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THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP.........................................................................................................................1

CHRISTOPHER MORLEY....................................................................................................................1

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

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

Chapters I, II, III, and VI appeared originally in The Bookman, and to the editor of that admirable magazine I

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.

If you are ever in Brooklyn, that borough of superb sunsets and magnificent vistas of husbandpropelled

babycarriages, it is to be hoped you may chance upon a quiet bystreet where there is a very remarkable

This bookshop, which does business under the unusual name "Parnassus at Home," is housed in one of the

comfortable old brownstone 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 secondhand volumes. There is no secondhand bookshop in the

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:

He stumbled down the three steps that led into the dwelling of the muses, lowered his overcoat collar, and

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

The shop had a warm and comfortable obscurity, a kind of drowsy dusk, stabbed here and there by bright

cones of yellow light from greenshaded electrics. There was an allpervasive 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

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

His eyes, searching the blue and vaporous vistas of the shop, were caught by a circle of brightness that shone

with a curious egglike 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, sharpeyed man who sat tilted back in a swivel chair, in a

corner which seemed the nerve centre of the establishment. The large pigeonholed 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 halfburied in sheets of manuscript. The little

Mr. Roger Mifflin, the proprietor of "Parnassus at Home," looked up, and the visitor saw that he had keen

"My name is Aubrey Gilbert," said the young man. "I am representing the GreyMatter 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

The bookseller's face beamed. He put down his cookbook, blew an expanding gust of smoke, and looked up

"Not in the sense you mean. Such advertising as benefits me most is done for me by the snappiest copywriters

"Not at all. The people who are doing my advertising are Stevenson, Browning, Conrad and Company."

"Dear me," said the GreyMatter solicitor. "I don't know that agency at all. Still, I doubt if their copy has

"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

"But that wordofmouth advertising is exploded," said Gilbert. "You can't get Distribution that way.

"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 outafter the trouble is overwhat 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

"I should like to come here again myself and browse about," said the advertising agent. "I should like to have

"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."

"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 booklovers, 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

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

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. Goodnight." 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:

If your mind needs a whiff of strong air, blue and cleansing, from hilltops and primrose valleys, try "The

If your mind needs a tonic of iron and wine, and a thorough roughandtumbling, try Samuel Butler's

If you need "all manner of Irish," and a relapse into irresponsible freakishness, try "The DemiGods," by

It's a good thing to turn your mind upside down now and then, like an hourglass, to let the particles run the

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

"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

"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:

Beside the card he placed a large oldfashioned 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 cookbook 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 corncob 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 mustardcoloured 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."

"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

twentyfive years old, employed as a copywriter by the GreyMatter 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 secondhand vendor. They all

Mr. Gilbert had the earnest mania for selfimprovement which has blighted the lives of so many young

mena 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

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

"Come, Mr. Aubrey Gilbert!" he cried. "The meal is set. You want to wash your hands? Make haste then, this

The dining room into which the guest was conducted betrayed a feminine touch not visible in the

smokedimmed quarters of shop and cabinet. At the windows were curtains of laughing chintz and pots of

pink geranium. The table, under a droplight in a flamecoloured silk screen, was brightly set with silver and

blue china. In a cutglass decanter sparkled a ruddy brown wine. The edged tool of Advertising felt his spirits

"Sit down, sir," said Mifflin, lifting the roof of a platter. "These are eggs Samuel Butler, an invention of my

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 capsheaf 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

"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

"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

"Ah, you should taste Mrs. Mifflin's cooking!" said the bookseller. "I am only an amateur, who dabble 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

"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 worldthe 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 nerveracking. 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

"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

"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

(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

"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

"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 dishwashing, and I please myself by

"I used to regard dishwashing 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

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 dishwashing?

"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

"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

"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 wellpolished 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

"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 dishpantheism 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, noI did not ask you to spend the evening with me to wash dishes."

"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

"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

corncobs 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

"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

halfknowledges. 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.

"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

"My business, you see, is different from most. I only deal in secondhand 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

"I wonder if that could be Mr. Chapman of the Chapman Daintybits Company?" said Gilbert, feeling his feet

"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 CzechoSlovak armies were fed largely on prunes. It is our conviction in the office that our

"I read in an ad the other dayperhaps 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?"

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

"I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed myself," said Gilbert. "I'm going to come again and study your

"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

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

[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 passerby 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

It may be remarked that all bookshops that are open in the evening are busy in the aftersupper hours. Is it

that the true booklovers are nocturnal gentry, only venturing forth when darkness and silence and the gleam

of hooded lights irresistibly suggest reading? Certainly nighttime 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 mustardcoloured

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, rearguing, 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

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 absentminded," 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

"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 diningroom 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

They greeted each other with the hearty, affectionate simplicity of those congenially wedded in middle age.

Helen Mifllin 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

"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 slateblue eyes twinkled. He hung up a cup in the china closet and lit his pipe before replying.

"I said that our shop was haunted, and mustn't be supposed to come under the usual conditions of the trade."

"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."

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

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 tomorrow 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

"Well?" said Roger, as Mrs. Mifflin made no comment. "Don't you think it will be rather interesting to get a

"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

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

"Well," said Helen; "Titania or no Titania, if the Corn Cobs want their chocolate cake tonight, I must get

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 sayworn 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

ThirtyEighth Street) the publishers' salesmen supply a longfelt want, for they do now and then buy one a

"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

"Here's Mrs. Mifflin's health!" said Mr. Chapman, a quiet little man who had a habit of listening to what he

"I see Tarzan of the Apes is running at the Gissing Street movie palace," said Gladfist. "Great stuff. Have you

"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

"Your argument is a whole succession of non sequiturs," said Jerry, stimulated by the cider to unusual

"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

"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

"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

"Well, take it on the lowest basis," said Roger. "I haven't any facts to go upon"

"But I'd like to bet that the Trade has made more money out of Bryce's American Commonwealth than it ever

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 corncob 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 beststocked shops in the city, though little

"Well," said Fruehling, his bright dark eyes sparkling above richly tinted cheekbones and bushy beard,

"The usual one," said Gladfist, grinning, "Mifflin confusing merchandise with metaphysics."

MIFFLINNot at all. I am simply saying that it is good business to sell only the best.

GLADFISTWrong 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

departmentstore 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.

MIFFLINA 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

GLADFISTStill, old chap, you have to abide by the dirty little consideration of earning a living, unless

BENSONOf 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.

BENSONEven 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

GLADFISTNot a bad thought. You know, Mifflin here calls me a materialminded 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 highminded 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.

MIFFLINYour doctrine is pitiless, base, and false! What would you think of a physician who saw men

GLADFISTTheir 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

MIFFLINYour 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

QUINCYI 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,

MIFFLINAh, 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 wellknown 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

CHAPMANI 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

MIFFLINAs 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

MEREDITHI 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 bookbuying 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

BookCollecting than I do in selling a copy ofwell, 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,

QUINCYYou 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.

MIFFLINYOU poor simp, there was your chance to introduce her to Mowgli and the bandarlog.

MIFFLINI'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?

FRUEHLINGIt always payssomebody. The only question is, does it pay the man who pays for the ad?

FRUEHLINGDid 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

MIFFLINI 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

QUINCYThe 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 "Knockkneed 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

GLADFISTThere 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?

FRUEHLINGThere'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

picturean automobile or a country house or a Morris chair or a parasolwhich 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

MIFFLINYou are all crass materialists. I tell you, books are the depositories of the human spirit, which is

By the bones of the Hohenzollerns, he was right! And wait a minute! There's something in Carlyle's

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

"Here's an odd thing," he said. "I know damn well that copy of Cromwell was on the shelf because I saw it

"That's nothing," said Quincy. "You know how people come into a secondhand 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

"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 think I've got it jotted down in a notebook," said Roger, hunting along a shelf. "Yes, here it is." He read

"The works of a man, bury them under what guanomountains and obscene owldroppings 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

crossfertilization of men and books. His delight in his calling doesn't need to be stimulated even by the

"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 landlordsand

not hit them!' Even so, my dear Roger, your enthusiasm makes you shoot at truth and never come anywhere

"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

As the guests made their way out through the shop, Mr. Chapman drew Roger aside. "It's perfectly all right

"The sooner the better. We've got a little spare room upstairs that she can have. I've got some ideas of my

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

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

Roger thoroughly enjoyed himself in the task of preparing the guestroom 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

"By the way," he called downstairs, "better have some of the prunes for supper tonight, just as a compliment

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

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

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 today 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

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:

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 ashtray for his burning cigar, nor as a teethingring 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

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

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

This is a question that admits of the utmost nicety of discussion. Some authorities hold that the proper books

for a guestroom 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 hardboiled 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 brotherinlaw, 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 "dovecoloured 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

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, waswell, 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 Joneshum, 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

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 secondhand bookseller, is now recognized as the"

"Roger!" called Mrs. Mifflin from downstairs: "Front! someone wants to know if you keep back numbers of

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

"What on earth is there funny in that?" said Mrs. Mifflin. "Poor little lamb, I think it was terrible."

"No more, thank you," said Helen. "There ought to be a fine for using the meter of Love in the Valley that

Roger added the Archy scrapbook to Miss Titania's shelf, and went on browsing over the volumes he had

"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

woeswait 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

booklover calls bibliobliss. WalkingStick 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

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

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

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 lilaccoloured

"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

Edwards saluted with a grinhe 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

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 nickelit was characteristic of her that it was a very bright and engaging

looking nickeland handed it gravely to her charioteer. Equally gravely he saluted, and the car, after moving

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

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

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

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 dingylooking secondhand

bookshop. He would have gone about his affairs with a new and surprised conviction that the Almighty had

Roger, who had conceived a notion of some rather peevish foundling of the RitzCarlton lobbies and Central

Park riding academies, was agreeably amazed by the sweet simplicity of the young lady.

"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

"And here's Bock!" she cried. "Dad says he's the greatest dog in the world, named after Botticelli or

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Mifflin. "We are delighted to see you. I hope you'll be happy with us, but I rather

"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

"How perfectly sweet of you," said Helen, captivated already. "Come along, we'll put them right in water. I'll

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

"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

"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 packingcase that served Bock as a

retreat. The bookseller's ingenious carpentry had built it into the similitude of a Carnegie library, with the

sign READINGROOM over the door; and he had painted imitation bookshelves 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

"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

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

"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 cashbox 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

"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

"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. Tomorrow 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."

"This is the bulletin board, where I put up notices about books that interest me. Here's a card I've just been

Roger drew from his pocket a square of cardboard and affixed it to the board with a thumbtack. Titania read:

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

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

"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

Titania was puzzled, and said nothing. But her busy mind made a note of its own: Hardy, hard to read, makes

"What did you think of the books I put in your room?" said Roger. He had vowed to wait until she made

Well, my dear," said Roger after supper that evening, "I think perhaps we had better introduce Miss Titania to

"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

"Suppose we leave you to look after the shop," said Helen to Roger, in a teasing mood, "and I'll take Titania

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; "Tarzanthat'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

"All right," said Mrs. Mifflin; "Roger, you settle Miss Chapman in the den and give her something to look at

But Roger was all on fire to begin the reading. "Why don't we postpone the dishes," he said, "just to

"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

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

and as she had recently lost a little pearl brooch, she ran hastily through it. She chuckled a little over

LOSTHotel Imperial lavatory, set of teeth. Call or communicate Steel, 134 East 43 St. Reward, no

LOSTCopy 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 Streetthat's here! And what a funny kind of book for an assistant chef to

When Roger and Helen rejoined her in the den a few minutes later she showed the bookseller the

"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."

"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,

"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

"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

"No," said Roger, and picked up the advertisement again. "I wonder why he wants it returned before midnight

"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

"Charge it off to profit and loss and forget about it," said Helen. "How about that reading aloud?"

"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 horseradish, set on a shining cloth not far

"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

"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 allnight 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

hashalley called Frank's, up on Broadway near 77th, where I guess the ham and eggs and French fried is as

"I must get Edwards to take me there," said Titania. "Edwards is our chauffeur. I've been to the Ansonia for

"Better keep away," said Helen. "When Roger comes home from those places he smells so strong of onions it

"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.

Roger knocked out his pipe, turned Bock out of his chair, and sat down with infinite relish to read the memor

able 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 everdelightful items of the coffeeroom bill which is to be found about

ten pages on in the first chapterhow sad it is that hotel bills are not so rendered in these timeswhen the

bell in the shop clanged. Picking up his pipe and matchbox, and grumbling "It's always the way," he hurried

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 BlueEyed Mixture, it's my favourite. I

"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

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

"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

"Yes, I've just seen it," said Roger. "I missed the book from my shelves, and I believe someone must have

"Well, now, I want to tell you something," said Aubrey. "Tonight I had dinner at the Octagon with Mr.

"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 windowdisplay 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 CzechoSlovak 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 foreignlooking 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

"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?"

"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

"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

"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

"I guess he's picketing your place to try and steal the formula for eggs Samuel Butler," said Aubrey, and they

"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

"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 lefthand armchair into his own career, and found no room for a quotient. All of which transpired

With the politeness desirable in a wellbred 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.

"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

"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

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

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 tonight, Roger," said Mrs. Mifflin, "or he may walk off with a set of the

"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

"You're not interrupting," said Roger. "We were only reading aloud. Do you know Dickens' Christmas

"Yes, do go on," said Titania. "Mr. Mifflin was just reading about a most adorable head waiter in a London

Aubrey begged permission to light his pipe, and Roger picked up the book. "But before we read the items of

the coffeeroom 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

"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

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 packingcases 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

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Mifflin, laying down her knitting. "Neither of you knows anything about the stock. Sit

"Your father sent you hishis 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

"Well, you see I only know him in a business way, but he certainly is a corker. He believes in advertising,

"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

"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

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."

"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

"I'm almost disappointed," said Roger. "I thought that I had turned up a real booklover. Here we are, all hands

"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

"The mystery's not over yet," he said. "It's been rebound. This isn't the original binding."

"The binding has been cleverly imitated, but it can't fool me. In the first place, there was a rubbed corner at

"Yes, but not the same stain. I've had that book long enough to know it by heart. Now what the deuce would

"Goodness gracious," said Helen, "put it away and forget about it. We'll all be dreaming about Carlyle if

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

It was the usual oldfashioned 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 knickknacks, 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 drugshops 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

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

themThey're mild but they satisfyhe 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.

"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

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 bookcrammed sitting room of

the Mifflins, the sparkling fire, the lively chirrup of the bookseller reading aloudand there, in the old easy

chair whose horsehair stuffing was bulging out, that blueeyed 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? Whywhy, 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. Halfsmoked 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

[2] NOTE WHILE PROOFREADING: Surely this phrase was unconsciously lifted from R. L. S. But where

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 latemoving 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

raffleboard"take a chance on a MilkFed Turkey"the East Indian elevatorboy presents to

apartmenthouse 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

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 worshippedthat 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 "attentioncompelling" copy

and layout and typeface, in a corner of the GreyMatter 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 skysign 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

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

"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

"Say, old man, I thought you was a goner," he said sympathetically. "I seen those fellows jump you. Too bad

Aubrey gulped the night air, and sat up. The bridge rocked under him; against the starspeckled sky he could

see the Woolworth Building bending and jazzing like a poplar tree in a gale. He felt very sick.

"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!"

"Maybe I can flag a jitney for you. Here," he cried, as another citizen approached afoot, "Give this fellow a

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

"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

"No," said Aubrey. "That piece of sacking might have helped me trace them, but I forgot it."

The car ran swiftly up the dark channel of the Bowery, into Fourth Avenue, and turned off at ThirtySecond

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 washbasin, he bathed his throbbing head, tied a towel round

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

The bookseller's morning routine was brisk and habitual. He was generally awakened about halfpast 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 allnight 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

baywindows 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

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

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 breakfastexcept 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

"Bless my soul!" he said. "How are you going to live on your wages if you do that sort of thing? Payday

"Just one blowout," she said cheerfully. "I thought it would be fun to brighten the place up a bit. Think how

"Dear me," said Roger. "I hope you don't really think we have floorwalkers in the secondhand book

After breakfast he set about initiating his new employee into the routine of the shop. As he moved about,

"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

"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 tencent 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

"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 secondhand 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."

"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

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

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

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

"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

"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 handand 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

Titania wondered, a little panicstricken, 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

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."

"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

"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 WarYear 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.

"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

"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

"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

Titania had only the vaguest notion about bolsheviks, but she had seen a good many newspaper cartoons.

"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 whiteTruth 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 stayathome 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

"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

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

"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

"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 massimpulse, 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 humanitynot 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

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 giftstoleration.

"Let's go indoors," he answered. "You'll catch cold out here. I want to show you my alcove of books on the

"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

"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 indemnitieswe shall have to police her cities to prevent revolution from

burning her upand 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

"Certainly running a secondhand 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 worthwhile 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

"Here's my Waralcove," 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, nauseatedoh, 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

"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 booksbooks in which

the clear, passionate intellect of that race, with its savage irony, burns like a flame. Romain Rolland's

AuDessus 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 RussellI'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

"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

There is no knowing how long the bookseller's monologue might have continued, but at this moment Helen

"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

Roger looked a little sheepish. "My dear," he said, "I was only laying down a few of the principles underlying

"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 winkor as near a wink as a woman ever achieves (ask the man

"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

"I think it's too bad to give me away before Miss Titania," said Roger, smiling, so Titania saw this was

"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

"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 powerhouse, 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

"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 Horsemenyou 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 careerit

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 innocentlooking

customer will pop in and begin to talk, and you'll know he's an unconscious agent of bookdestiny. There's

an old seacaptain 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

"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

"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 onesided gossip was

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 GreyMatter 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 overexuberant 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 reabsorbed by the GreyMatter 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 postwar 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 pavementboxes,

in no very worldconquering humour. As it was a halfholiday, 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 piperack, 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

BoldFace. 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

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

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

WANTEDFor temporary employment at Hotel Octagon, 3 chefs, 3 experienced cooks, 20 waiters. Apply

"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

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

nightthen my finding this in the drug store, and getting that crack on the bean. I wonder if that

"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 standin 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

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 squirrelshooting, 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 halfpast four he set off for the subway. Halfway down

Thirtythird Street a thought struck him. He returned to his room, got out a pair of opera glasses from his

It was blue twilight when he reached Gissing Street. The block between Wordsworth Avenue and Hazlitt

Street is peculiar in that on one sidethe 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, fruitdealers, and a Greek candyshop 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 suedebound

volumes of Kipling, Service, Oscar Wilde, and Omar Khayyam that appear every year toward Christmas

timesuch 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

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 lacecurtain 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

A little way down the block he saw a sign VACANCIES in a parlour window. The house was nearly opposite

A fawntinted 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 rancor. Adopting the customary

compromise of untrained domestics, she did not invite him inside, but departed, leaving the door open to

Aubrey stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him. In an immense mirror the pale cheesecoloured

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

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.

"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

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

They climbed one more flight. The room was small, occupying half the thirdfloor frontage. A large window

opened onto the street, giving a plain view of the bookshop and the other houses across the way. A

washstand stood modestly inside a large cupboard. Over the mantel was the familiar pictureusually,

however, reserved for the fourth floor backof a young lady having her shoes shined by a ribald small boy.

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 talkremarks about the weather, the difficulty of getting "help,"

the young women guests who empty tealeaves down washbasin 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

"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

Vnecked blouse and brown skirt, there she was looking at a book. He saw her put out one arm and caught

the twinkle of her wristwatch. 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

secondhand 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 washbasin, laid

hairbrushes and O. Henry on the bureau. Feeling rather seriocomic 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 weekend 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

"attentioncompelling" layouts 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

These delicate wafers, crisped by a secret process, cherish in their unique tang and flavour all the lifegiving

nutriment that has made the potato the King of VegetablesBut 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

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

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.

"I schust want to warn you that Gissing Street is not healthy for you," said the voice.

"I am a friend," buzzed the receiver. There was a harsh, bass note in the voice that made the diaphragm at

"Well, Herr Freund," he said, "if you're the wellwisher I met on the Bridge last night, watch your step. I've

There was a pause. Then the other repeated, ponderously, "I am a friend. Gissing Street is not healthy for

Aubrey was a good deal perplexed. He returned to his room, and sat in the dark by the window, smoking a

There was no longer any doubt in his mind that something sinister was afoot. He reviewed in memory the

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

(2) The chef in the elevator carrying the book that was supposed to be losthe being the same man Aubrey

(5) Mifflin had said that the book had been stolen from him. Then why should it be either advertised or

(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 footpad 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

These references were written in black ink, in a small, neat hand. Below them, in quite a different script and

"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

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 flatarmed 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

After finishing his supper he lit one of his "mild but they satisfy" cigarettes and sat in the comfortable warmth

of a nearby 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 secondhand 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

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 "attentioncompelling" than any

tenpoint Caslon typearrangement 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 boldface stuff, set solid," he said to himself, thinking

typographically. "They're rather French oldstyle italic, slightly leaded. Set on 22point body, I guess. Old

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 reentering 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

"Well, I never!" said Mrs. Mifflin. "Here's Mr. Gilbert. Were you coming to see Roger?" she added, rather

Titania shook hands cordially. Aubrey, searching the oldstyle italics with the desperate intensity of a

"Why," he said rather lamely, "I was coming to see you all. II 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

"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

"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

"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

At the glass sentrybox 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

"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

"Is that so?" said Aubrey. "Well, now, I've got to be in Brooklyn on Monday, on business. Maybe Mrs.

"I've taken a fancy to that Cromwell book," said Aubrey. "What do you suppose Mr. Mifflin would sell it

"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,

toohe thought naivelya 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 sideglance 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

"What nonsense, wasn't it?" said Titania. "I'm so glad it's over! I was quite afraid one of those elephants

"I never can understand," said Helen, "why they don't film some of the really good booksthink of Frank

Stockton's stuff, how delightful that would be. Can't you imagine Mr. and Mrs. Drew playing in Rudder

"Thank goodness!" said Titania. "Since I entered the book business, that's the first time anybody's mentioned

a book that I've read. Yesdo 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 everdelightful 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

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.

"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 skysigns. 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 tonight. Perhaps I can drop in on Monday when Mr. Mifflin's away, and put coal on the

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

It was still earlynot quite ten o'clockand 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

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 mistakingthis was the voice of

The other said something in German in a hoarse whisper. Having studied that language in college, Aubrey

"Very well," said the first voice. "That will be all right, but we must act tonight. The damned thing must be

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 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 bloodmoney 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 wellwisher 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

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 wellwisher 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

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

"Let me have about eight feet," said Aubrey. "I need some tonight and I guess the hardware stores are all

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

halfpast eleven, and he wondered how long he would have to wait for the wellwisher 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. Smithwho emerged from a groundfloor 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.

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

Barely retaining his laughter, Aubrey struck a match and held it over the sprawling figure. The man lay with

his face twisted against one outspread 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. Smithcried out "What's that smell of burning?" Someone else said, "They're

"Yes, Hun's feathers," chuckled Aubrey to himself. He locked his door, and sat down by the window with his

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

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 selfeffacing profession of which he is so

Then he could see the modest bookseller, somewhat clammy in his extremities and lost within his academic

robe and hood, nervously fidgeting his mortarboard, 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

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 secondhand books, poring over his map like a military

chief of staff and forwarding cases of literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would restock.

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

These thoughts turned his mind toward his brotherinlaw 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:

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

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 fouryear shambles we

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 writeCromwell'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

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 CromwellWordsworth, going over to do his bit among the

diplomatic shellcraters. 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

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 tempestshaken 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 comingI 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

Baudelaire has a touching poem about an albatross, which you would likedescribing the poet's soul superb

in its own free azure but helpless, insulted, ugly, clumsy when striving to walk on common earth or

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 interruptedas 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

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,

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

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 newwon

eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more lovingkind 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 forsome 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 lifeall life, animal as well as human. Don't you find that a visit to a zoo can humble and astound

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 alongwhy 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, agreeablelooking 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;

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

illadjustment, 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

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

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 everincreasing 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

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 timeworn 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. Tonight 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

Forgive this long, incoherent scrawl. How did you like Erewhon? It's pretty near closing time and I must say

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

"Yes," said Helen, "it's really a marvel that his wagging muscles aren't all worn out, he has abused them so."

"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.

"We met your friend Mr. Gilbert on the street," she said, "and he went to the movies with us. He says he's

"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."

"I spent most of the time writing to Andrew," said Roger. "One amusing thing happened, though. I actually

"A fact," said Roger. "A man was looking at it, and I told him it was supposed to be written by Colonel

"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

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.

"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

"How stupid of me!" exclaimed Roger. "I quite forgot to tell you! Your father called up just after you had

"Oh, dear," said Titania. "He must have been delighted to hear I was at the movies, on the second day of my

"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 tomorrow out at your

home. He wants to show us some books he has just bought, and besides he thinks maybe you're feeling

"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 tomorrow

"Goodness," said Titania. "Imagine leaving this adorable bookshop to spend Sunday in Larchmont.

"Mr. Chapman said about nine o'clock. He begs us to get out there as early as possible, as he wants to spend

As they sat round the fading bed of coals, Roger began hunting along his private shelves. "Have you ever

Titania made a pathetic gesture to Mrs. Mifflin. "It's awfully embarrassing to be asked these things! No, I

"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

"No, Roger," said Mrs. Mifflin firmly. "Not tonight. It's eleven o'clock, and I can see Titania's tired. Even

"All right," said the bookseller amiably. "Miss Chapman, you take the book up with you and read it in bed if

"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

"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 thisandthat 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

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

halfpast 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 icebox. There are two theories as to this subject of icebox 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 leftover. 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 fullwhat can the most resourceful kitcheneer do with

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 icebox, 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

After the icebox, the cellar. Like all true householders, Roger was fond of his cellar. It was something

mouldy of smell, but it harboured a wellstocked 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 fireboxtenuous, 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

Bock was standing on his hind legs, looking up at the front wall of the cellar, in which two small irongrated

windows opened onto the sunken area by the front door of the shop. He gave a low growl, and seemed

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

Bock paid no heed to this persiflage, but prowled the front end of the cellar, looking upward in curious

"Shhh," said Roger gently. "Never mind the rats, Bock. Come on, we'll stoke up the fire and go to bed. Lord,

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 skullsmiting 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

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

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

"What devil's business is this?" thought Aubrey angrily. "The swine has even got a key of his own. There's no

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 lefthand 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

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 bookstealing game after all. I wonder if he and Weintraub go in for

some firstedition 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 bookfilled 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 treasuredog 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

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."

"No, he said he'd see you some other time. He woke the whole house up by falling downstairs," she added

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

The lunchroom was practically empty, and in two chairs near him the proprietor and his assistant were sitting

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 knighterrantry 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

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

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 doorwhich 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

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

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

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,

"Look here," thought Aubrey. "I don't want the dog following me all through the house. If I touch anything

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

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 innocentlooking kidnapper's den I ever heard of," he thought. "Any movingpicture

At that instant he heard footsteps overhead. Curiously soft, muffled footsteps. Instantly he was on the alert.

A window upstairs was thrown open. "Bock, what are you doing in the yard?" floated a voicea 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

Aubrey was wondering miserably whether he ought to counterfeit a bark, but it was too late to do anything.

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, goldspangled hair

came down in two thick braids across her shoulders. Her blue eyes were very much alive with amazement

"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

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

He stepped out into the hall, and stood at the bottom of the stairs in the throes of doubt. After waiting some

He heard the door opened, and clear words edged with frost came downward. This time he thought of a thin

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

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

"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 thinkI don't know what you must think. But I broke in here this

"There's something queer going on round this shop. It's not right for you to be here alone this way. I was

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 today 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 II 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

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 frameup for swiping valuable books from his shop. But when I saw Weintraub come in

here with his own latchkey, 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

"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

"Well, how do you explain the actions of this man Weintraub?" said Aubrey. "Do you like to have a man

"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 asas a

They stood in the History alcove. "Here it is," she said. "No, it isn'tthat's the History of Frederick the

"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 proGermanI remember that much from college. I believe your friend Mifflin is proGerman,

"That'll do for you!" she cried. "Next thing I suppose you'll say Daddy's proGerman, and me, too! I'd like to

"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

"Look here," she said furiously. "Either you or I must leave this place. If you intend to stay, please call me a

"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.

"I won't promise you ANYTHING," she said, "except never to speak to you again. I never saw a man like

"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."

"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

"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, youyou can tell your father to take his

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

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 carpetsweeper 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 selfscrutiny. "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 beforeand I've

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 GreyMatter Code, a neat

little booklet issued by his employers for the information of their representatives:

Business is built upon CONFIDENCE. Before you can sell GreyMatter Service to a Client, you must sell

"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

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

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

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

memorandumbook. 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

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

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

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,

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

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 himthat 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

"One thing I've got to look out for," he thought, "is children. There are bound to be somewho 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,

"There's another thing I'd better look out for," he thought, "and that's a dog. Who ever heard of a German

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 illnatured 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

thoughtspeaking in German. For the first time in his life he yearned for the society of his German

instructor at college, and also wonderedin 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."

The door closed again. Leaning over the raingutter, 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

windowsill. 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

A wait of several minutes brought no alarm, and he plucked up courage. On the inner side of the

houseaway from Wordsworth Avenue a narrow paved passage led to an outside cellarway with

oldfashioned 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

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 shopworn 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

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 cigarstand 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.

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

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

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

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

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

"Well," he thought, "I'd give fullpage 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

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!"

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 timesense, 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

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 cigarsan 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

betterknown 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

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 traingate 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,

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 GreyMatter 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

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 oldfashioned stunt had long

been abandoned in New York. The starter retorted that New York was only two hours away if he liked it

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

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."

"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

"Have I got your name right?" she asked, showing a slip on which she had written Mr. Miflin.

Roger was ushered into the private office, a large, airy room lined with bookshelves. Mr. Oldham, a tall, thin

"He must be very absent minded," thought Roger. "Arranges to sell a collection worth half a million, and

"I came over in response to your message," he said. "About selling your collection."

"To buy it?" said Roger, a little peevishly. "Why, no. I came over to appraise it for you. Your secretary

"My dear sir," replied the other, "there must be some mistake. I have no intention of selling my collection. I

"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 middleaged woman came into the office. "Miss Patterson," he said,

"I'm exceedingly sorry, Mr. Mifflin," said Mr. Oldham. "More sorry than I can tell youI'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

Roger was filled with confusion and anger. A hoax on the part of some of the Corn Cob Club, he thought to

"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?"

"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

"Some other time, perhaps," said Mr. Oldham. "Look here, you're a bookseller? I don't believe I know your

Roger got away as quickly as the other's politeness would let him. He chafed savagely at the awkwardness of

"Some of Jerry Gladfist's tomfoolery, I'll bet a hat," he muttered. "By the bones of Fanny Kelly, I'll make him

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

He cursed the book business in both hemispheres, cursed himself, and cursed Philadelphia. Then he went into

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

"Well, look who's here!" cried the facetious journalist. "Tamburlaine the Great, and none other! What brings

"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

"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

"It's worth trying. Go up to Leary's, 9 South Ninth. It's right on this street. I'll show you."

"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

"Right up the block," he pointed as they reached Chestnut Street. "No, I won't come with you, Wilson's

speaking to Congress today, and there's big stuff coming over the wire. So long, old man. Invite me to the

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 secondhand 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 manycoloured tapestry of bindings stretching far away to the rear of the

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 secondhand 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 kindlylooking bibliosoph, who was poring over an

"Have you a copy of Carlyle's Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell?" he asked.

"I'm afraid we haven't," he said. "Another gentleman was in here asking for it just a few minutes ago."

This emphasis brought no surprise to the bookseller, who was accustomed to the oddities of edition hunters.

"Was he a little bald man with a red beard and bright blue eyes?" asked Aubrey hoarsely.

"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

"He was here a moment ago," he said gently, and gazed with a mild interest upon the excited young

The tall manand I don't see why I should scruple to name him, for it was Philip Warnerexplained 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 tencenters 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

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 looked up from his book goodhumouredly. Apparently, in the zeal of his favourite pastime, he had

"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

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

"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

A spot of red spread on Roger's cheekbones. In spite of his apparent demureness he had a pugnacious spirit

"By the bones of Charles Lamb!" he said. "Young man, your manners need mending. If you're looking for

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

"You impudent dog," he said quietly, "you come round the corner where these people can't see us and I'll give

He led the way round the corner of the alley. In this narrow channel, between blank walls, they confronted

"In the name of Gutenberg," said Roger, calling upon his patron saint, "explain yourself or I'll hit you."

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

Aubrey forgot his resolution not to hit a smaller man, and also calling upon his patron saintsthe Associated

Advertising Clubs of the World he delivered a smashing slog which hit the bookseller in the chest and

Both men were furiously angryAubrey with the accumulated bitterness of several days' anxiety and

suspicion, and Roger with the quickflaming indignation of a hottempered 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

"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.

In a panic he ran round the corner to get Leary's outside man, who stands in a little sentry box at the front

They ran back around the corner, and found Aubrey walking rather shakily toward them. Immense relief

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 bookprowlers, Aubrey was carted into the

Mr. Warner greeted them at the back of the shop, a little surprised, but gentle as ever.

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

"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."

You utter idiot," said Roger, half an hour later. "Why didn't you tell me all this sooner? Good Lord, man,

"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

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

"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. Tripledistilled lunacy!"

"My dear fellow," said Roger, "I was the fool to be lured off by a fake telephone call. Judging by what you

"We can't get a train till four," said Roger. "That means we can't get back to Gissing Street until nearly

They were still in the private office at the rear of Leary's. Roger was wellknown in the shop, and had no

"Long Distance, please," he said. "Hullo? I want to get Brooklyn, Wordsworth 1617W."

They spent a sour twentyfive 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 troubleGosh!" he muttered. "If I get through this

The telephone rang, and Aubrey frantically beckoned to Roger, who was outside, talking.

"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

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.

"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!

"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

"Hold the wire a moment," said Roger, and clapped his hand over the mouthpiece. "She says Weintraub left a

"Hullo?" said Roger. Aubrey, leaning over him, noticed that the little bookseller's naked pate was ringed with

"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

"Don't touch it, and don't let Bock touch it. Itit's got valuable papers in it."

"Promise me not to touch it. And another thingif any one calls for it, don't let them take it until I get

"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 weuntil I get back."

"Goodbye," 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.

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

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

"It's a funny thing," he said at last. "You know I never heard of your shop until a week ago today, 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

"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 welldisposed. 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 warthose big grain

"I thought at first it was a kidnapping stunt," said Aubrey. "I thought you had got Miss Chapman planted in

"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 somewheretwo or three years agothat it was one of Woodrow Wilson's favourite books.

"By the way," cried Aubrey excitedly, "I forgot to show you those numbers that were written in the cover."

"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

"The first bunch of numbers was in your handwriting, then; but underneath were these others, in

Weintraub'sor at any rate in his ink. When I saw that he was jotting down what I took to be code stuff in

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

"Good Lord, no," said the bookseller. "What do you think I am, a movingpicture 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 pastyfaced 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

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

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."

Roger pulled out his latchkey and cautiously released the bolt. Then he opened the door slightlyabout an

"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

The shop was empty, and apparently normal. They stood for an instant with pounding pulses.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

"It's all a mistake," said the druggist suavely, though his eyes slid uneasily to and fro. "I just came in to get

"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

"Is that Metzger?" said Roger, pointing to the bearded man who was trying to break Aubrey's grip. "Gilbert,

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"

"Thank God you're back, Roger," she said. "These brutes tied me up in the kitchen and gagged me with a

rollertowel. 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

"Don't you get it," said Aubrey, and their eyes met for the first time. "Show me where it is, and we'll let

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

Titania pointed out the suitcase, which she had stowed at the back of her cupboard behind some clothes. The

"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

"My dear Mifflin," said Weintraub, "this is very absurd. Only a few old books that I had collected from 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

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

"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

The suitcase was full of secondhand books closely packed together. Roger, with great presence of mind,

"You see," said Weintraub surlily, "there's no mystery about it. I'm sorry I was so"

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

"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

"I think they're both crazy," said Titania. "Let's put the Cromwell back on the shelf and let this creature go."

"Here, Mr. Metzger," said Aubrey, "you put that book back on the shelf where it belongs. Don't try to get

He and Roger were both startled by the chef's face. Above the unkempt beard his eyes shone with a

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

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

"Where would you want it to go?" he said in an odd voice. "This is a valuable book."

"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

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

Metzger's arm was raised, about to throw the book, when Bock darted at him and buried his teeth in the man's

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.

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?"

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 diningroom door. In the back of the house the lights were still

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

By this time a crowd was already gathering on the pavement. Someone came in with a lantern. Three

"For God's sake," cried Aubrey, "get a light in here so we can see what's happened. Mifflin's buried in this

The whole front of the Haunted Bookshop was a wreck. In the pale glimmer of the lantern it was a disastrous

"Thanks to that set of Trollope," said a voice in the remains of the Fiction alcove, "I think I'm all right. Books

It was Roger, half stunned, but undamaged. He crawled out from under a case of shelves that had crumpled

"Bring that lantern over here," said Aubrey, pointing to a dark heap lying on the floor under the broken

It was the chef. He was dead. And clinging to his leg was all that was left of Bock.

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 GermanAmerican 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

dayGissing 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 proGerman colony; and Aubrey was able at last to get a muchneeded 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

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 pellmell around

him. Through Mr. Chapman's influence with a wellknown 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

"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

"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

housecleaning. I'm thinking seriously of putting in a vacuum cleaner and a cash register. Titania was quite

"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 BockCome, 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

"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

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 today, 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

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 manhe 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

He heard a rustle behind him, and there she was. She had on a gray fur coat and a lively little hat. Her cheeks

"Why, Mr. Gilbert!" she said. "Where have you been keeping yourself when I wanted to see you so badly? I

He found it impossible to say anything intelligible. She threw off her coat, and went on, with a wistful gravity

"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

Aubrey had never felt his selfsalesmanship ability at such a low ebb. To his unspeakable horror, he felt his

"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

"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 lifeall our lives, that night. I guess you'd have saved poor Bock's, too, if you

"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"

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

"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

"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

"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 gobetween was spotted by the Department of Justice on another count, and is now behind

"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 booka book little likely to be purchased in a

secondhand bookshop. Metzger had been informed what the book was, butperhaps owing to the

unexpected removal of the gobetween 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

"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

"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 morningthat 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

"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 drugstore 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

Aubrey was agreeably conscious of the close attention of his audience. He caught Titania's gaze, and flushed

"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

"The rest of it I think you all knowexcept 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

Humourously, Aubrey narrated how he had sleuthed the bookseller to Ludlow Street, and had been worsted

"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

"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

"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

"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."

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 sawin Titania's sparkling faceunmanned him.

"The same edition!" said Roger. "Now let's see what those mystic page numbers are! Gilbert, have you got

Aubrey took out his notebook. "Here we are," he said. "This is what Weintraub wrote in the back of the

"That ought to be easy," he said. "You see in this edition three volumes are bound in one. Let's look at page

"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 alongthat

"Good gracious," said Titania. "You told me that books are explosives. You were right, weren't you! But it's

"Well, I'VE got a toast to propose," said Titania. "Here's to the memory of Bock, the dearest, bravest dog I

"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 bookwagons, 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,

"My dear sir," he said, "Miss Titania has found the right word. You are an honour to human nature, sir, and I

"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 partyMr. Gilbert, it's

my duty to inform you that I intend to take my advertising out of the hands of the GreyMatter Agency."

Aubrey's heart sank. He had feared a catastrophe of this kind from the first. Naturally a hardheaded 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 progermanism. 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

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

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

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

In his hand he clutched the precious book. Out of all the thousand things he thought, there was only one he

"I'd love to," she said, a little shakily, for she, too, was strangely alarmed at certain throbbings.

"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.

"You see," she said with a funny little quaver, "I might want to change the wording." And she ran from the

As she entered the den, her father was speaking. "You know," he said, "I'm rather glad she wants to stay in

"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