 Erasmus' 'Enchiridion Militis Christiani,' 119 Eshton Hall Library, the, 268-270 Essex, Earl of, 264 Eton College Library, 17 Euripides (1503), 129 Evans, R. H., 109, 110 Evans, Sir John, 305 Evans, Thomas, 110, 216 Evelyn, John, 24, 25, 27, 28, 30, 37, 212 Evelyn, Sir, 250 Exeter 'Change, 105, 154, 155 Extra-illustrating, 165 Fabyan's 'Chronicle,' 120 Fagel Collection, 111 Fairfax, Bryan, 56 Farmer, Dr. R., 41, 112 Farnese, Cardinal, 57 Farringdon Road, 158, 159 Fathers, the, 120 Faulder, R., 250 Felton, John, 23, 24 Fenestella, 'De Magistratibus,' 263 Fielding, Henry, 44, 45, 94, 108, 196 'Finds,' some book, 149, 150, 229, 230 Finsbury Square, 178, 179-183 Fire, the great, 212, 213 Flatman's 'Poems,' 85 Fleet Street, 216-223 Fleetwood, Bishop, 17 Fletcher, J. and F., 114 Flexney, W., 194 Folkes, Martin, 108 Fonthill, 49 Foote, Samuel, 163 Ford, K. J., 183 Forster, John, 83-85, 202, 203 'Fortsas Catalogue,' the, 315 Foss, Henry, 239 Foster, Birket, Mr., 94 Fountaine Collection, the, 261 Fox's 'Reign of James II.,' 86 Fox, William, 193 Francis, Francis, 93 Franklin, B., 175, 250 Freebairn's sale, 38, 240 Freeling, Francis, 61 Freeling, Henry, 61 French Revolution, 58, 67 Fresnile, John, 8 Froissart's 'Chronicles,' 314 'Fructus Temporum,' 300 Fuller's 'Church History,' 14 Fuller's 'David's Hainous Sinne,' 151 Funnibus, L., 147 Gainsborough, Earl of, 117 Gaisford, Mr. Thomas, 93, 306 Galwey, Mr. J., 234 Gambetta, Leon, 311 Gardner, H. L., 236 Garnett, Dr. R., 166 Garrick, D., 85 Garth, Samuel, 176 Gataker, Dr. Thos., 100 Genlis, Madame de, 286 Gennadius, M. J., 320-322 George and Sons, E., 187-189 George III., 53, 54, 130, 135, 141 Gibbon, E., 44, 240 Gibbs, Mr. H. H., 301, 302 Gifford, Dr., 139, 140 Gilbert and Field, 186, 187 Gilbert, S. and T., 187 Gilliflower, M., 248 Gladding, R., 187, 188 Gladstone, W. E., 86, 95, 254, 314, 315 Glashier, George, 202 Glasse's 'Art of Cookery,' 150 Gloucester, Humphrey, Duke of, 9, 10 Goldsmid, Sir Julian, 320 Goldsmith, Oliver, 44 Goldsmith's 'The Haunch of Venison,' 308 Goldsmith's 'The Deserted Village,' 308 Goldsmith's 'Traveller,' 308 Goldsmith's 'Vicar of Wakefield,' 94, 146 Gomme, Mr. G. L., 151 Goodhugh, W., 206 Gordon, Sir Robert, 113 Gosford, Earl of, 114 Gosset, Dr. Isaac, 70 Gough, R., 67, 103 Gower, Lord, 61, 62 Grafton, Duke of, 109 Grafton, R., 74 Grangerizing, 165, 316 Gravelot's print of Westminster Hall, 247, 248 Gray, Mr. H., 114 Gray's Inn Gate and Road, 191, 192, 273 Gray's MSS., 81, 146, 308 Gray, T., 84, 85, 319 Green, Mr. J. Arnold, 272 Greenhill, Rev. W., 100 Grenville, Thos., 69, 75, 238 Greville, C. F., 117 Griffith, W., 216 Griffiths, Ralph, 210 Grolier, 65, 309 Grose, Francis, 238 _Grub Street Journal_, 241 _note_ Gryphius, S., 304 Guilford, Earl of, 109 Guilford, Francis, Baron, 31 Gulston, Joseph, 113 Guy de Beauchamp, 6 Guy, Thomas, 184 Gwillim's 'Display of Heraldry,' 156 Gyles, Fletcher, 123 Hailstone, Edward, 93 Halifax, Lord, 31 Hall, Virtue, and Co., 116 Halliwell-Phillipps, J. O., 71, 74, 90-92 Hamilton, Dukes of, 48, 50 Hamilton, Sir W., 117 Hammers, auctioneers, 100 and _note_ Hannay's 'Nightingale,' 70 Hanrott, 71 Harcourt, Lady F. V., 270 Harding and Lepard, 183 Harding's 'Chronicle,' 121 Hardouyn, G., 17 Hardwicke, Lord Chancellor, 89 Hardy, Sir William, 88 Harleian Library, The, 192 Harley, Earl of Oxford, 31, 34, 38 Hartley, L. L., 87, 114 Harvey, Gabriel, 19 Harvey, Mr. F., 165 Harwood, Dr., 128-131 Hatchards, 252-254 Hawkins, Rev. W. B. L., 117 Hawkins, Sir John, 193, 238 Hawtrey, Dr., 71 Hayes, John, 193, 199 Hayes, Samuel, 199 Hazlewood, Joseph, 61, 63, 64 Hazlitt MSS., The, 94 Hazlitt, William, 77 Hearle of Holywell Street, 228 Hearne, Thomas, 27 _note_, 34, 35, 122, 283 Heath, Benjamin, 122, 123 Heathcote, Robert, 68 Heber, Richard, 45-48, 61, 62, 108, 110, 268 Heber, Thomas C., 61 Heliconia Club, 79 Henderson, the actor, 291 Henry, Prince, 20, 21 Henry IV., 9 Henry V., 9, 260 Henry VI., 9, 10 Henry VII., 12, 13 Henry VIII., 13, 17, 261, 309 Herbert, Isaac, 199 Heriot, George, 264 Herodotus (1502), 129 Heydinger, C., 236 Hibbert-Wade, Dr., 289 Highest price paid for a book, 126 Hill, Mr. H. R., 231 Hill, Thomas, 78-80, 110 Hindley, Mr. C., 106, 231 Hoare, Richard, 28 Hodge, Mr. E. Grose, 105, 106 Hodgson and Co., 116, 146, 162-164 Hogarth, W., 234 Holborn, 191-208 Holford, Captain, 146, 320 Holgate, W., 71 Holinshed's 'Chronicle,' 33 Holland's 'Heröologia,' 118 Holland House Library, 322 Holland, Lord, 86, 322 Hollingbury Copse, 91 Holywell Street, 153, 154, 215, 227-231 Homer, the _editio princeps_ (1488), 119, 128 Homer, 120, 311 Homer, the Foulis edition, 129 Hone, W., 216 Hood, Tom, 184 Hookham, T., 250 Hopetoun, Earl of, 126 Hopetoun House Library, 90 Horace, _editio princeps_, 130 Horæ, 261 Horne's 'Orion,' 229 Horsfield, R., 214, 215 Hotten, J. C., 115 Houghton, Earl of, 309 Hume, David, 44, 230 Hunter, Mr., 130 Hunt, Leigh, 149 Hutchinson, Joshua H., 94 Huth, Mr. A. H., 301 Huth, H., 254, 300, 301 Hutt, Charles, 225 Hutt, Mr. F. H., 225 Hutton, George, 204 'Imitatio Christi,' the, 96, 97, 302 Ina, King of the West Saxons, 3 Inglis, C. B., 108 Irving (Washington), 'Abbotsford,' 308 Islington, cattle market at, 164 Isocrates (1493), 129 Isted, G., 61 Jackson, Mr. B. Daydon, 297 Jackson, 17 Jackson, Andrew, 232 Jacobean literature, 301 James, Haughton, 68 James I., 20 James II., 20 Jameson, Mrs., 271 Janin, Jules, 286 Jarvis (J. W.) and Son, 194, 245 Jeffrey, Edward, 113 Jerrold, Douglas, 71 Jersey, Earl of, 56, 133 Johnson, Dr., 23, 44, 117, 237 Johnson and Osborne, 192 and _note_ Johnson, Joseph, 214, 215 John of Boston, 8, 9 Johnston, William, 215, 216 Jolley, Thomas, 143 _note_ Jones and Co., 180 Jones, Owen, 116 Jones, Richard, 191 Jonson, Ben, 19, 84 Juvenal and Persius (1469), 131 Keats, John, 94, 179, 319 Kempis, Thomas à, 96, 97 Kettlewell, Robert, 199 Kidner, Thomas, 100 King, John, 178 King, Thomas, 111-113, 178 King and Lochée, 56, 112 King of Mansfield Street, 239 Kirton, Joshua, 212 Knaptons, the, 214 Knight, Charles, 116 Knight, J. P., 117 Knight, Mr. Joseph, 313, 314 Knock-outs, 121, 164, 290-292 Lackington, George, 182, 183 Lackington, James, 179-183, 245 Lactantius, 'Opera,' 307 'Ladies' Library,' the, 265-267 Lakelands Library, 93 Lamb, Charles, 76-78, 176, 177, 207, 288-290, 296 Lamb's 'Beauty and the Beast,' 150 Lambeth Library, 5, 6 Landor, Walter Savage, 317 Lang, Mr. Andrew, 310 Lang, R., 61 Langford, auctioneer, 103, 111, 139 Lansdowne, Marquis of, 58, 108, 111 Lant, R., 210 Larking, John W., 94 Larrons, 'L'Histoire des,' 282 Laud, Archbishop, 23 Lauderdale, Duke of, 27, 28, 289 Law books, printers of, 217 Lawler, Mr. John, 99, 100, 102, 119, 258 Lawrence, E. H., 94 Lazarus, Mrs., 231 Leacroft, S., 236 Le Gallienne, Mr. R., 318 'Legenda Aurea' (1503), 291 Leigh, George, 103, 104 Leighton, Mr., 106 Leland, John, 15 Lemoine, Henry, 161 'Leontes,' 66 Lepruik, Robert, 313 Lever, Charles, 83 Lewis, L. A., 223 Libraries and book-thieves, 284, 285 Library, the Sunderland, 36-38 Libri Collection, the, 114, 263, 285 Lilly, John, 18 Lilly, Joseph, 74, 244, 245, 301 Lintot, B., 219 Lisburne, Lord, 129 Little Britain, 33, 99, 167-175 Littleton's 'Tenures,' 217 Liverpool, Earl of, 117 Livy, the Sweynheim and Pannartz, 69 Localities, some book-hunting, 166 Locke, John, 85, 320 Locker-Lampson, F., 106, 311-313 Lodge's 'Rosalynd,' 86 London House, Aldersgate Street, 39 Longman and Co., 80, 210 Longueville, Lord, 31 Lovelace's 'Lucasta,' 145 Lowndes, W., 235 Lowndes's 'Bibliographer's Manual,' 244 Low, Sampson, and Co., 116, 208 Loyalty, the 'repository' of, 250 Ludgate Hill, 215 Lumley, Lord, 16, 21 Luttrell, N., 22 Lydgate's 'Bochas,' 232 Lydgate's 'Hystory, Sege, and Destruccion of Troye,' 9 Lysons, D. and S., 110 Lytton, Lord, 150 Macaulay, Lord, 71, 149, 202, 228, 229 Mackenzie, J. Mansfield, 90 Mackinlay, I., 241 Macpherson, F., 195 Macready, W., 117 Maddison, John, 112 Magdalen College, 29, 30 Maitland, Lord, 27 Malone, E., 41, 43, 67, 108, 238 Manley, Richard, 215 Mann, John, 122 Mansion House, the old, 185, 186 Manson, J. P., 207 Manton, Dr. Thomas, 100 Manuscript, the textual value of a, 128 Markland, J. H., 61 Marlowe's 'Doctor Faustus,' 202 _note_ Marlowe's 'Tragedie of Richard, Duke of York,' 70 Marriot, Richard, 218 Marsh, Charles, 232 Marshall, Frank, 93 Martial's 'Epigrammata,' 132 Martyr (Peter), 'De Sacramento Eucharistiæ,' 307 Mary of Este, 17 Mary, Queen, 261 Mason, George, 53 Mather, Increase, 151 Mathews, J., 234 Mathias, 'Pursuits of Literature,' 238 Matthew of Westminster, 'Flores,' 17 Matthews, Charles, 74 Maty, Dr. M., 220 Mawman, Joseph, 184 Maximilian, Emperor, 115 Mayhew, Henry, 161 Mazarin Bible. _See_ Bible Mazzoni, G., 201 McCarthy, Count, 108 Mead, Dr. R., 40, 105, 127, 292 Menken, Mr. E., 205, 206, 282, 315 Mews Gate, the, 238-240 Middle Row, Holborn, 194-196 Middleton, Conyers, 223 Millan, J., 235 Millar, Andrew, 235 Millington, E., 100 _note_, 101 and _note_, 170 Milton, J., 81, 95 Milton's 'Comus,' 303 Milton's 'Eikonoklastes,' 303 Milton's 'Lycidas,' 303 Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' 41, 120, 145, 170, 232, 286, 287, 303 Milton's 'Paradise Regained,' 303 Mitre Tavern, the, 116, 222 Modern Collectors (Some), 299-322 Molini, Mr., 106, 245 Molini, Peter, 249 Monasteries, the dissolution of, 13, _et seq._ Moore, Dr. John, 27 and _note_, 30, 283 Moore, Tom, 81 Moorfields, 168, 177-179 More, Sir Thos., 15, 96, 97 Morgan, Lady, 270 Morpeth, Lord, 61 Moxon and Co., 116 MSS., the Hamilton, 50 Muggletonian tracts, 228 Murray, J., ambassador, 250 Murray, John of Sacomb, 137, 138 Murray, Mr. C. F., 320 Murray, Mr. John, 307, 308 Musgrave, Dr. S., 250 Musæus (1494), 130 'My Novel,' extract from, 201 Napoleon I., 107 Napoleon of booksellers, the, 256 Nash, Tom, 19, 20 Neligan, Dr., 106 Nelson, Viscount, 117 Newbery, John, 213 New Cut, the, 157 Newton, Isaac, 85 Newton, W., 174 Nicholas de Lira, 8 Nicol, George, 59, 110, 124, 126, 251, 252 Noble, Francis, 194 Noble, Theophilus, 225, 226 Norgate, Mr. F., 110 Norman, Mr. Hy., 318 Nornaville and Fell, 250 North, Francis, 170 North, Dr. John, 31, 32 North, Roger, 32, 170 Notary, Julian, 211, 291 _Notes and Queries_, 88 Nourse, John, 236 Novimagus, Society of, 83 Ogilby, David, 196 Oldys, W., 192, 237 Orange Street, Red Lion Square, 202 'Orlando,' 57 Osborne, Tom, 34, 55, 191-193, 241 _note_ Ossian's 'Poems,' 229, 230 Osterley Park Library, 56 Otridge, W., 236 Ottley, W. Y., 71 Ouvry, Frederick, 86, 87 Ovid (1471), 131 Oxford, Anne Cecil, Countess of, 265 Oxford, Books at, 7, 9 Oxford, Edward, Earl of, 52, 122, 124, 139, 173, 192, 193 Oxford Street, 199-202 Pall Mall, 113, 249, 251 Pamphlets, Dr. Johnson on, 23 Pamphlet shops, 155 Papillon, David, 55, 56 Parker, Archbishop, 'De Antiquitate,' 264 Parker, Archbishop, 17, 19 Parker, Mr. R. J., 205 Parker, John, 249 Parker, Samuel, 251 Parr, Catherine, 261 Parr, Dr., 244 Parsons the Jesuit, 119 Passavant, Speyr, 140 'Pastissier François,' Le, 229 Paternoster Row, 209, _et seq._ Paterson, S., 23, 55 _note_, 103, 110, 111 Patmore, Thomas, 16 'Paul Pry,' 78 Payne, James, 241 Payne, John, and Foss, 239 Payne, Thomas, 110, 237-240, 252, 306 Peacham's 'Compleat Gentleman,' 24 Peacham's 'Valley of Varietie,' 46 Pellet, Thomas, 105, 155 Pembroke, Lord, 31, 173 Penn, W., 115 Pepys, Samuel, 25, 29, 120, 212, 248 Perkins, Frederick, 92 Perkins, Henry, 71, 126, 256 Perry, James, 66, 74, 80, 126, 133 Petheram, John, 194 Phelps, J. D., 61 Phillipps, Sir Thomas, 87, 242 Piccadilly, 249, _et seq._ Pickering, Basil M., 255 Pickering, W., 253 Pickering and Chatto, 194, 255 'Piers Plowman's Vision,' 120, 191 Piggott, J. H. Smyth, 71 'Pilgrim's Progress.' _See_ Bunyan Pindar, Elizabeth, 267, 268 Pinelli, M., 111, 249 Pitt, Moses, 100 Plato, 130 Pliny, 'Historia Naturalis,' 131 Poetry, old English, 145 Poet's Gallery, the, 116, 222 Ponder, Nathaniel, 183 'Pontevallo,' 69 Ponton, T., 61 Pope, Alexander, 44, 151, 230, 308, 311 Porson, 238 Pote, J., 236 Poultry, the, 183 Powell, W., 217 Praed, W. M., 250 Prayer Books, 87, 302 Price, the highest paid for a book, 126 Price's 'Historiæ Britannicæ,' 120, 121 Pridden, John, 215 Prince, J. H., 194 'Prospero,' 67 Psalmorum Codex, 126, 127 Pulteney, Sir James, 117 Purcell, of Red Lion Passage, 165 Purcell's 'Orpheus Britannicus,' 35 Purchas, 'His Pilgrims,' 118, 120, 234 Puritan divines, books of, 119 Puttenham's 'Art of English Poesie,' 145 Puttick and Simpson, 112, 113-115 Pye, John, stationer, 10 Pynson, R., 217, 218, 301 Quakers, the bibliographer of, 189 Quaritch, Mr. B., 106, 253, 255-258, 261, 280 Queensberry, Duke of, 108 Rabelais, François, 314 Railton, Mr., 106 Raleigh's 'Prerogative of Parliaments,' 119 Ramirez, Jose F., 115 Rastell's 'Pastyme of the People,' 207 Ratcliffe, John, 132 Rawlinson, T. and R., 39, 40, 122, 136, 213, 283 Reade, Charles, 282 Reader, Mr. A., 202 Redman, R., 217, 218 Reed, Isaac, 42, 112, 145 Reeves and Turner, 226 Reeves, Mr. W., 106, 227 Rewiczki, Count, 51 Reynolds, Sir J., 113 Richard of Peterborough, 4 Richard III., 10 Richardson's 'Remarks on Paradise Lost,' 170 Richmond, Margaret, Countess of, 261 Ridgway, James, 250 Ridler, W., 230 'Rig,' a bookseller's, 101 Rikke, R., 208 Rimbault, E. F., 194 Rimell, Mr. J., 106, 206 Ritson, Joseph, 108 Rivington and Cochrane, 241 Rivington, F. C., 213 Robins, 113 'Robinson Crusoe,' 89 Robinson, George, 216 Robinson's 'Handefull of Pleasant Delites,' 145 Robson, James, 249, 250 Robson, Mr., 106 Roche, Mr. J., 106, 206 Rodd, Thomas, 74, 75, 242 Rogers, Samuel, 80-82, 87 Roper, Abel, 219 Rosebery, Earl of, 304 Rossetti, D. G., 317 Rowfant Library, the, 311 Rowlandson, Thomas, 108 Rowsell, Joel, 245 Roxburghe Club, the, 61-64, 299, _et seq._ Roxburghe, John, Duke of, 52, 53, 124, 141 Rubric posts, 176 and _note_, 237 Ruskin, Mr. John, 279 Rylands, Mrs., 50, 146, 270, 271, 272 Rymer's 'Foedera,' 8 Sacheverell, Dr. Henry, 251 Sala, Mr. G. A., 150, 157 Sainte-Beuve's 'Livre d'Amour,' 315 Salisbury, Mr. J., 211 Salisbury, Marquis of, 264, 306 Salkeld, Mr. John, 202, 203 Salmon, Dr., 31 Salting, Mr. G., 320 Sancho, W., 240 Sandars, Mr. S., 320 Sandell and Smith, 187 Sanderson, Bishop, 171 Saunders, Robert, 116 Savage, 'Author to Let,' 239 Saville, Sir Henry, 25, 283 Scarborough, Sir Charles, 37 Scotland Yard, 113 Scott, Dr. John, 194 Scott, R., 120, 173 Scott's, Sir Walter, MSS., 87, 89, 290, 308 Scott's 'Vision of Don Roderick,' 150 Scotus Erigena, 3 Scriptorium, 2 Seile, Henry, 24 Selden, John, 23, 30 Selsey, Lord, 133 Seneca, 'Tragoediæ' (1475), 131 Severne, F. E., 57 Sewell, John, 176 _note_, 186 Shakespeare, W., 19, 70, 72, 74, 75, 91, 92, 93, 141-143 First Folio (1623), 42, 72, 87, 92, 95, 114, 141, 222, 291, 303, 311, 322 Second Folio (1632), 42, 75, 87, 95, 120, 141-143, 221, 303 Third Folio (1664), 42, 87, 95, 141-143, 303 Fourth Folio (1685), 42, 87, 95, 141-143, 221, 303 Quarto editions, 72, 90, 92, 93, 311 'Hamlet,' 143 '2 Henry IV.,' 92, 143 'Henry V.,' 92, 143, 301 'Henry VI.,' 143 'Lear,' 95, 143, 211 'Love's Labour Lost,' 93, 143 'Merchant of Venice,' 92, 93 (_bis_), 95, 143, 211, 301 'Merry Wives of Windsor,' 93, 143, 211, 301 'Midsummer Night's Dream,' 70, 95, 143, 308 'Much Ado About Nothing,' 93, 143 'Othello,' 143, 301 'Pericles,' 143, 301 'Poems,' 93, 143 'Rape of Lucrece,' 69, 93, 143, 211 'Richard II.,' 143, 211, 301 'Richard III.,' 143, 211, 301 'Romeo and Juliet,' 92, 143, 217 _note_, 301 'Sonnets,' 70, 143 and _note_ 'Titus Andronicus,' 301 'Troilus and Cressida,' 143, 211 'Venus and Adonis,' 143 and _note_, 211 Shandy, Mr., 152 Shattock, Mr. T. F., 320 Shelburne, Earl of, 111 Sheldon, Ralph, 291 Shelley, P. B., 316 Shelley's copy of Ossian's Poems, 229 Shenstone, W., 237 Sheridan, R. B., 85 Sherley's 'Wits New Dyall,' 167 Shoreditch, 155 Shorter, Mr. C. K., 317, 318 Shropshire, Walter, 251 Sidney's 'Arcadia,' 89 Silius Italicus, 131 Simpson, Mr. W., 114 Singer, S. W., 71 Skeat, of King William Street, 287 Slater, Mr. J. H., 150 Slater, Mr. Walter, 316, 317 Sloane, Sir Hans, 30, 31, 172 Smith, Horace, 78, 80 Smith's, Captain John, 'History of Virginia,' 20 Smith, Joseph, English Consul, 41, 250 Smith, Joseph, bookseller, 187 Smith, or Smyth, Richard, 32, 33 Smollett, Tobias, 44 Smyth, Sir Thomas, 119 Snowden, Mr. G. S., 106 'Snuffy Davy,' 135 Soho, 207 Solly, Edward, 46, 88, 202 Somers, Lord, 31, 172 Somerset, Duke of, 284 Sophocles (1502), 129 Sotheby, John, 103, 104 Sotheby, Samuel, 103, 104 Sotheby, S. Leigh, 104, 105 Sotheby, Wilkinson, and Hodge, 103-108, and _passim_ Sotheran and Co., Messrs., 97, 233, 246, 272, 281 Sotheran, Mr. H., 106 Southampton Row, 314 Southey, Robert, 76, 308 _Spectator_, the, 175, 265 Spelman, Edward, 250 Spelman, Sir Henry, 21 Spence, Joseph, 220 Spencer, Earl, 50-52, 53, 61, 109, 124, 238, 272 Spencer, W. T., 205 Spenser's 'Faërie Queene,' 87, 145 Spenser, E., 35 Spon, of Cheapside, 184 St. Albans, Abbot of, 7 St. Albans, books printed at, 136, 137, 268, 301 St. Alban's Tavern, 61 St. Augustine, 'De Arte Predicandi,' 302 St. Augustine, 'De Civitate Dei,' 307, 308 St. Bernard's Seal, 43 St. Dunstan, 3 St. Francis, 6 St. Paul's Cathedral, 4 St. Paul's Churchyard, 153, 168, 208-216 Stanley, Colonel, 110, 239 Staple Inn, 42 Stapleton, A. G., 252 Stark, J. M., 245 Steele, Richard, 84, 265 Steevens, George, 42, 112, 220, 238 Stephens, J., 224 Sterne, L., 236 Stevens, Henry, 106, 115 Stewart, Charles J., 245, 268 Stewart, founder of Puttick's, 112, 114 Stibbs, E. W., 106, 200 Stock, Mr. Elliot, 96, 187 Stormont, Lord, 238 Stow's 'Survey,' 8 Strand, the, 153, 223-235 Strange, John, 111 Strickland, Agnes, 270 Suckling and Galloway, 234 Sullivan, Sir E., 92, 93 Sunderland Library sale, 114, 256 Sunderland, Earl of, 31, 36, 52, 124, 173 Sunderlin, Lord, 68 Sussex, Duke of, 109, 126, 264 Sutton, Henry, 210 Swift, Jonathan, 85, 172, 176 Swift, MS. of Scott's 'Life' of, 87 Sydenham Tusculum, Hill's, 79 Sydney, Sir Robert, 142 Sykes, Lady Mark, 270 Sykes, Sir M. M., 58, 61 _note_, 110, 310 Syston Park Library, 126 Talleyrand, Prince, 108 Taylor, Watson, 133 Taylor, William, 210 Tebbs, Mr. H. V., 320 Tegg, Thomas, 186 Temple Bar, 223 'Temple of the Muses,' the, 182 Tenison, Archbishop, 39 Testament. _See_ Bible Thackeray, W. M., 83 Theodore, Archbishop of Canterbury, 3 Theocritus (1495), 130 Thompson, Mr. H. Yates, 320 Thoms, W. J., 88, 156, 202, 228 Thoresby, Ralph, 178, 238 Thorpe, Thomas, 64 and _note_, 241, 242, 250 Thorold, Sir John, 126 Thurlow, Lord, 112 Tilt, Charles, 221, 253 Tisdale, John, 191 Tite, Sir William, 74, 256 Tobin, Sir J., 109 Tomes, H., 191 'Tom Folio,' 39 Tom's Coffee-house, 102 Tonson, Jacob, 35, 192, 219, 234 Tooke, Benjamin, 219 Tooke, John Horne, 54, 112 Toovey, B., 249 Toovey, J., 106, 142, 253-255, 322 Tottell, R., 217 and _note_ Towneley, J., 57, 61, 110, 239 Townsend, Marquis of, 108 Tradescant, Mrs., 18 Tregaskis, Mr. and Mrs., 204, 205 Triphook, R., 183, 268 Truelove, E., 200 Turberville's 'Epitaphs,' 210 Turnbull, Mr. E., 201, 202 Turner, Dawson, 114 Turner, R. S., 89 Turnstiles, Holborn, 202-204 Tunstall, James, 219 Tusser's 'Good Husbandry,' 232 Tyndale, John, 16 Tyndale's 'Practyse of Prelates,' 119 Tyrill, Sir T., 26 Tyson, Dr. E., 176 Tyssen, Samuel, 108, 111 Udal, Nicholas, 74 Upcott, W., 27, 70 Usher, Archbishop, 26 Usher, Bishop, 212 Utterson, E. V., 61 Uvedale, Robert, 236 Vaillant, Paul, 240 Valdarfer Boccaccio, the, 52, 61, 93, 123-125 Valerius Maximus (1471), 131 Valesius, 25 Van de Weyer, Col. V. W. Bates, 309 Vérard, Antoine, 13 Vernor and Hood, 184 Vespucci, 'Mundus Novus,' 94 Vossius, Isaac 25 Wakefield, 238 Walford, Cornelius, 88, 151, 152 Walford, Mr. E., 106 Walker, John, 112, 113 Wallden, a Carmelite Friar, 8 Waller, Mr. John, 281 Walpole, Horace, 284, 292 Walter, John, of the _Times_, 235 Walton Hall library, 93 Walton, Izaak, 35, 36, 85, 171 Walton's 'Compleat Angler,' 144, 145, 218, 234, 322 Wanley, Humfrey, 34, 38, 122 Ward, Mr. W., 106 Wardour Street, 206 Warde, Roger, 191 Ware, Richard, 215 Warner's 'Syrinx' (1597), 288 Warwick, Earl of, 106 Waterton, E., 96, 97 Watson, Dr. T., 100 Weskett, 'On Insurances,' 152 Wesley, Charles, 35 Wesley and Sons, 234 West, James, 59, 60, 111, 179 Westell, Mr. J., 106, 200, 201 Westminster Hall, 247-249 Westmoreland, Countess of, 9, 260 Wheare's 'Method and Order of Reading Histories,' 85 Wheatley, Benjamin, 69, 114 Wheatley, Mr. H. B., 100 _note_, 293 Wheldon, John, 211 Whethamstede, 10 Whiston, John, 103, 219 Whitechapel, 155, 187, 188 White, Benjamin (Sr. and Jr.), 219-221 White, Gilbert, 221 White, John, 221 White, Joseph, 194 White Knights Library, 109 Whittington, Sir Richard, 8 Whytforde's 'Lyfe of Perfection,' 309 Wilbraham, R., 61 Wilcox, Thomas, 103 Wilkes, John, 54, 55, 108, 183, 311 Wilkinson, John, 105 Williams, Dr. David, 39 Willis, G., 246 Willoughby, Lord, 31, 193 Willoughby, Sir H., 84 Wills, John, 219 Wilson's 'Art of Logic,' 74 Wimpole Library, the, 89, 90 Winchelsea, Earl of, 173 Wingrave, F., 236 Winstanley's 'Views of Audley End,' 292 Wise, Mr. T. J., 316, 317 Wodhull, Michael, 57, 58, 128 Women as book-collectors, 259-273 Women as book-thieves, 279-280, 285 Wood, Anthony à, 8, 21, 32 Wordsworth, W., 76, 78 Worsley, Dr. B., 100, 213 Wulfseg, Bishop of London, 3 Wyndham, 238 Wynkyn de Worde, 54, 111, 119, 216, 301, 306 Yates's 'Castell of Courtesie,' 222 York, Duke of, 108 Zouche, Lord, 304 [Illustration] _Elliot Stock, Paternoster Row, London._ [Illustration: '_Must I, as a wit with learned air, Like Doctor Dewlap, to Tom Payne's repair?_'] _Uniform with 'The Book-Hunter in London.'_ THE BOOK-HUNTER IN PARIS. BEING Studies Among the Bookstalls of the Quays. By OCTAVE UZANNE. WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY AUGUSTINE BIRRELL, AUTHOR OF 'OBITER DICTA,' 'RES JUDICATÆ,' ETC. _AND 144 CHARACTERISTIC ILLUSTRATIONS INTERSPERSED IN THE TEXT_. [Illustration] EVERY bibliophile who by chance finds himself in Paris, whether on urgent affairs or on pleasure intent, invariably manages to visit that richest of hunting-grounds, the book-lined quays, where, perhaps, more unexpected treasures have been picked up than in any other city of Europe. It is of this happy hunting-ground and those who haunt it--the book-hunters and the bookstall-keepers; the books they buy and the books they sell; whence they come and whither they go; the finds, the losses, the disappointments, and red-letter days--that M. Uzanne writes in this attractive volume, in that felicitous and suggestive manner which has made him so well known in present-day literature. Opinions of the Press on 'The Book-Hunter in Paris.' 'A very interesting book. Mr. Birrell's introduction is a pleasant and useful explanation of the volume, which is presented in a form fully deserving of its literary merits.'--_Times._ 'M. Uzanne's chapters are full of curious information, which will have special attraction for those English book-hunters to whom Paris is unknown. The style is agreeably anecdotic, and the numerous woodcuts are quaint and graphic.'--_Globe._ 'With real regret we lay down so charmingly written a volume, and it is with no small satisfaction that we note the publisher's announcement that a companion volume on "The Book-Hunter in London" will shortly be issued.'--_St. James's Budget._ 'M. Uzanne's book is delightful, with never a heavy touch, but crammed with quaint traditions, humorous characteristics, charming gossip.'--_Graphic._ 'M. Uzanne sets forth with a good deal of pathos, happily leavened with humour, the history, past and present, of the stall-keepers and the quays of the Seine, in whose trays many a notable _trouvaille_ has been made in other times.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._ 'The interest of the book is heightened by the characteristic vignettes which are interwoven with the text on almost every other page.'--_The Standard._ 'Lightly does he carry his learning and brightly does he sketch the bookmen and their riverside market. Of present interest to all book-lovers are his piquant contrasts of the old order and the new.'--_Saturday Review._ 'To collectors the book will appeal with special force, but the general reader, if he be gifted with ordinary intelligence, will also enjoy it. It is not dry; in fact, to use the familiar expression, it is "as interesting as a novel."'--_Publishers' Circular._ 'The book is full of stories of the characteristics of the fraternity, anecdotes, and biographical sketches of past stall-keepers and their most famous patrons.'--_Daily Graphic._ 'Everybody knows M. Uzanne's pleasant, garrulous style--how he takes his readers into his confidence, how he spins phrases lovingly, and always keeps you in good spirits. He was just the man to write such a book.'--_Bookman._ 'The work is always learned, and (what is not so easy) always light. Everybody who is the least of a book-hunter ought to read it at once, or rather, ought to hunt for it first; and then, to show that it is a better sort of book than many that are hunted, read it.'--_Scotsman._ [Illustration] TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Characters superscripted in the original are inclosed in {} brackets. Variations in spelling have been left as in the original. Examples include the following: Crede Creede Creside Cressida Faerie Faërie Magliabecchi Magliabechi Polychronicon Policronicon Schoeffer's Schoëffer Schoeffer with an oe ligature Sweynheim Sweynheym Troilus Troylus Zarothum Zarothus The following words used an oe ligature in the original: d'oeuvre Foedera Oeconomiques oeuvre Oeuvres Phoebum Phoenix Schoeffer Tragoedie The following words appear with and without hyphens. They have been left as in the original. book-buyer bookbuyer book-buying bookbuying book-case bookcase book-plate bookplate book-selling bookselling Coffee-house Coffeehouse sale-room saleroom waste-paper wastepaper The following corrections have been made to the text: page xiv: Purcell (p. 165)[original has 164] page xv: necessarily a learned man.[original is missing period] page 24: 1 Peers pennylesse supplication[original has supplicati[=o] to indicate there wasn't room for the final n] [=o] is equivalent to o with a macron over it page 33: the '[opening quote is missing in original]Godfrey of Bulloigne' selling for 18s. page 40: early age of forty-four[original has fourty-four] page 74: duplicate of my wooden leg."[original has extraneous single quote] page 81: the MSS. of Gray, in their perfect calligraphy[original has caligraphy] page 142: Rowfant[original has Rowfont] Library page 146: where a sale of books was in progress[original has progess] page 147: on the Banks of Lake Liman, near Geneva,"[ending quotation mark missing in original] page 194: For Billingsgate, quit Flexney, and be wise.'[ending quotation mark missing in original] page 232: like another Magliabecchi,[removed extraneous quotation mark after Magliabecchi] page 260: Countess of Westmoreland[original has Westmorland] page 264: We give facsimiles[original has facsimilies] page 294: '[quotation mark missing in original]Jokely, very interesting page 295: 'The Rose and the Ring by R. Browing.'[original has comma] page 303: catalogue raisonné[original has raisonnée] page 310: 'The Death Wake' (1831),[original has period] page 322: Princess Marie Liechtenstein[original has Leichtenstein] page 323: Arch, J. and A.[original has J.] page 323: Bannatyne[original has Bannantyne] Club, the page 324: under Bibles and New Testaments-- Fust and Schoeffer (1462) was out of alphabetical order in the original in the Gutenberg sub-entry, the pages numbers were out of order in the original page 324: Brooke[original has Brook], Lord Warwick, 100 page 325: under Caxton-- 'Book of Good Manners,'[comma missing in original] Godfrey of Bulloigne[original has Bulloyne] Higden's 'Polychronicon[original has Polycronicon] History of Blanchardyn[original has Blanchardin] 'Troylus and Creside,'[ending quote missing in original and spelling is Cressid] Virgil's 'Æneid'[original has Ænid] page 326: Drummond's 'Forth[original has Fourth] Fasting,' 86 page 327: Finsbury Square, 177, 179-183[removed extraneous period] page 327: Glashier,[comma missing in original] George, 202 page 327: Guilford[original has Guildford], Earl of page 327: Guilford[original has Guildford], Francis, Baron page 328: Johnson, Joseph[original has John], 214, 215 page 328: Johnston[original has Johnstone], William page 328: Kempis, Thomas à[original has á] page 330: Nornaville[original has Nornanville] and Fell page 330: Nourse[original has Nowise], John, 236 page 331: Rewiczki[original has Rewicski], Count page 331: Loyalty[original has Royalty--entry has been moved to maintain alphabetical order], the 'repository' of, 250 page 332: Stibbs[original has Stibbes], E. W. page 332: Thackeray, W. M., 83[out of alphabetical order in original] page 332: Tyndale[original has Tyndall], John, 16 page 332: Tyson, Dr. E., 176[out of alphabetical order in original] page 333: Vérard[original has Verard], Antoine page 333: entries for Walford, Cornelius, Walford, Mr. E., Walker, John, Warde, Roger, and Ward, Mr. W., were out of alphabetical order in the original page 333: Weskett,[comma missing in original] 'On Insurances,' 151 In the index on page 328, there is an entry for Thomas à Kempis. His name is not mentioned in the book, but he is the author of "Imitatio Christi" which is discussed in the text on the referenced pages. In the index, many of the page references were incorrect. Corrections have been made as indicated in the following table. Original Correct Entry Page # Page # Aldine editions, 128-131 129-131 Aldus, 128 129 Alfred, 2 3 Anacreon, Stephen edition, 128 129 Anthologia Græca' (1494), 129 130 Archaica Club, 78 79 'Aristophanes' (1498), 128 129 Aristotle (1495-98), 129 130 Askew Sale, the, 127, et seq. 128, et seq. Bannatyne Club, the, 62 62 note Baptist Library at Bristol, 137 138 Barbican, the, 175, 176 176, 177 Batemans of Little Britain, 170 171 Becket, Thomas, 175 note 176 note Bernard, Dr. Francis, 131 132 Bibles and New Testaments Coverdale's (1535), 113 138 Græca Septuaginta, 192 192 note St. Jerome's MS., 139, 140 140 Bishopsgate Churchyard, 160 161 Black-letter books, 135 136 Blandford, Marquis of, 61 61 note Bloomfield, R., 153 154 'Boke of St. Albans,' 135, 136 136 Book-ghouls, 159 160 Bookstalls and bookstalling, 148-166 149-167 Brabourne, Lord, 106 107 Britten, Mr. James, 150 151 Britton, Thomas, 171, 172 172, 173 Brown, 'Old,' 156 157 Bruscambille on 'Long Noses,' 151 152 Bunyan's 'Pilgrim's Progress,' 144, 145 145, 146 Burdett-Coutts, Baroness, 140, 141 141, 142 Butterworth, Henry, 217 217 note Campbell, Mr. Dykes, 106 107 Caxton, W. 131 132 'Arthur, King,' 132 133 'Book called Cathon,' 131, 132 132, 133 'Book of Chivalry,' 135 136 'Chastising of God's Children,' 131 132 Chaucer's 'Canterbury Tales,' 135 136 'Chronicles of England,' 131, 132 132, 133 Cicero ('De Senectute'), 'Of Old Age,' 90, 131, 132 132, 133 'Dictes and Sayings,' 131 132 'Doctrinal of Sapience,' 131, 132 132, 133 'Game and Playe of Chesse,' 131, 132, 134 132, 133, 135 'Godfrey of Bulloigne,' 131 132 'Golden Legend,' 132 133 Gower's 'Confessio Amantis,' 132 133 Higden's 'Description of Britayn' 132 ? Higden's 'Polychronicon,' 80 89 'Historyes of Troy,' 131 132 'History of Blanchardyn and Eglantine,' 132 133 'History of Jason,' 131, 132 132, 133 'Mirrour of the World,' 132 133 Russell's 'Propositio,' 133 134 'Troylus and Creside,' 132 133 Virgil's 'Æneid,' 132 133 Caxton, the highest paid for a, 132 133 Caxtons, the Althorp, 133 134 Chained books at Hereford, 274 ? Chandler, Dr., 287 289 Clarke, W., 134 135 Daniel, G., 140-142 141-143 Daniell, Mr. E., 106 107 Day's circulating library, 207, 208 208 Defoe, Daniel, 155 156 Devonshire, Dukes of, } 61, 132 61 note, 133 } 140, 141, 172 141, 142, 173 Diodorus Siculus (1539), 129 130 Dobell, Mr. B., 106 107 Dorset, Earl of, 169 170 Drayton, M., 157 158 Duck Lane, 174, 175 175, 176 Duke Street, Little Britain, 174, 175 175, 176 East End, book-hunting in, 154, et seq. 155, et seq. Editiones Principes, 127-131 128-131 Ellis, Mr. G. I., 106 107 Elyot's 'Castell of Helth,' 165 166 Euripides (1503), 128 129 Exeter 'Change, 153, 154 154, 155 Extra-illustrating, 164 165 Farringdon Road, 157, 158 158, 159 Finsbury Square, 177 178 Foote, Samuel, 162 163 Franklin, B., 174 175 Fuller's 'David's Hainous Sinne,' 150 151 Funnibus, L., 146 147 Garnett, Dr. R., 165 166 Garth, Samuel, 175 176 George III., 129, 134, 140 130, 135, 141 Gifford, Dr., 138, 139 139, 140 Glasse's 'Art of Cookery,' 149 150 Goldsmith's 'Vicar of Wakefield,' 145 146 Gomme, Mr. G. L., 150 151 Grangerizing, 164 165 Gray's MSS., 145 146 Gwillim's 'Display of Heraldry,' 155 156 Harleian Library, The, 193 192 Harvey, Mr. F., 164 165 Harwood, Dr., 127-130 128-131 Hatchards, 253, 254 252-254 Heliconia Club, 78 79 Herodotus (1502), 128 129 Hindley, Mr. C., 106 107 Hodge, Mr. E. Grose, 106 107 Hodgson and Co., 145, 161-163 146, 162-164 Holford, Captain, 145 146 Holywell Street, 152, 153 153, 154 Homer, the Foulis edition, 128 129 Horace, editio princeps, 129 130 Hunter, Mr., 129 130 Hunt, Leigh, 148 149 Islington, cattle market at, 163 164 Isocrates (1493), 128 129 Jeffrey, Edward, 112 113 Jersey, Earl of, 132 133 Johnson, Dr., 257 237 Jolley, Thomas, 142 note 143 note Juvenal and Persius (1469), 130 131 King, John, 177 178 King, Thomas, 177 178 Knock-outs, 163 164 Lamb, Charles, 175, 176 176, 177 Lamb's 'Beauty and the Beast,' 149 150 Langford, auctioneer, 138 139 Leighton, Mr., 106 107 Lemoine, Henry, 160 161 Lisburne, Lord, 128 129 Locker-Lampson, F., 106 107 London House, Aldersgate Street, 40 39 Longman and Co., 79, 80 80 Lovelace's 'Lucasta,' 144 145 Lytton, Lord, 149 150 Macaulay, Lord, 148 149 Manuscript, the textual value of a, 127 128 Martial's 'Epigrammata,' 131 132 Mather, Increase, 150 151 Mayhew, Henry, 160 161 Millington, E. 169 170 Milton's 'Paradise Lost,' 144, 169 145, 170 Molini, Mr., 106 107 Moorfields, 167, 176-179 168, 177-179 Murray, John of Sacomb, 137, 138 138, 139 Musæus (1494), 129 130 Neligan, Dr., 106 107 New Cut, the, 156, 157 157 Newton, W., 173 174 Nicol, George, 127 126 North, Francis, 169 170 North, Roger, 169 170 Novimagus, Society of, 82 83 Ovid (1471), 130 131 Oxford, Edward, Earl of, 138, 172 139, 173 Pamphlet shops, 154 155 Passavant, Speyr, 139 140 Pellet, Thomas, 154 155 Pembroke, Lord, 172 173 Pepys, Samuel, 249 248 Perry, James, 132 133 Plato, 129 130 Pliny, 'Historia Naturalis,' 130 131 Poetry, old English, 144 145 Pope, Alexander, 150 151 Purcell, of Red Lion Passage, 164 165 Puttenham's 'Art of English Poesie,' 144 145 Quaritch, Mr. B., 106, 281 107, 280 Railton, Mr., 106 107 Ratcliffe, John, 131 132 Rawlinson, T. and R., 135 136 Reed, Isaac, 144 145 Reeves, Mr. W., 106 107 Richardson's 'Remarks on Paradise Lost,' 169 170 Rimell, Mr. J., 106 107 Robinson's 'Handefull of Pleasant Delites,' 144 145 Robson, Mr., 106 107 Roche, Mr. J., 106 107 Rogers, Samuel, 79-82 80-82 Roxburghe, John, Duke of, 140 141 Rubric posts, 175 176 Rylands, Mrs., 145 146 Sacheverell, Dr. Henry, 257 251 Sala, Mr. G. A., 149, 156 150, 157 Salisbury, Mr. J., 209, 211 211 Sanderson, Bishop, 170 171 Scott, R., 172 173 Scott's 'Vision of Don Roderick,' 149 150 Scriptorium, 1, 2 2 Selsey, Lord, 132 133 Seneca, 'Tragoediæ' (1475), 130 131 Sewell, John, 175 176 note Shakespeare, W., 140-142 141-143 First Folio (1623), 140 141 Second Folio (1632), 140-142 141-143 Third Folio (1664), 140-142 141-143 Fourth Folio (1685), 140-142 141-143 Quarto editions 'Hamlet,' 142 143 '2 Henry IV.,' 142 143 'Henry V.,' 142 143 'Henry VI.,' 142 143 'Lear,' 142 143 'Love's Labour Lost,' 142 143 'Merchant of Venice,' 142 143 'Merry Wives of Windsor, 142 143 'Midsummer Night's Dream' 142 143 'Much Ado About Nothing,' 142 143 'Othello,' 142 143 'Pericles,' 142 143 'Poems,' 142 143 'Rape of Lucrece,' 142 143 'Richard II.,' 142 143 'Richard III.,' 142 143 'Romeo and Juliet,' 142 143 'Sonnets,' 142, 143 note 143 and note 'Troilus and Cressida,' 142 143 'Venus and Adonis,' 142, 143 note 143 and note Shandy, Mr., 151 152 Sherley's 'Wits New Dyall,' 166 167 Shoreditch, 154 155 Silius Italicus, 130 131 Slater, Mr. J. H., 149 150 Sloane, Sir Hans, 171 172 'Snuffy Davy,' 134 135 Solly, Edward, 47 46 Somers, Lord, 171 172 Snowden, Mr. G. S., 106 107 Sophocles (1502), 128 129 Sotheran, Mr. H., 106 107 Spectator, the, 174 175 Spenser's 'Faërie Queene,' 144 145 St. Albans, books printed at, 135, 136 136, 137 St. Paul's Churchyard, 152 153 Stevens, Henry, 106 107 Staple Inn, 43 42 Stibbs, E. W., 106 107 Strand, the, 152 153 Sunderland, Earl of, 172 173 Swift, Jonathan, 171, 175 172, 176 Sydenham Tusculum, Hill's, 78 79 Sydney, Sir Robert, 141 142 Sykes, Sir M. M., 61 61 note Taylor, Watson, 132 133 Theocritus (1495), 129 130 Thoms, W. J., 155, 156 156 Thoresby, Ralph, 177 178 Toovey, J., 106, 141, 145 107, 142 Tyson, Dr. E., 175 176 Valerius Maximus (1471), 130 131 Vérard, Antoine, 12 13 Walford, Mr. E., 106 107 Walton, Izaak, 170 171 Walton's 'Compleat Angler,' 143, 144 144, 145 Walford, Cornelius, 150, 151 151, 152 Walker, John, 114 113 Ward, Mr. W., 106 107 Warwick, Earl of, 106 107 Weskett, 'On Insurances,' 151 152 Westell, Mr. J., 106 107 Whitechapel, 154 155 Winchelsea, Earl of, 172 173 Women as book-thieves, 278-280 279-280 Wynkyn de Worde, 118 111 Ellipsis are represented as in the original.