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Title: "The Liberry"

Author: Ian Hay

Release Date: October 2, 2021 [eBook #66454]

Language: English

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Produced by: Al Haines

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 The Liberry

"THE LIBERRY"
 BY

IAN HAY

WITH FRONTISPIECE BY

KLEBER HALL

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1924

COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1923 AND 1924, BY IAN HAY BEITH

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Riverside Press

CAMBRIDGE * MASSACHUSETTS
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
 "The Liberry"

"THE LIBERRY"

I first met Mr. Baxter at the fourpenny box outside Mr. Timpenny's
second-hand bookshop in High Street, and was attracted at once by the
loving care with which he handled its contents. Dirty and dog's-eared as
most of them were, he never snatched one up or threw it down, after the
common fashion of patrons of inexpensive literature, but would gently
extract a more than usually disreputable volume from its heap, blow the
dust off, straighten the warped cover, and smooth out the wrinkled pages
before dipping into the subject-matter. In fact, the last operation struck me
as interesting him least of all.

Becoming aware of my presence, he moved aside with a courtly little

bow. He was a dusty old gentleman, in a very shabby frock-coat. He looked
as if he lived in the fourpenny box himself.

"Am I preventing you from selecting a volume, sir?" he inquired.

I hastened to reassure him. I had no special designs on the fourpenny

box, or indeed on any. I was merely idling.

"I am waiting for the druggist to make up a prescription," I said.

"Then you don't do your own dispensing, sir?"

 "As a rule, yes. I have run out of this particular drug, though. But you
know me?"

"Yes, sir; by sight. We do not take long in Broxborough to get to know

every one by sight. You succeeded to Dr. Wiseman's practice, I think?"

"Yes."

"A good old man, sir, and a lover of books, like myself."

"You're right about yourself," I said. "You handle a book as I would a

delicate patient."

"A very apt comparison, sir. To me, in a manner of speaking, a book is a

human thing. A dilapidated book is a patient; I like to repair its broken back
and gum in its loose pages. In fact, the late Archdeacon used to rally me
upon the subject, sir. He insisted that I cared more for a book, as a book,
than for what was inside it."

I ventured, with immediate success, to draw him out upon the subject of
the late Archdeacon.

"Archdeacon Belford, sir. He died many years ago, and few remember
him now. A great scholar and gentleman. I was associated with him almost
continuously in my younger days. It was he who assisted me to found my
library."

"Your library?"

"Yes, sir." The old gentleman's mild blue eyes suddenly glowed with
pride. "Nothing very pretentious, of course; but I take my little pleasure in
it. And it grows—it grows." He picked a small tattered volume out of the
box—it looked like an ancient school prize—and turned down a few dog's-
ears with a distressed expression.

"A sweet little edition," he said, examining the text, "but small print. I
have left my glasses at home. Would you very kindly indicate to me the
nature of its contents, sir?"
 I read a few lines aloud to him—poetry.

"I don't know it," I confessed. "Poetry is not much in my line. Let me
look at the title-page. Ah—Robert Southey."

"I rather thought it was Southey," said Mr. Baxter immediately.

"I fancy you are more widely read than I am," I remarked.

"I make a point of reading aloud a passage out of one of my books every
day, sir. I acquired the habit under the late Archdeacon. We read together
constantly. He had very definite views on the value of reading. 'A man with
books about him,' he used to say, 'is a man surrounded by friends far more
interesting and distinguished than any he is likely to meet when he dines
with the Bishop. A man with a library of his own, however small, is at once
a capitalist who can never go bankrupt and an aristocrat who moves in
circles to which the common herd cannot penetrate. In other words, a man
with a library is a man respected!' That was why I founded my own, sir. The
Archdeacon himself contributed the first few volumes."

"Is it a large library?" I asked, glancing furtively at my wrist-watch.

"No, sir; of very modest dimensions. But it is sufficiently large to be

utilized by nearly all my friends."

"You lend them books, then?"

"Oh, no, sir. I would not do that. My books are everything to me—and
you know what book-borrowers are! My friends are welcome to tap my
literary resources, but it must be through me as medium."

"I don't quite understand," I said, noting out of the corner of my eye that
Mr. Pettigrew, the druggist next door, had emerged from behind the carved
wooden screen which masks the mysteries of his dispensing department
from the layman's eye, and was now visible through the shop window, busy
with white paper and sealing-wax.
 "When a seeker after knowledge calls upon me," explained the
indefatigable Mr. Baxter, "I select from my library the appropriate volume
and read, or recite, to him such passages as appear to me most applicable to
his case. In this way I ensure the safety and cleanliness of my literary
property—

"So here you are! I thought so. Have you been buying another of those
dirty things?"

A small, alert, slightly shrewish girl of about fifteen had suddenly

appeared from nowhere, and was now transfixing my flinching companion
with the eye of the Ancient Mariner.

"Only fourpence, my dear," replied Mr. Baxter deferentially.

"That's right. Throw money about!" said the young lady. "Have you got
fourpence?" she added, with a slight softening of manner.

"Well, to be exact, I rather think all I have at the moment is threepence."

The Ancient Mariner produced a penny.

"Here you are," she said, handing him the coin with a not altogether
successful attempt at an indulgent smile. "You haven't bought anything for a
fortnight. Go in and pay for it, and then come home to dinner, do!"

"Good-morning, Mr. Baxter! How's the library this morning?"

The druggist was standing in his doorway, with a facetious twinkle in his
eye. Evidently Mr. Baxter's library was an accepted target for local humour.

Mr. Baxter took no notice, but disappeared into the bookshop. Mr.
Pettigrew handed me my bottle.

"One of our characters, that old fellow," he said, with that little air of
civic pride which marks the country-townsman booming local stock. "Quite
a poor man, but possesses an extensive library—quite extensive. His
learning is at the service of his fellow-citizens. He likes to be called The
Oracle. Supposing you want to know something about Shakespeare, or
Julius Cæsar, or Wireless Telegraphy, or Patagonia, you go to Baxter. You
press the button and he does the rest! Lives a bit in the clouds, of course;
and I wouldn't go so far as to say that his information is always infallible. In
fact"—Mr. Pettigrew tapped his forehead significantly—"his upper storey
—"

"Who made up a wrong prescription, and poisoned a baby?" demanded

an acid voice immediately under the humourist's elbow. He swung round.
The small girl, crimson with wrath, but with her emotions well under
control, stood gazing dispassionately before her, apparently talking to
herself.

"Whose wife gave a party," she continued—"and nobody came? Whose

daughter wants to marry the curate—and he won't? Who—"

"That'll do," announced Mr. Pettigrew, shortly, and retired in disorder

into his shop. Simultaneously The Oracle emerged from the bookshop with
Robert Southey under his arm, and with a stately inclination in my direction
departed down the street, under the grim and defiant escort of his infant
guardian.

II

One morning about three months later, my butler, footman, valet-de-

chambre, chauffeur, and general supervisor, McAndrew, thrust his head
round the dining-room door as I sat at breakfast and announced:

"There's a wee body in the hall."

I have known McAndrew for seven years now, and I understand his
vernacular. We met in that great rendezvous of all time, the Western Front,
on a day when I took command of a Field Ambulance in which McAndrew
was functioning as a stretcher-bearer. When our unit was demobilized in
Nineteen Nineteen, McAndrew came before me and announced that he had
relinquished all intention of resuming his former profession of "jiner" in his
native Dumbarton, and desired henceforth to serve me in the capacity
mentioned above for the joint term of our natural lives. I took him on, and
he does very well. He has his own ideas about how to wait at table, and his
methods with unauthenticated callers are apt to be arbitrary; but he is clean
and honest, and—well, he wears a vertical gold stripe on his left sleeve and
three ribbons just above his watch-pocket. That is enough for me.

As I say, his vernacular now contains no mysteries for me. So when he

made the alarming announcement just mentioned I realized at once that no
case of infant mortality had occurred on my premises, but that a person of
small stature desired an interview.

"Man or woman?" I asked.

"A lassie."

"A patient?"

"I couldna say: she wouldna tell me," replied McAndrew, not without
bitterness.

"Bring her in," I said. Forthwith the Ancient Mariner was ushered into
my presence.

"Grampa's in bed with one of his legs again," she announced.

I forbore to ask an obvious and fatuous question, and nodded.

"Dr. Wiseman used to attend him," continued my visitor; "but he didn't

charge him very much—next to nothink, almost," she added, with a shade
of anxiety.

"Is your grandfather insured, or on any club?" I asked. "If so, the panel
doctor—"

"No, he isn't insured, or anything. He's a gentleman. He has a liberry."

Toujours the Liberry! "Where does he live?" I inquired.

 "Twenty-One, The Common. When can you come?"

"Eleven o'clock."

"All right. Don't be earlier than that: I have the room to straighten."

The Home of The Oracle proved to be one of a row—something

between a villa and a cottage. The door was opened by my sharp-featured
little friend.

"Walk in," she said—"and wipe your boots."

Mr. Baxter was in bed in the front parlour. As I had suspected, he had
both legs with him—but one of these was inflamed and swollen.

"I always bring him in here when he's poorly," explained the
granddaughter (whose name I discovered later to be Ada Weeks), "because
he likes to be with his old books." She favoured her patient with an
affectionate glare. "He's half silly about them."

I attended to the invalid's immediate wants, and then overhauled him

generally. He was not what an insurance agent would have termed "a good
life." After that, I was introduced to the library, which occupied the wall
opposite to the bed. It consisted of a couple of mahogany bookcases, of
solid Victorian workmanship, with locked glass doors lined with faded
green silk. Ada Weeks produced a key from under her grandfather's pillow
and unlocked one of the doors, revealing the books. They were all neatly
covered in brown paper. There were no titles on the backs, but each book
bore a number, in sprawling, irregular figures.

"There, sir!" announced my patient, with simple pride. "There you

behold the accumulated wealth of a man who is just as wealthy as he wishes
to be!"

"Rats!" remarked a sharp voice from the recesses of the library; but the
old gentleman appeared not to hear.
 "It dates from the lamented death of the late Archdeacon. There are a
hundred and seventy-nine volumes in all. The little Southey is the last
arrival. Show it to us, Ada."

Miss Weeks extracted Volume One Hundred and Seventy-Nine from the
lowest shelf, and handed it to the old man. He turned over the pages
lovingly.

"Here is the passage which made us acquainted, sir," he said. "A

delightful thing." He produced spectacles from somewhere in the bed,
adjusted them, and read:

"My days among the Dead are passed:

Around me I behold
(Where'er these casual eyes are cast)
The mighty minds of old:
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom—With whom—"

He faltered.

"'With whom I converse day by day,'" said Ada Weeks in a matter-of-fact

voice. "Don't strain your eyes."

"You are right, my dear," admitted Mr. Baxter, laying down the book.
"The type is somewhat small. But this little poem is strangely suggestive of
my own condition. It is called 'The Scholar'—just about an old man living
in the past among his books. I have read it to myself many a time since last
I saw you, sir. Put it back, Ada; and show the Doctor an older friend.
Something out of the late Archdeacon's library—say Number Fourteen."

Miss Ada pulled down the volume indicated, blew viciously upon the
top edges, and handed it to me. It proved to be part of an almost obsolete
Encyclopædia.

"A useful little compendium of knowledge," was Mr. Baxter's comment.

"Unfortunately, I have not the set complete—only eight volumes. They go
as far as Pocahontas. There are four more, really."
 "Prairie Oyster to Zymotic," confirmed the ever-ready Miss Weeks.

"Precisely. You would be surprised at the number of my callers who

desire information on matters that come between Prairie Oyster and
Zymotic!" The old gentleman sighed. "But where their requirements are
limited to the earlier letters of the alphabet, I can usually find a passage
which both interests and enlightens them." He glanced at the number on the
back of the book. "This is the first volume of the set—A—Byzantium. Many
a hungry soul have I fed from it." He turned over the pages. "Addison—
Algebra—Archæology—Adenoids— That reminds me, a neighbour is
coming in to consult me about adenoids this afternoon. A mother—a
woman in quite humble circumstances. I must look up adenoids."

"Isn't that rather trespassing on my department?" I asked.

"Oh, dear! no, sir. All I shall do will be to find the passage relating to
adenoids, and read it aloud to Mrs. Caddick."

"Mrs. Caddick? I am treating a child of hers for adenoids at present."

"Quite so, sir. And Mrs. Caddick naturally wishes to know what they are.
I shall read aloud to her the scientific definition of the ailment. It is
surprising what a comfort that will be to her. Poor soul, she's almost
illiterate; and the printed word is a sacred mystery to such!"

"You are an authority on human nature, Mr. Baxter, I perceive."

"You are kind to say so, sir. But I was a mere disciple of the late
Archdeacon. It's a strange thing, human nature," he continued pensively. "I
have studied it all my life. My recreation is to help it—and it needs all the
help it can get. I am at home every evening, and folk look in quite regularly
to ask for my guidance on some literary, historical, or scientific point of
interest. 'Consulting The Oracle,' they are kind enough to call it. Such visits
enable me to gratify at once my hobby and my vanity!" He smiled.

"You have one or two bulky-looking volumes up there," I said,

approaching the bookcase and inspecting the top shelf. "Who is this big
fellow—Number Eighty-Seven?"
 I half raised my hand; but in a flash Ada Weeks was before me.

"It's Shakespeare," she announced, snatching the volume down and

holding it to her flat little bosom. "Presentation!"

"Ada is always a little jealous about letting the presentation volumes out
of her hands," explained Mr. Baxter, from the bed. "That book was
conferred upon me as a small token of esteem by a certain literary circle in
London in which I was interested before I came here, many years ago.
Bring it to me, my dear."

Ada Weeks, with a sidelong and defiant glance in my direction, handed

the great book to the old man. He opened it at random, and began to read
aloud.

"This fortress built by Nature for herself

Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in a silver sea,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,—"

He broke off, and smiled.

"You see I do not need glasses," he said, "for such a passage as that! I
almost know it by heart, although I never possessed the Archdeacon's
astonishing facility in that direction. He was accustomed to commit a
passage to memory every day. Put it back, Ada, dear."

Miss Weeks restored the volume to the case, closed the door, turned the
key, and faced me with the air of a small but determined hen which has
safely shut her chickens into the coop in the very face of an ill-disposed but
inexperienced young fox. I took up my hat.

"Good-bye, Mr. Baxter," I said. "I shall come and see you to-morrow.
Don't let your disciples overtire you."

The old man flushed. "I thank you for that flattering word, sir," he said.
 Halfway down the street I realized that I had forgotten my stethoscope.
Accordingly, I retraced my steps.

I found the front door open. I might have walked in without ceremony;
but, inspired by a very proper fear of Miss Ada Weeks, I tapped respectfully
and waited. There was no response. Presently I became aware of voices
proceeding from the front parlour, the door of which stood wide open just
inside the passage. This is what I heard.

"Adenitis, and Adenoid Growths—that's the nearest I can find. Which do

you want?"

"I think Adenoid Growths, my dear. Read it through once, as usual; then
again line by line."

"All right. Pay attention, mind!" said Miss Weeks sharply, and began:

"Adenoid Growths of the lym—lymphatic tissues of the upper throat

occur chiefly in children from four to fourteen. Yes, that's right: Johnny
Caddick is eight. The child breathes through the mouth—Where do they
expect him to breathe through? His ear?—suffers from Nasal Cat—cat
something; we'll call it cater—from Nasal Cater. I wonder how people can
write such words, let alone read them!"

"To me," said the gentle voice of the old man, "it seems wonderful that
they should be able to do either."

"Listen again," commanded Miss Weeks, oblivious of a resounding

knock from me.

"—Nasal Cater, and slight deafness; and is stupid and sluggish— This
book takes off Johnny Caddick to the life, and no mistake! I wonder what
his mother will say—with a cha-rac-ter-is-tic—oh, crumbs!—facial
expression. Cure is effected by a simple operation of removal. Does that
mean his face? A good job if it does! That's all. Now I'll learn you it.
Adenoid Growths—"

"Adenoid Growths; Adenoid Growths; Adenoid Growths—"

 "Of the lymphatic tissues—"

"Of the lymphatic tissues—"

I recollected that I had a spare stethoscope at home, and tiptoed down

the steps.

III

I learned a good deal about the Baxter ménage during the next few
weeks, from various sources.

First the Rector, whom I encountered one day paying a parochial call at
Twenty-One, The Common. We walked home together.

"He's a strange old fellow," said my companion, "and most of his

characteristics are derived from imitations, conscious or unconscious, of a
stranger old fellow still."

"The late lamented?"

"Exactly. Old Belford was a bachelor, and lived alone among his books
in his house in the Close for nearly forty years. His only companions were
an aged cook-housekeeper and Adam Baxter. He died fifteen or twenty
years ago, before I came here. He was nearly ninety, I fancy."

"What was Baxter's exact status in the household?"

"By his own account, he was the old man's confidential secretary,
amanuensis, and librarian. My own belief is that he cleaned the
Archidiaconal boots. Of course he may have been allowed to dust the books
in the library too. Anyhow, during his period of service in that household he
contrived to amass an enormous quantity of more or less useless book-
learning. He is regarded hereabouts as quite a savant. His erudition makes
him respected by those who have none, and his library of miscellaneous
rubbish gives him the status of a man of property."

"It's not all rubbish. He has a Shakespeare and a Southey, at least. He has
Jowett's Thucydides too, he tells me."

"You're right: I retract that part. But his library is rubbish, in the sense
that it's an unclassified rag-bag of odds and ends. Still, he's an enlightened
old chap in his way. When he settled down in that little house after old
Belford's death and began to set up as a sort of provincial Socrates, his
conversation and library were mainly classical, as you might expect,
considering their origin. He would pull down a Homer, or a Herodotus, or a
Vergil, and spout to his audience some favourite passage of his late
employer."

"You mean to say he translated from the original Latin and Greek?"

"Ah! That's what nobody knows. The peculiar thing about Baxter is that,
though he will read or quote from any book in his library for your
delectation, he practically never permits any one to take the book out of his
hands. No human eye, for instance, has ever fallen upon the printed pages
of Baxter's Homer. If it did, I suspect it would find that page printed in good
plain English. Pope's translation, probably."

"You think he is a fraud, then?"

"Oh, bless you, no! I think he is a genuine book-lover, and values—in

fact lives on—the respect which his literary eminence earns for him in this
extremely unliterary township. But candidly I think most of his classical
works are common cribs. I have known less pardonable forms of hypocrisy.
But I was saying just now he was enlightened. Of late years he has
supplemented his Latin and Greek and his Poets and Historians by scientific
and technical literature. People go and consult him about all sorts of modern
developments and tendencies now."

"Adenoids, for instance?"

 "Precisely. Well, I turn off here. I am going to pay a call upon a
gentleman who made a large fortune out of Civilian War Work of National
Importance. He has acquired a library, too—quite recently and all at once—
beautifully bound in morocco and tree calf. But I doubt if he could quote a
single line from a single volume therein. Baxter for me, every time! Good-
afternoon."

Secondly, from McAndrew.

"Yon auld felly, Baxter," he suddenly remarked to me one day while

driving me home from a professional round, and passing the door of
Number Twenty-One; "he's real respeckit in the toon. In Scotland, of
course, he would be naebody, for every one's educatit there. But here there's
men making as much as seeven pound a week at the Phoenix Linoleum
Works, on the south side, that has read naething since they passed through
school but the Sabbath newspapers. They look on Baxter as a kin' o'
Cyclopedy. But—I was in there the other nicht for a bit crack, and I asked
him what he thought of Rabbie Burns. He'd never heard tell of him! There's
your Oracle!"

"Mr. Baxter is a self-made man of letters," I said. "He got most of his
learning second-hand from the Archdeacon. Perhaps the Archdeacon was
not a student of Burns, either."

The enormity of this suggestion quite paralyzed McAndrew for a while.

Presently he recovered sufficiently to resume: "Yon Archdeacon was a
doited sort of body. He lived all alone in yon dreich-lookin' house in the
Cathedral Close nigh fufty year. He had naething aboot him but books, and
naebody aboot him but an auld wife, Mistress Corby, and Baxter. She's deid
now, but her dochter married on the ironmonger in High Street. It was her
was telling me. Mistress Corby did the beds and the cooking, and Baxter
did everything else. He redd up the library, and dusted the books. He carried
the coals and sorted the garden as weel. And where do you think the
Archdeacon got him?"

"Baxter?"
 "Aye, Baxter. Singin' in the street! There's few fowk in this toon ken that,
or mind it. But Baxter just drufted into the place one wet day, with the toes
stickin' oot of his boots, and the Archdeacon found him standin' in the rain
and took him intil the hoose and kept him. Twenty-five shillin' a week he
got, with two suits of clothes a year and a bit present at Christmas. He bided
there thirty years, and the Archdeacon never repented of his bargain. Good
servants is scarce."

McAndrew paused impressively, to allow this last truth to sink in, and
continued.

"I jalouse the way Baxter got an so weel with the Archdeacon was the
interest he took in the library. He was never oot of it, unless he was pitten
oot. It wasna so much that he would read the books as worship them. He
would take them oot and hold them in his hands by the hour, or sit back on
a chair and glower at their backs on the shelves. So Mistress Corby's
dochter that married on the ironmonger tellt me."

"By the way, when did Mr. Baxter's granddaughter appear on the scene?"
I inquired.

"That was long after the old man died. He left Baxter an annuity, with
two bookcases and a wheen books to start a library of his ain. Mistress
Corby's dochter says he left him fufty, and Baxter pinched other twenty-
five. That was the nucleus, you'll understand. The rest he has been
collecting for himself for many a year."

"And the granddaughter?" I inquired gently.

"Oh, aye; I was coming to her. She came along aboot five years ago,
long after the old man had settled into yon wee hoose where he stays now.
She just appeared. Naebody could ever find oot where from, although
Mistress Corby's dochter asked Baxter to tea in her own hoose twice and
called on him herself three times. Baxter is as close as an oyster, and as for
the lassie"—McAndrew shuddered slightly—"she has an ill tongue tae
provoke."

Thirdly, chez Baxter.

 As already indicated, it was the old gentleman's custom of an evening to
receive visitors in the front room and discourse to them on literature, poetry,
history, and science. Light refreshments—very light refreshments—were
handed round by Miss Weeks; but these were a mere appendage to the
literary provender supplied. I formed the habit of joining this symposium
upon one evening every week—at first out of idle curiosity (and perhaps
with the pardonable desire of indulging in one of the few forms of
advertisement open to a struggling physician), but subsequently through
sheer interest in the academy itself and the amazingly sure touch with
which the master handled his disciples.

They were a motley crew. There were socially ambitious young shop-
assistants, anxious to acquire a literary polish likely to impress the opposite
sex. There were artisans who wished to advance themselves in the
technique of their profession. There were heavy-handed, heavy-shouldered,
rather wistful men, with muscles made lusty by hard physical labour,
conscious of minds grown puny and attenuated for lack of intellectual
nourishment. There were humble folk with genuine literary leanings, who
came to consult Mr. Baxter's poems and essays, and sometimes shyly
proffered compositions of their own for perusal and comment. There were
men—uneducated men—dimly conscious of the fact that they possessed
immortal souls, who had waded into the deep waters of theological
speculation, and got out of their depth. For each and all Mr. Baxter had a
word of welcome and counsel.

"I am very happy to see you, Mr. Wright. And your friend, Mr.—? Mr.
Dennis. Thank you. We are going to read and discuss a passage from 'The
Tempest' presently. Shakespeare, you know. Be seated, and my
granddaughter will offer you a little refreshment.... I have been consulting
various authorities on statical electricity for you, Mr. Armitage. I have
marked a few passages in my Encyclopædia, Volume Twenty in my library,
which seem to me to treat the subject most lucidly. You might also derive
some information from the life of Mr. Faraday—Volume Eighteen. My
granddaughter will look up the passage for you presently.... Ah, Mr. Jobson!
How are they down at the factory to-day? You are just in time. We are about
to read and discuss a passage from 'The Tempest.' Shakespeare, of course.
Be seated, pray.... For me to read, Mr. Penton? Thank you: that indeed will
be an intellectual treat. I will peruse your manuscript at leisure, and
comment upon it at our next meeting.... The Agnostics still bothering you,
Mr. Clamworthy? Well, I am no theologian; but for sheer old-fashioned
common sense I don't think you can beat Paley's 'Evidences of Christianity.'
The late Archdeacon used to say that he always came back to Paley in the
end. Ada, my dear, that passage I marked in Volume Forty-Seven! Now
friends, 'The Tempest'!"

After that the Presentation Shakespeare would be opened, and Mr.

Baxter would declaim selected passages. His voice was mellow, and his
manner ecclesiastical; plainly his whole deportment was moulded, to the
last gesture and inflexion, on one unvarying model. A discussion would
follow—a quite naïve and rather pathetic discussion, sometimes. Ultimately
Mr. Baxter would sum up, generally with extracts from other Shakespearian
passages, which he turned up with great readiness and dexterity, rolling
them from off his tongue with obvious relish. Occasionally he would ask
Ada for some other volume, and read from that. There were great moments
when he would actually call for Homer or Horace and, with apologies for
rusty scholarship, offer to our respectful ears a quite coherent rendering of
some famous passage.

Finally, at a moment selected by herself, the vigilant Ada Weeks would

terminate the proceedings with the curt announcement that her grandfather
was tired. The precious volumes were locked in the library again, and we
were bidden, without ceremony, to say good-night to our host and not to
bang the street door. Both of which commands we obeyed promptly and
reverently, and departed homeward.

IV

Possibly it may have occurred to the reader to wonder whether in a

community at once so erudite and progressive as Broxborough—it
possesses both a Cathedral Close and a Linoleum Factory, you will
remember—there can have been no official alternative to Twenty-One, The
Common—no Public Library, no Public Lecture Courses, no Municipal
Oracle, as it were.

In truth Broxborough once had all these things. Before the War there
existed an institution known as Broxborough Pantheon. Here was an
excellent library of reference; lectures and classes, too, were constantly in
operation throughout the winter months. In its lighter moments the
Pantheon lent itself to whist drives. But the entire building had been
destroyed by fire in Nineteen Fifteen, and had never been rebuilt, for the
good and sufficient reason that during those days there were other things to
do. After the Armistice money was scarce and rates were high. Moreover,
that shrinking sensitive-plant, the British bricklayer, had been instructed by
his Union to limit his professional activities to a tale of bricks so tenuous
that his labours for the day were completed, without undue strain, by the
time that he knocked off for breakfast. The months passed; such
constructive energy as the district could compass was devoted to
Government housing schemes, and still the Pantheon lay in ruins.

But one day a man from Pittsburgh, who had been born in Broxborough
nearly forty years previously, and had relinquished his domicile and civil
status therein by becoming an American citizen at the age of three,
returned, rugged, prosperous, and beneficently sentimental, to revisit the
haunts of his youth, and refresh his somewhat imperfect memories of his
birthplace.

Naturally he found the place profoundly changed. The Cathedral organ-

bellows were now inflated by a gas-engine, and the nine-seventeen up-train
did not start until nine-forty-two. And—where the Broxborough Pantheon
had once reared its stucco pseudo-Doric façade upon the market-square,
there was nothing but an untidy hoarding masking a heap of charred débris,
and labelled, 'Site of proposed new premises of the Broxborough Pantheon.'
The label appeared to have been there for some years.

John Crake of Pittsburgh made inquiries, and the truth was revealed. The
old Pantheon had ceased to exist for nearly five years, and the new
Pantheon, in the present condition of the rate-payers' pockets, seemed
unlikely ever to exist at all. So John Crake, having pondered the matter in
his large and sentimental heart, put his hand into his own capacious pocket,
and lo! the new Pantheon arose. The plasterers had wreaked their will upon
the donor's bank account, and were making sullen way for the plumbers and
electricians, about the time when I first encountered Mr. Baxter outside the
second-hand bookshop.

And now the building was ready for occupation, and the exact procedure
at the opening ceremony was becoming a matter of acute recrimination at
the Council meetings. So that genial gossip the Rector informed me, as we
encountered one another one afternoon on our professional rounds.

"Things are more or less arranged," he said, "so far as our city fathers are
capable of arranging anything. The place is to be called Crake Hall, which I
think is right, and Crake himself is coming over from America for the
opening, which I call sporting of him. Old Broxey" (The Most Noble the
Marquis of Broxborough, the Lord Lieutenant of our County) "will perform
the opening ceremony. That is to say, he will advance up the steps in the
presence of the multitude and knock three times upon the closed doors of
the Hall. A solemn pause will follow, to work up the excitement. Then the
donor, who will be standing inside, wearing a top-hat for the first time in his
life—"

"Rector, I have frequently warned you that your ribald tongue will some
day lose you your job."

"Never mind that. It's a poor heart that never rejoices, and I am too fat to
be serious all the time, anyhow. Well, after the appointed interval of silence
Crake will open a kind of peep-hole in the oaken door, and say: 'Who goes
there?' or something of that kind. Broxey, if he is still awake, will reply:
'The Citizens of this Ancient Borough,' or words to that effect. Then the
doors will be thrown open—assuming that they will open; but you know
what our local contractors are—and Crake will be revealed in his top-hat,
and will say: 'Welcome, Stranger!' or, 'Walk right in, boys!' or, 'Watch your
step!' or something like that, and will hand the key of the Institute to
Broxey, who will probably lose it."

"I see. And then to lunch at the Town Hall, I suppose?"

 "Not so fast. Remember this is a Cathedral city: the Dean and Chapter
must be given an opportunity to put their oar in. The Dean will speak his
piece, and then I understand that the Choir, who are to be concealed
somewhere behind one of the doors, will create a brief disturbance. After
that the Town will assert itself, as against the County and the Close."

"What is their stunt going to be?"

"An Address of Welcome and Grateful Thanks to Crake."

"That seems reasonable. But who is going to compose it?"

"I have already done so, by request. It is not half bad," said the Rector
modestly.

"Who is going to read it? The Mayor?"

"The Mayor is an imperfect creature, but he possesses one superlative

quality: he harbours no illusions about his own ability to grapple with the
letter H. He declines to read the Address. Most of the Corporation are in the
same boat—though they don't all admit it."

"Why don't you read it yourself?"

"Trades-Union rules forbid. If I read it, it would be regarded as the

propaganda of the Established Church. The forces of Town and Chapel
would combine to fall upon me and crush me. No, we must have a citizen—
a citizen of credit and renown, locally known and esteemed." The Rector
eyed me furtively. "I suppose you, now—

"Not on your life!" I replied hastily.

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing I am a comparative stranger: I haven't been here two
years yet. Besides, in opening a literary and intellectual emporium of this
kind you want—I have it! The very man!"

"Who?" asked the Rector eagerly.

 I told him.

The Rector halted in the middle of the street and shook me by the hand.

"Ideal!" he said. "I'll fix it with the Council. You go and ask him."

I repaired to the Home of The Oracle that same evening. It was destined
to be a memorable visit.

Something unusual in the atmosphere impressed itself on my senses the

moment Ada Weeks opened the door to me. Miss Weeks's manner could
never at any time be described as genial: at its very best it was suggestive of
an indulgent sergeant-major. But this evening Ada resembled a small, lean
cat, engaged in a rear-guard action with dogs. Her green eyes blazed: one
felt that she would like to arch her back and spit.

"Pettigrew and Mould is here," she said. "Hang up your own hat: I can't
leave them." And she vanished into the front room.

Messrs. Pettigrew and Mould were a sore trial to Mr. Baxter. They did
not consult The Oracle regularly, but when they did they made trouble.
Their efforts appeared mainly to be directed towards embarrassing their
host by asking frivolous questions, and then humiliating him in the presence
of his disciples by the manner in which they received his answers.

The attitude of Mr. Pettigrew, the druggist, was understandable; for he

was a mean little man, and jealous. He possessed diplomas and certificates
of his own: he was steeped in all the essences of the Pharmacopoeia: yet
none did him reverence. The townspeople purchased cough mixtures and
patent pills from him with no more respect than if they had been sausages
or yards of tape. Even when he assumed an air of portentous solemnity and
retired behind his carved oak screen with a prescription, most of his
customers took it for granted that he filled up the bottle from a water-tap
and added colouring matter and a dash of something unpleasant to the taste.
Probably they were not far wrong. But wrong or right, it never occurred to
any of them to treat Mr. Pettigrew as an Oracle, or Savant, or Philosopher;
and Mr. Pettigrew undoubtedly felt very badly about it.

Mr. Mould was our local undertaker—which was unfortunate, for nature
had intended him for a low comedian. Under a professionally chastened
exterior he concealed the sense of humour and powers of repartee of a small
boy of ten. To him Mr. Baxter, with his studied little mannerisms and his
pedantic little courtesies, was fair game.

When I entered the parlour these two worthies were heavily engaged in
their favourite sport of philosopher-baiting. The philosopher himself, I
noticed, was looking very old and very tired. I had not seen him for a week,
and I was secretly shocked at his appearance.

"You're not looking well," I said, as I shook hands. "You ought not to be
entertaining your friends to-night."

"Indeed," replied my host, with the ghost of a smile, "my friends have
been entertaining me. Mr. Mould has been amusing us all. Has he not,
Ada?"

"If I was his wife," replied Miss Weeks, with a glare which would have
permanently disheartened any comedian less sure of himself than Mr.
Mould, "I should die of laughing—at myself!"

This dark saying was accepted by the undertaker as a compliment.

"I certainly venture to claim," he observed complacently, "that we pulled

our respected friend's leg pretty neatly to-night." Pettigrew sniggered.

"What was the joke?" I asked, without enthusiasm.

"Well, me and Mr. Pettigrew here," began the undertaker, "knowing Mr.
Baxter's fondness for giving information and advice, brought him a little
poser last time we came here. We asked him if he could find anything in his
library about an ancient Greek party called Cinchona. He said he would
look Mr. Cinchona up. This evening he had his little lecture all ready for us.
Highly enjoyable, it was. Cinchona, it seems, was one of the less-known
figures in Ancient Greek Mythology—wasn't that it, Pettigrew?"

Pettigrew grinned, and clicked. He was an unpleasant-looking creature,

with false teeth which did not fit.

"In fact," continued Mould, with immense relish, "poor old Cinchona
was such a little-known figure that most people—common uneducated
druggists, like Mr. Pettigrew—thought Cinchona was the name of the bark
they make quinine from. Haw, haw, haw!"

The two humourists roared outright this time. Mr. Baxter, with the
unruffled courtesy of perfect breeding, smiled again, though I could see he
was much put out. Jobson, the heavy-shouldered artisan from the factory,
sat gazing at him in a puzzled and rather reproachful manner. One could see
that he felt his master ought to have known all about Cinchona.

"An interesting coincidence," commented the old man gently. "The drug
cinchona is, of course, well known scientifically, but classically, Cinchona
the demi-god is hardly known at all. In fact, he is only mentioned once or
twice in the whole of ancient literature. I have been dipping into my
Homer"—he indicated the familiar volume in his hand—"and I find—"

"May I look for myself?" asked Pettigrew suddenly; and before even
Ada could spring to the old man's side he had snatched the book and opened
it. Baxter put out his hand anxiously.

"Let me find the passage for you, Mr. Pettigrew," he said. "I do not know
whether you are familiar with ancient Greek—"

"No," said Mr. Pettigrew grimly, looking up from the book, "I am not.
But I am familiar with modern German. This book is printed in German!"

"The marginal comments are in German, of course," said the old man
quickly. "The thoroughness of German research is proverbial. Give me back
the book, pray!" I noticed he was breathing very shortly.
 Ada Weeks settled the question by wrenching the volume out of
Pettigrew's hand and locking it into The Liberry.

"You can go!" she announced. "We only entertain gentlemen here."

Pettigrew took up his hat: Mould rose and did likewise. The rest of the
company fidgeted uncomfortably in their seats. It was a particularly
unpleasant moment.

"Good-night, Mr. Baxter," said Pettigrew, moving towards the door,

which Miss Weeks was obligingly holding wide open for him. "Sometimes
I wonder," he sniggered, turning again, "whether you are quite as ripe a
scholar as you would have some of the less educated people in this town
believe."

"Ripe? He's over-ripe—rotten!" announced Mould confidently.

Mr. Baxter rose suddenly from his armchair.

"Gentlemen," he said, "you insult me in my own house. It is your

privilege to do so. You are my guests—"

I thought it time to interfere. I crossed the room, gently lowered my old

friend into his seat again, and turned to the company. They were all on their
feet by this time.

"Now look here," I announced, in what I have always hoped is a breezy

voice, "you people really must keep your debates academic. Here you are,
all flying straight up in the air over some twopenny-ha'penny point of
scholarship, and exciting one of my most valued patients"—I patted Baxter
solemnly on the shoulder—"to an attack of insomnia! You mustn't do it, you
know—especially just now!"

"What do you mean, just now?" asked Ada quickly. She shot an
apprehensive glance at her grandfather's drawn features.

"I mean this. You know the opening of Crake Hall takes place on
Saturday?"
 Every one looked up, surprised at the diversion.

"Yes: what of it?" said Pettigrew.

"You know that an Address of Welcome and Grateful Thanks is to be

read to Mr. Crake by a representative citizen of the town?"

"Yes," said Pettigrew again; and he said it with an intensity which gave
him away badly.

"Well, Mr. Baxter here—our very dear and esteemed friend Mr.
Baxter"—I spoke the words deliberately, and felt the old shoulder suddenly
stiffen under my hand—"has been unanimously selected by the Council"—I
breathed a prayer that the Rector might not have failed me—"to read that
Address! That is why I am thoroughly angry with you all for tiring him out
with your conundrums. He is not a young man, or a strong man; and I want
to have him in first-class trim for his appearance on Saturday. Home to bed,
all of you!"

"Outside!" commanded Miss Weeks; and shepherded the entire company

into the passage, closing the door behind her.

Baxter and I were left alone. I took my stand on the worn hearth-rug,
with my back to the fire, lingering over the lighting of my pipe with the
uneasy self-consciousness of the Englishman who has just participated in a
scene. My old friend's thin hands were extended upon the arms of his chair;
his head was sunk upon his breast. I decided to say something cheerful.

"Well," I remarked, "I think the Council's invitation came to you at a

very appropriate moment."

Baxter raised his head, and I noticed that he seemed to have grown many
years older.

"I fear you have done me an ill service, sir," he said. "Unintentionally, of
course!" he hastened to add.

"In what way?"

 "I cannot accept the Council's invitation."

"Why not? I'll have you fit and well by Saturday."

"It's not that, sir. I cannot do it."

"Why not?"

"Because—because I happen to be an impostor!"

"Oh, come! You must not take things too much to heart. A man can be a
sound scholar without knowing very much about Greek or German."

"It's not that, sir."

"What, then?"

"I can neither read nor write."

VI

I mixed a glass of weak whiskey and water, and made him drink it.
Presently he began to talk—in a low voice, with pauses for breath; but after
a while with a flicker of his old graciousness and dignity.

"The late Archdeacon, sir, used to observe that a man should have no
secrets from his banker, his lawyer, or his doctor. (He had a great many
from all three, but no matter!) I have no banker, and no lawyer; but I have a
doctor—a very kind doctor—and I am going to tell him something which it
is only fair he should know.

"I was born before the days of Free Education. I was earning my living
in the streets of London when Mr. Forster brought in the Bill of Eighteen
Seventy. My circumstances were extremely humble. I passed the first years
of my life on a canal barge. (My uncle steered the barge. I think he was my
uncle.) It is difficult to educate children so reared. They have no permanent
place of abode; no particular school-district is responsible for such little
vagrants. So I grew up illiterate. My uncle died. I earned my living as best I
could. I was strong and active: I engaged in tasks which demanded no
knowledge of letters. I learned to cipher a little in my head and to read the
ordinary numerals: but the alphabet remained a mystery to me."

"Why did you not learn to read and write?"

"I did try. At the age of twenty I determined to master my ignorance. I

purchased a primer, and endeavoured to teach myself. But that task was
hopeless. I entered a night-school—and they asked me what I wished to
study. Languages—Mathematics—Science—Engineering? How could I, a
great grown man, tell them that I wanted to learn to read and write? I
hurried out of the building.

"Then I married. I married a woman as unlettered as myself. Whom else

could I ask? We were happy together, in our humble way. But we had few
associates, and such as we had possessed all our ignorance and none of our
aspirations."

"Had you children?"

"One daughter—Ada's mother. You may depend upon it we sent her to

school! And she learnt quickly—far too quickly for me. I had cherished a
hope that my child and I might commence our education together. But how
could the muscle-bound intellect of an illiterate of thirty keep pace with the
nimble wits of a sharp little girl?"

The nimble wits of a sharp little girl! Somehow I seemed to recognize

that portrait.

"My daughter had passed the goal almost before her father had started.
Once more, discouraged and baffled, I relinquished my ambitions: I was a
foolish fellow to have entertained them at all. But my child was good to me
—very good. Although she possessed neither the art nor the patience to
teach me my letters, she discovered in me my one talent—quite a
phenomenal aptitude for memorization. Compensation, probably. If I heard
an ordinary newspaper article read over once or twice, I could repeat it
word for word without prompting. And so to satisfy my hungry soul I
would beg my little daughter to read aloud to me her school tasks, or her
evening lessons—elementary history, geography, and the like. I never forgot
them: they were the first real learning I ever possessed. I can repeat them
still—and I think they kept me sane.

"My daughter grew up; married; had a daughter of her own; died; and I
was alone again. Suddenly I perceived that I had passed middle age. I was
no longer able-bodied; and I began to realize that when the body begins to
fail, it is the brain that must carry on. And I had no brain—nothing but a
few instincts and rules of life. They were wholesome instincts and healthy
rules of life; but as a means of livelihood they were valueless. I began to
slip down. I supported myself by odd and menial tasks: I cleaned knives
and boots: I sold newspapers which I could not read: I spent long hours as a
night watchman, occupying my mind by repeating to myself passages from
my little girl's schoolbooks.

"Then came a hard winter: work was scarce enough for skilled labourers,
let alone unskilled. As for the illiterate, there was no market for them at all.
I tramped from London to try my fortune elsewhere; and came to
Broxborough. I was destitute: I sang in the streets for bread—songs I had
learnt by listening in public houses or at popular entertainments in my
younger days. And there the late Archdeacon found me. I was a stranger,
and he took me in." He was silent again.

"He was very good to you?" I said presently.

"He was an angel from Heaven, sir!"

"But didn't he teach you to read?"

The old man looked up at me piteously.

"Sir, I never confessed to him that I could not! And he never found me
out! Why should he? I was his servant, engaged on purely domestic duties.
Such clerical work as dealing with tradesmen involved was attended to by
the housekeeper. One day my master asked me if I had read the Prime
Minister's speech, and I replied that I never read the newspapers. I intended
the statement to be a confession, leading up to a fuller confession; but
instead, the good old man took me to mean that I despised politics and
journalism and was interested only in philosophy and literature. From that
day he admitted me to all the privileges of his literary companionship. His
favourite hobby was reading aloud—preferably passages from the Classics
—and he had few to read to. None, in fact. I was appointed his audience.
Every evening we sat together and he read aloud to me, with every kind of
illuminating comment. My peculiar faculty for memorization, intensified by
the absence of any other medium of self-cultivation, enabled me to commit
to memory the greater part of what he read and said. At the end of ten years
I could quote long passages from most of the standard works of literature.
When the dear old man died, I was a human fountain of quotations—
poetical, historical, philosophical. Just that, and nothing more. Once more I
had to make a niche for myself in the world. My accumulated lore was my
sole asset. So I took this little house, and set up my useless—because
mainly ornamental—little library, and endeavoured to win the respect of my
new neighbours by dispensing an erudition which was in reality second-
hand. Second-hand, sir!" He looked up wistfully. "Am I an impostor?"

"All learning is second-hand," I said. "You are not an impostor."

He rose to his feet, and took my hand.

"You have lifted a load from my mind," he said. "Confession is good for
the soul. But you will understand now why I cannot deliver that Address."

"Why not?" I repeated. "I will get a copy of it for you, and you can learn
it by heart."

"You can do that?"

"Certainly."

The colour came back to his face.

 "The time is short," he said eagerly—"very short; and my memory is not
what it was: but I will try. Ada shall read it to me, and read it to me, and
read it to me, until I am word-perfect! I will succeed! It will be wonderful!"

"It will score off Mould and Pettigrew too," I added spitefully.

But obviously Mr. Baxter was not thinking of Mould or Pettigrew. He

was up again in his rightful place, in the clouds.

"It will be my Apotheosis!" he declared; and brought down his feeble

hand with a gentle thump upon the table beside him.

"That's right!" said Miss Weeks, entering. "Break all the cups!"

VII

At the Municipal luncheon which followed the inauguration of Crake

Hall, one chair was vacant; the Mayor, in his opening remarks, referring
sympathetically to the fact. Mr. Baxter, to whom had fallen the honour of
reading the Address of Welcome to their distinguished guest that morning,
had found the strain of the proceedings rather too great for his advanced
years, and had reluctantly begged to be excused from participating further
in the ceremonies of the day. In short, Mr. Baxter, his task completed, had
gone home to bed. Later in the proceedings the Lord Lieutenant also
alluded to the matter. His Lordship was a statesman of somewhat limited
ideas, and it is just possible that he was grateful to have had a topic
suggested to him. So he spoke quite feelingly of the empty chair—the chair
which was to have been occupied by "our eminent fellow-citizen, Mr.—er
—Buxton." It was a cheering and reassuring sign, he continued, of our
national and civic solidity of character and sense of proportion that
Broxborough, where to the unseeing eye of the outside world nothing
seemed to matter save linoleum, should yet be able, amid its manifold
industrial activities, to produce a man—a man in quite humble
circumstances—to whom Linoleum was nothing and Letters everything.
Napoleon had called us a nation of shopkeepers; but so long as a
commercial community like Broxborough could go on breeding homespun
scholars like Mr.—ah—Dexter, we as a nation could continue to give the lie
to Napoleon. (Loud and prolonged applause.)

Meanwhile the recipient of these testimonials lay a-dying in his own

front parlour. Ada Weeks had put him straight to bed there on his return,
utterly exhausted, from the Inauguration. All his frail physical powers had
been concentrated for three days on making himself word-perfect in the
Address—which he had delivered, by the way, flawlessly. Now reaction had
come. An hour later, more nearly frightened than I had ever seen her, Ada
fetched me.

My patient had just asked me, faintly but fearlessly, one of the last
questions that mortal man can ask; and I had given him his answer.

"I am quite ready," he replied calmly. "I am only seventy-four; but it is

well that a man should go at the zenith of his career."

"Are there any arrangements you would like to make?" I asked.

"Anything you would like to say?"

"Yes. Is Ada there?"

"Of course I am there!" The small, stricken figure crouching on the other
side of the bed put out a skinny paw and took the old man's hand. She held
it steadfastly for the rest of the time he lived.

"Would you like to see the Rector?" I asked.

"No, no. I am at peace with God. It is of my little granddaughter that I

would speak." His voice was stronger now. "My annuity dies with me. I
have some small savings, which she will receive. But they will not keep her.
I shall be grateful if you will exert your influence, sir, in enabling her to go
into service."

"There is a vacancy in my house, if Ada will come," I said.

 "Thank you. Will you go to the Doctor, Ada?"

Ada, with tears running freely at last, nodded in answer; and the dying
man proceeded to the business which was ever uppermost in his thoughts.

"Then, sir, my Library."

"Yes. What are you going to do with it? Leave it to the town?"

"No, no, no, no!" He was strangely emphatic.

"What, then?" I asked. I had an uneasy feeling that the Library was
going to be bequeathed to me, and I did not want it in the least. But my
fears were relieved at once.

"I intend to leave it to Ada—temporarily."

"Temporarily?"

"Yes. But as she will be an inmate of your household, she will probably
desire to take you into her confidence, and possibly avail herself of your
assistance." His voice failed again; his grip on life was relaxing rapidly.
Then he recovered himself, and almost sat up.

"Will you promise me, sir, to assist Ada to carry out my wishes with
regard to the disposal—"

"I promise," I said. "Don't exhaust yourself."

The old man sank back, with a long and gentle sigh.

"Then I die contented, and reassured. Re—" His voice weakened again.
Then he rallied, for a final effort:

"I have lived respected, I think!"

That was all.

 I looked across to Ada, and nodded. Characteristically, she rose from her
knees, crossed to the window, and drew down the blind.

VIII

Next morning, Ada Weeks and I sat facing one another in my study,
across a newly opened packing-case. It contained Mr. Baxter's Library.

"But why must we?" I asked.

"We needn't worry why. He said every blessed book was to be destroyed,
and that's all there is about it. Mr. McAndrew is burning rubbish outside:
I've told him we've got some more for him. Let's get it over, and go back to
Grampa—sir," concluded Ada suddenly, remembering somewhat tardily
that she was addressing her employer.

We unpacked the books. First came some musty theological tomes.

"He knew a lot out of them," remarked Ada. "Used to fire it off at the
Rector, and people who didn't believe in religion, or couldn't. He picked it
all up from his old Archdeacon, though, long before I came to him."

"When did you come, by the way?"

"Nearly six years ago now. I was living with an aunt. She went and died
when I was nine, and Grampa sent for me here. It was me that learned him
all his new stuff—science, and machinery, and aeroplanes, and things like
that. He didn't know nothink but Latin and Greek and history and things up
till then. Here's the Cyclopædia coming out now. He never used it till I
come. He never even knew it was four volumes short until I told him....
This next lot is mostly little books he picked up cheap at second-hand
places—mouldy little things, most of 'em. Some of them were useful,
though. Here's one—'The Amateur Architect.' It's queer how fussy people
can be about house-planning, and ventilation, and drainage, and things like
that, especially when they know they've got to live all their lives in a house
where they have no more say in the ventilation and drainage than my aunt's
cat! Grampa had to learn nearly the whole of this book, they wanted so
many different bits of it. Well, I think we have fuel enough now for a start."

We staggered into the garden, with arms full, to where McAndrew's

bonfire was burning fiercely. McAndrew himself, having regard to his
chronic interest in other people's business, I had despatched upon an errand.
Soon the Encyclopædia and the theological works were engulfed in flame.
Some odd volumes followed. I cremated my old friend Robert Southey with
my own hands. This done, we returned to the packing-case and delved
again.

"Did Mr. Baxter wish everything to be burned?" I asked. "What about

the presentation volumes—the Shakespeare, for instance?"

"They was all to be burned," announced Ada doggedly, lowering her

head into the case and avoiding my glance.

"Very well," I said.

Suddenly Ada looked up again, fiercely.

"Cross your heart and wish you may die if you look inside one of them!"
she commanded.

I meekly took the grisly oath. But chance was too strong for us. Ada,
eager to keep me entirely aloof from the mystery, attempted to lift four large
volumes out of the case at once. The top volume—the Presentation
Shakespeare itself—slipped off the others, fell upon the floor, and lay upon
its back wide open. I could not help observing that it was a London
Telephone Directory.

For a moment Ada and I regarded one another steadily. She did not wink
an eyelash. Indeed, it was I who felt guilty.

"I may as well see them all now," I said.

 "Please yourself," said Ada coldly.

It was a strange collection. There were three Telephone Directories in all

—all old friends of mine, and peculiarly adapted, from their size and
dignity, for "Presentation" purposes. (I think they were Shakespeare,
Milton, and Dante. The Presentation Tennyson, however, proved to be a
Bulb Catalogue.) There was a Hall and Knight's Algebra, from which, in
my presence, the old man had frequently and most movingly quoted Keats.
Homer, as Pettigrew had correctly indicated, was an elementary German
grammar. Plato's Apology was Mr. Chardenal's First French Course.

"He used to get them cheaper than the real ones," explained Ada.
"Besides, what did it matter to him, anyhow?"

What indeed? Poor old boy!

I worked through the whole collection—the miscellaneous flotsam of

second-hand bookshops and jumble sales—old novels sold in bundles; old
directories sold as waste paper. Every book was neatly covered, and
decorated with a sprawling number—the sight of which, although it
advertised nothing to the outside world but the position of a book on a shelf,
had never failed, for more than thirty years, to switch on the right record in
that amazing repertoire.

Idly, I picked out the last book in the box. It was a stumpy little volume,
bearing the number Twenty-Five.

"That's 'Orace," said Ada promptly. "It's a real one—in Latin: only it has
the English on the opposite page. We used that a lot."

I turned over the time-soiled leaves, and my eye encountered a familiar

passage. I looked up.

"I think he would have liked to have a small inscription on the coffin," I
said. "We can arrange it when we go back to the house. There's a line here
that seems to me to describe him very accurately."
 "Read it," said Ada. I did so:

"Of upright life, and stainless purity."

"Yes; he was all that," said Ada thoughtfully. "Never done nothink on
nobody; and always the gentleman. It will look nice on the plate. How does
it go in Latin?"

I read aloud the ancient tag.

"Integer vitæ, scelerisque purus—"

Ada nodded her head vigorously.

"Put it in Latin," she said. "He'd have liked it that way. Besides, it'll learn
Mould and Pettigrew, and that lot!"

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