Rarely was a more genuine tribute paid to entrancing
girlhood than
when Aubrey compelled himself, by sheer force of will
and the ticking
of his subconscious time-sense, to wake at six o'clock
the next morning.
For this young man took sleep seriously and with a primitive
zest.
It was to him almost a religious function. As a minor
poet has said,
he "made sleep a career."
But he did not know what train Roger might be taking,
and he was determined not to miss him. By a quarter after
six
he was seated in the Milwaukee Lunch (which is never
closed--
Open from Now Till the Judgment Day. Tables for Ladies,
as its sign says) with a cup of coffee and corned beef
hash.
In the mood of tender melancholy common to unaccustomed
early rising
he dwelt fondly on the thought of Titania, so near and
yet so far away.
He had leisure to give free rein to these musings, for
it was ten
past seven before Roger appeared, hurrying toward the
subway.
Aubrey followed at a discreet distance, taking care not
to
be observed.
The bookseller and his pursuer both boarded the eight
o'clock
train at the Pennsylvania Station, but in very different
moods.
To Roger, this expedition was a frolic, pure and simple.
He had been tied down to the bookshop so long that a
day's excursion
seemed too good to be true. He bought two cigars--an
unusual luxury--
and let the morning paper lie unheeded in his lap as
the train
drummed over the Hackensack marshes. He felt a good deal
of
pride in having been summoned to appraise the Oldham
library.
Mr. Oldham was a very distinguished collector, a wealthy
Philadelphia
merchant whose choice Johnson, Lamb, Keats, and Blake
items were
the envy of connoisseurs all over the world. Roger knew
very well
that there were many better-known dealers who would have
jumped at
the chance to examine the collection and pocket the appraiser's
fee.
The word that Roger had had by long distance telephone
was that
Mr. Oldham had decided to sell his collection, and before
putting
it to auction desired the advices of an expert as to
the prices
his items should command in the present state of the
market.
And as Roger was not particularly conversant with current
events
in the world of rare books and manuscripts, he spent
most of the trip
in turning over some annotated catalogues of recent sales
which
Mr. Chapman had lent him. "This invitation," he said
to himself,
"confirms what I have always said, that the artist, in
any line
of work, will eventually be recognized above the mere
tradesman.
Somehow or other Mr. Oldham has heard that I am not only
a seller of old
books but a lover of them. He prefers to have me go over
his treasures
with him, rather than one of those who peddle these things
like so
much tallow."
Aubrey's humour was far removed from that of the happy
bookseller.
In the first place, Roger was sitting in the smoker,
and as Aubrey
feared to enter the same car for fear of being observed,
he had to do
without his pipe. He took the foremost seat in the second
coach,
and peering occasionally through the glass doors he could
see the bald
poll of his quarry wreathed with exhalements of cheap
havana.
Secondly, he had hoped to see Weintraub on the same train,
but though he had tarried at the train-gate until the
last moment,
the German had not appeared. He had concluded from Weintraub's
words the night before that druggist and bookseller were
bound
on a joint errand. Apparently he was mistaken. He bit
his nails,
glowered at the flying landscape, and revolved many grievous
fancies
in his prickling bosom. Among other discontents was the
knowledge
that he did not have enough money with him to pay his
fare back
to New York, and he would either have to borrow from
someone in
Philadelphia or wire to his office for funds. He had
not anticipated,
when setting out upon this series of adventures, that
it would prove
so costly.
The train drew into Broad Street station at ten o'clock,
and
Aubrey followed the bookseller through the bustling terminus
and round the City Hall plaza. Mifflin seemed to know
his way,
but Philadelphia was comparatively strange to the Grey-Matter
solicitor.
He was quite surprised at the impressive vista of South
Broad Street,
and chagrined to find people jostling him on the crowded
pavement
as though they did not know he had just come from New
York.
Roger turned in at a huge office building on Broad Street
and took
an express elevator. Aubrey did not dare follow him into
the car,
so he waited in the lobby. He learned from the starter
that there
was a second tier of elevators on the other side of the
building,
so he tipped a boy a quarter to watch them for him, describing
Mifflin
so accurately that he could not be missed. By this time
Aubrey was
in a thoroughly ill temper, and enjoyed quarrelling with
the starter
on the subject of indicators for showing the position
of the elevators.
Observing that in this building the indicators were glass
tubes in
which the movement of the car was traced by a rising
or falling column
of coloured fluid, Aubrey remarked testily that that
old-fashioned
stunt had long been abandoned in New York. The starter
retorted
that New York was only two hours away if he liked it
better.
This argument helped to fleet the time rapidly.
Meanwhile Roger, with the pleasurable sensation of one
who expects
to be received as a distinguished visitor from out of
town,
had entered the luxurious suite of Mr. Oldham. A young
lady,
rather too transparently shirtwaisted but fair to look
upon,
asked what she could do for him.
"I want to see Mr. Oldham."
"What name shall I say?"
"Mr. Mifflin--Mr. Mifflin of Brooklyn."
"Have you an appointment?"
"Yes."
Roger sat down with agreeable anticipation. He noticed
the shining
mahogany of the office furniture, the sparkling green
jar of
drinking water, the hushed and efficient activity of
the young ladies.
"Philadelphia girls are amazingly comely," he said to
himself,
"but none of these can hold a candle to Miss Titania."
The young lady returned from the private office looking
a little perplexed.
"Did you have an appointment with Mr. Oldham?" she said.
"He doesn't seem to recall it."
"Why, certainly," said Roger. "It was arranged by telephone
on Saturday afternoon. Mr. Oldham's secretary called
me up."
"Have I got your name right?" she asked, showing a slip
on which she
had written Mr. Miflin.
"Two f's," said Roger. "Mr. Roger Mifflin, the bookseller."
The girl retired, and came back a moment later.
"Mr. Oldham's very busy," she said, "but he can see you
for a moment."
Roger was ushered into the private office, a large, airy
room lined
with bookshelves. Mr. Oldham, a tall, thin man with short
gray
hair and lively black eyes, rose courteously from his
desk.
"How do you do, sir," he said. "I'm sorry, I had forgotten
our appointment."
"He must be very absent minded," thought Roger. "Arranges
to sell
a collection worth half a million, and forgets all about
it."
"I came over in response to your message," he said. "About
selling
your collection."
Mr. Oldham looked at him, rather intently, Roger thought.
"Do you want to buy it?" he said.
"To buy it?" said Roger, a little peevishly. "Why, no.
I came over to appraise it for you. Your secretary telephoned
me
on Saturday."
"My dear sir," replied the other, "there must be some
mistake.
I have no intention of selling my collection. I never
sent you
a message."
Roger was aghast.
"Why," he exclaimed, "your secretary called me up on Saturday
and said you particularly wanted me to come over this
morning,
to examine your books with you. I've made the trip from
Brooklyn
for that purpose."
Mr. Oldham touched a buzzer, and a middle-aged woman came
into the office.
"Miss Patterson," he said, "did you telephone to Mr. Mifflin
of Brooklyn on Saturday, asking him----"
"It was a man that telephoned," said Roger.
"I'm exceedingly sorry, Mr. Mifflin," said Mr. Oldham.
"More sorry
than I can tell you--I'm afraid someone has played a
trick on you.
As I told you, and Miss Patterson will bear me out, I
have no idea
of selling my books, and have never authorized any one
even to suggest
such a thing."
Roger was filled with confusion and anger. A hoax on the
part
of some of the Corn Cob Club, he thought to himeslf.
He flushed
painfully to recall the simplicity of his glee.
"Please don't be embarrassed," said Mr. Oldham, seeing
the little
man's vexation. "Don't let's consider the trip wasted.
Won't you come out and dine with me in the country this
evening,
and see my things?"
But Roger was too proud to accept this balm, courteous
as it was.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but I'm afraid I can't do it. I'm
rather busy
at home, and only came over because I believed this to
be urgent."
"Some other time, perhaps," said Mr. Oldham. "Look here,
you're
a bookseller? I don't believe I know your shop. Give
me your card.
The next time I'm in New York I'd like to stop in."
Roger got away as quickly as the other's politeness would
let him.
He chafed savagely at the awkwardness of his position.
Not until
he reached the street again did he breathe freely.
"Some of Jerry Gladfist's tomfoolery, I'll bet a hat,"
he muttered.
"By the bones of Fanny Kelly, I'll make him smart for
it."
Even Aubrey, picking up the trail again, could see that
Roger
was angry.
"Something's got his goat," he reflected. "I wonder what
he's
peeved about?"
They crossed Broad Street and Roger started off down Chestnut.
Aubrey saw the bookseller halt in a doorway to light his
pipe,
and stopped some yards behind him to look up at the statue
of William
Penn on the City Hall. It was a blustery day, and at
that moment a gust
of wind whipped off his hat and sent it spinning down
Broad Street.
He ran half a block before he recaptured it.
When he got back to Chestnut, Roger had disappeared. He
hurried down Chestnut Street, bumping pedestrians in his eagerness, but
at Thirteenth he halted in dismay. Nowhere could he see a sign of the little
bookseller.
He appealed to the policeman at that corner, but learned
nothing.
Vainly he scoured the block and up and down Juniper Street.
It was eleven o'clock, and the streets were thronged.
He cursed the book business in both hemispheres, cursed
himself,
and cursed Philadelphia. Then he went into a tobacconist's
and bought
a packet of cigarettes.
For an hour he patrolled up and down Chestnut Street,
on both
sides of the way, thinking he might possibly encounter
Roger.
At the end of this time he found himself in front of
a newspaper office,
and remembered that an old friend of his was an editorial
writer on
the staff. He entered, and went up in the elevator.
He found his friend in a small grimy den, surrounded by
a sea
of papers, smoking a pipe with his feet on the table.
They greeted each other joyfully.
"Well, look who's here!" cried the facetious journalist.
"Tamburlaine the Great, and none other! What brings you
to this
distant outpost?"
Aubrey grinned at the use of his old college nickname.
"I've come to lunch with you, and borrow enough money
to get
home with."
"On Monday?" cried the other. "Tuesday being the day of
stipend
in these quarters? Nay, say not so!"
They lunched together at a quiet Italian restaurant, and
Aubrey narrated tersely the adventures of the past few days. The newspaper
man smoked pensively when the story was concluded.
"I'd like to see the girl," he said. "Tambo, your tale
hath the ring
of sincerity. It is full of sound and fury, but it signifieth
something.
You say your man is a second-hand bookseller?"
"Yes."
"Then I know where you'll find him."
"Nonsense!"
"It's worth trying. Go up to Leary's, 9 South Ninth. It's
right on this street. I'll show you."
"Let's go," said Aubrey promptly.
"Not only that," said the other, "but I'll lend you my
last V. Not
for your sake, but on behalf of the girl. Just mention
my name to her,
will you?
"Right up the block," he pointed as they reached Chestnut
Street.
"No, I won't come with you, Wilson's speaking to Congress
to-day,
and there's big stuff coming over the wire. So long,
old man.
Invite me to the wedding!"
Aubrey had no idea what Leary's was, and rather expected
it to be
a tavern of some sort. When he reached the place, however,
he saw why
his friend had suggested it as a likely lurking ground
for Roger.
It would be as impossible for any bibliophile to pass
this famous
second-hand bookstore as for a woman to go by a wedding
party
without trying to see the bride. Although it was a bleak
day,
and a snell wind blew down the street, the pavement counters
were lined with people turning over disordered piles
of volumes.
Within, he could see a vista of white shelves, and the
many-coloured
tapestry of bindings stretching far away to the rear
of the building.
He entered eagerly, and looked about. The shop was comfortably
busy,
with a number of people browsing. They seemed normal
enough
from behind, but in their eyes he detected the wild,
peering glitter
of the bibliomaniac. Here and there stood members of
the staff.
Upon their features Aubrey discerned the placid and philosophic
tranquillity which he associated with second-hand booksellers--
all save Mifflin.
He paced through the narrow aisles, scanning the blissful
throng
of seekers. He went down to the educational department
in the basement,
up to the medical books in the gallery, even back to
the sections of
Drama and Pennsylvania History in the raised quarterdeck
at the rear.
There was no trace of Roger.
At a desk under the stairway he saw a lean, studious,
and
kindly-looking bibliosoph, who was poring over an immense
catalogue.
An idea struck him.
"Have you a copy of Carlyle's Letters and Speeches of
Oliver Cromwell?"
he asked.
The other looked up.
"I'm afraid we haven't," he said. "Another gentleman was
in here
asking for it just a few minutes ago."
"Good God!" cried Aubrey. "Did he get it?"
This emphasis brought no surprise to the bookseller, who
was
accustomed to the oddities of edition hunters.
"No," he said. "We didn't have a copy. We haven't seen
one
for a long time."
"Was he a little bald man with a red beard and bright
blue eyes?"
asked Aubrey hoarsely.
"Yes--Mr. Mifflin of Brooklyn. Do you know him?"
"I should say I do!" cried Aubrey. "Where has he gone?
I've been hunting him all over town, the scoundrel!"
The bookseller, douce man, had seen too many eccentric
customers
to be shocked by the vehemence of his questioner.
"He was here a moment ago," he said gently, and gazed
with a mild
interest upon the excited young advertising man. "I daresay
you'll
find him just outside, in Ludlow Street."
"Where's that?"
The tall man--and I don't see why I should scruple to
name him,
for it was Philip Warner--explained that Ludlow Street
was the narrow
alley that runs along one side of Leary's and elbows
at right
angles behind the shop. Down the flank of the store,
along this
narrow little street, run shelves of books under a penthouse.
It is here that Leary's displays its stock of ragamuffin
ten-centers--
queer dingy volumes that call to the hearts of gentle
questers.
Along these historic shelves many troubled spirits have
come as near
happiness as they are like to get . . . for after all,
happiness
(as the mathematicians might say) lies on a curve, and
we approach
it only by asymptote. . . . The frequenters of this alley
call
themselves whimsically The Ludlow Street Business Men's
Association,
and Charles Lamb or Eugene Field would have been proud
to preside at their annual dinners, at which the members recount their
happiest book-finds of the year.
Aubrey rushed out of the shop and looked down the alley.
Half a dozen Ludlow Street Business Men were groping
among the shelves.Then, down at the far end, his small face poked into
an open volume,he saw Roger. He approached with a rapid stride.
"Well," he said angrily, "here you are!"
Roger looked up from his book good-humouredly. Apparently,
in the zeal of his favourite pastime, he had forgotten
where he was.
"Hullo!" he said. "What are you doing in Brooklyn? Look
here,
here's a copy of Tooke's Pantheon----"
"What's the idea?" cried Aubrey harshly. "Are you trying
to kid me?
What are you and Weintraub framing up here in Philadelphia?"
Roger's mind came back to Ludlow Street. He looked with
some
surprise at the flushed face of the young man, and put
the book back
in its place on the shelf, making a mental note of its
location.
His disappointment of the morning came back to him with
some irritation.
"What are you talking about?" he said. "What the deuce
business
is it of yours?"
"I'll make it my business," said Aubrey, and shook his
fist
in the bookseller's face. "I've been trailing you, you
scoundrel,
and I want to know what kind of a game you're playing."
A spot of red spread on Roger's cheekbones. In spite of
his apparent
demureness he had a pugnacious spirit and a quick fist.
"By the bones of Charles Lamb!" he said. "Young man, your
manners
need mending. If you're looking for display advertising,
I'll give
you one on each eye."
Aubrey had expected to find a cringing culprit, and this
back talk
infuriated him beyond control.
"You damned little bolshevik," he said, "if you were my
size I'd
give you a hiding. You tell me what you and your pro-German
pals
are up to or I'll put the police on you!"
Roger stiffened. His beard bristled, and his blue eyes
glittered.
"You impudent dog," he said quietly, "you come round
the corner
where these people can't see us and I'll give you some
private tutoring."
He led the way round the corner of the alley. In this
narrow channel,
between blank walls, they confronted each other.
"In the name of Gutenberg," said Roger, calling upon his
patron saint,
"explain yourself or I'll hit you."
"Who's he?" sneered Aubrey. "Another one of your Huns?"
That instant he received a smart blow on the chin, which
would
have been much harder but that Roger misgauged his footing
on
the uneven cobbles, and hardly reached the face of his
opponent,
who topped him by many inches.
Aubrey forgot his resolution not to hit a smaller man,
and also calling
upon his patron saints--the Associated Advertising Clubs
of the World--
he delivered a smashing slog which hit the bookseller
in the chest
and jolted him half across the alley.
Both men were furiously angry--Aubrey with the accumulated
bitterness
of several days' anxiety and suspicion, and Roger with
the quick-flaming
indignation of a hot-tempered man unwarrantably outraged.
Aubrey had the better of the encounter in height, weight,
and more
than twenty years juniority, but fortune played for the
bookseller.
Aubrey's terrific punch sent the latter staggering across
the alley onto the opposite curb. Aubrey followed him
up with
a rush, intending to crush the other with one fearful
smite.
But Roger, keeping cool, now had the advantage of position.
Standing on the curb, he had a little the better in height.
As Aubrey leaped at him, his face grim with hatred, Roger
met him
with a savage buffet on the jaw. Aubrey's foot struck
against the curb,
and he fell backward onto the stones. His head crashed
violently
on the cobbles, and the old cut on his scalp broke out
afresh.
Dazed and shaken, there was, for the moment, no more
fight
in him.
"You insolent pup," panted Roger, "do you want any more?"
Then he saw that Aubrey was really hurt. With horror
he observed
a trickle of blood run down the side of the young man's
face.
"Good Lord," he said. "Maybe I've killed him!"
In a panic he ran round the corner to get Leary's outside
man,
who stands in a little sentry box at the front angle
of the store
and sells the outdoor books.
"Quick," he said. "There's a fellow back here badly hurt."
They ran back around the corner, and found Aubrey walking
rather
shakily toward them. Immense relief swam through Roger's
brain.
"Look here," he said, "I'm awfully sorry--are you hurt?"
Aubrey glared whitely at him, but was too stunned to speak.
He grunted, and the others took him one on each side
and supported him.
Leary's man ran inside the store and opened the little
door
of the freight elevator at the back of the shop. In this
way,
avoiding notice save by a few book-prowlers, Aubrey was
carted into
the shop as though he had been a parcel of second-hand
books.
Mr. Warner greeted them at the back of the shop, a little
surprised,
but gentle as ever.
"What's wrong?" he said.
"Oh, we've been fighting over a copy of Tooke's Pantheon,"
said Roger.
They led Aubrey into the little private office at the
rear. Here they made
him sit down in a chair and bathed his bleeding head
with cold water.
Philip Warner, always resourceful, produced some surgical
plaster.
Roger wanted to telephone for a doctor.
"Not on your life," said Aubrey, pulling himself together.
"See here,
Mr. Mifflin, don't flatter yourself you gave me this
cut on the skull.
I got that the other evening on Brooklyn Bridge, going
home from your
damned bookshop. Now if you and I can be alone for a
few minutes,
we've got to have a talk." |
