The Haunted Bookshop · Chapter 4 (2/2)

“If it was a modern author, instead of Carlyle,” said Roger, “I’d say it was some publicity stunt pulled off by the publishers. You know they go to all manner of queer dodges to get an author’s name in print. But Carlyle’s copyrights expired long ago, so I don’t see the game.”

“I guess he’s picketing your place to try and steal the formula for eggs Samuel Butler,” said Aubrey, and they both laughed.

“You’d better come in and meet my wife and Miss Chapman,” said Roger. The young man made some feeble demur, but it was obvious to the bookseller that he was vastly elated at the idea of making Miss Chapman’s acquaintance.

“Here’s a friend of mine,” said Roger, ushering Aubrey into the little room where Helen and Titania were still sitting by the fire. “Mrs. Mifflin, Mr. Aubrey Gilbert, Miss Chapman, Mr. Gilbert.”

Aubrey was vaguely aware of the rows of books, of the shining coals, of the buxom hostess and the friendly terrier; but with the intense focus of an intelligent young male mind these were all merely appurtenances to the congenial spectacle of the employee. How quickly a young man’s senses assemble and assimilate the data that are really relevant! Without seeming even to look in that direction he had performed the most amazing feat of lightning calculation known to the human faculties. He had added up all the young ladies of his acquaintance, and found the sum total less than the girl before him. He had subtracted the new phenomenon from the universe as he knew it, including the solar system and the advertising business, and found the remainder a minus quantity. He had multiplied the contents of his intellect by a factor he had no reason to assume “constant,” and was startled at what teachers call (I believe) the “product.” And he had divided what was in the left-hand armchair into his own career, and found no room for a quotient. All of which transpired in the length of time necessary for Roger to push forward another chair.

With the politeness desirable in a well-bred youth, Aubrey’s first instinct was to make himself square with the hostess. Resolutely he occluded blue eyes, silk shirtwaist, and admirable chin from his mental vision.

“It’s awfully good of you to let me come in,” he said to Mrs. Mifflin. “I was here the other evening and Mr. Mifflin insisted on my staying to supper with him.”

“I’m very glad to see you,” said Helen. “Roger told me about you. I hope he didn’t poison you with any of his outlandish dishes. Wait till he tries you with brandied peaches à la Harold Bell Wright.”

Aubrey uttered some genial reassurance, still making the supreme sacrifice of keeping his eyes away from where (he felt) they belonged.

“Mr. Gilbert has just had a queer experience,” said Roger. “Tell them about it.”

In the most reckless way, Aubrey permitted himself to be impaled upon a direct and interested flash of blue lightning. “I was having dinner with your father at the Octagon.”

The high tension voltage of that bright blue current felt like ohm sweet ohm, but Aubrey dared not risk too much of it at once. Fearing to blow out a fuse, he turned in panic to Mrs. Mifflin. “You see,” he explained, “I write a good deal of Mr. Chapman’s advertising for him. We had an appointment to discuss some business matters. We’re planning a big barrage on prunes.”

“Dad works much too hard, don’t you think?” said Titania.

Aubrey welcomed this as a pleasant avenue of discussion leading into the parkland of Miss Chapman’s family affairs; but Roger insisted on his telling the story of the chef and the copy of Cromwell.

“And he followed you here?” exclaimed Titania. “What fun! I had no idea the book business was so exciting.”

“Better lock the door tonight, Roger,” said Mrs. Mifflin, “or he may walk off with a set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.”

“Why, my dear,” said Roger, “I think this is grand news. Here’s a man, in a humble walk of life, so keen about good books that he even pickets a bookstore on the chance of swiping some. It’s the most encouraging thing I’ve ever heard of. I must write to the Publishers’ Weekly about it.”

“Well,” said Aubrey, “you mustn’t let me interrupt your little party.”

“You’re not interrupting,” said Roger. “We were only reading aloud. Do you know Dickens’ Christmas Stories?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Suppose we go on reading, shall we?”

“Please do.”

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

Aubrey begged permission to light his pipe, and Roger picked up the book. “But before we read the items of the coffee-room bill,” he said, “I think it only right that we should have a little refreshment. This passage should never be read without something to accompany it. My dear, what do you say to a glass of sherry all round?”

“It is sad to have to confess it,” said Mrs. Mifflin to Titania, “Mr. Mifflin can never read Dickens without having something to drink. I think the sale of Dickens will fall off terribly when prohibition comes in.”

“I once took the trouble to compile a list of the amount of liquor drunk in Dickens’ works,” said Roger, “and I assure you the total was astounding: 7,000 hogsheads, I believe it was. Calculations of that sort are great fun. I have always intended to write a little essay on the rainstorms in the stories of Robert Louis Stevenson. You see R. L. S. was a Scot, and well acquainted with wet weather. Excuse me a moment, I’ll just run down cellar and get up a bottle.”

Roger left the room, and they heard his steps passing down into the cellar. Bock, after the manner of dogs, followed him. The smells of cellars are a rare treat to dogs, especially ancient Brooklyn cellars which have a cachet all their own. The cellar of the Haunted Bookshop was, to Bock, a fascinating place, illuminated by a warm glow from the furnace, and piled high with split packing-cases which Roger used as kindling. From below came the rasp of a shovel among coal, and the clear, musical slither as the lumps were thrown from the iron scoop onto the fire. Just then the bell rang in the shop.

“Let me go,” said Titania, jumping up.

“Can’t I?” said Aubrey.

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Mifflin, laying down her knitting. “Neither of you knows anything about the stock. Sit down and be comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

Aubrey and Titania looked at each other with a touch of embarrassment.

“Your father sent you his⁠—his kind regards,” said Aubrey. That was not what he had intended to say, but somehow he could not utter the word. “He said not to read all the books at once.”

Titania laughed. “How funny that you should run into him just when you were coming here. He’s a duck, isn’t he?”

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

“Are you crazy about books?”

“Why, I never really had very much to do with them. I’m afraid you’ll think I’m terribly ignorant⁠—”

“Not at all. I’m awfully glad to meet someone who doesn’t think it’s a crime not to have read all the books there are.”

“This is a queer kind of place, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s a funny idea to call it the Haunted Bookshop. I wonder what it means.”

“Mr. Mifflin told me it meant haunted by the ghosts of great literature. I hope they won’t annoy you. The ghost of Thomas Carlyle seems to be pretty active.”

“I’m not afraid of ghosts,” said Titania.

Aubrey gazed at the fire. He wanted to say that he intended from now on to do a little haunting on his own account but he did not know just how to break it gently. And then Roger returned from the cellar with the bottle of sherry. As he was uncorking it, they heard the shop door close, and Mrs. Mifflin came in.

“Well, Roger,” she said; “if you think so much of your old Cromwell, you’d better keep it in here. Here it is.” She laid the book on the table.

“For the love of Mike!” exclaimed Roger. “Who brought it back?”

“I guess it was your friend the assistant chef,” said Mrs. Mifflin. “Anyway, he had a beard like a Christmas tree. He was mighty polite. He said he was terribly absent minded, and that the other day he was in here looking at some books and just walked off with it without knowing what he was doing. He offered to pay for the trouble he had caused, but of course I wouldn’t let him. I asked if he wanted to see you, but he said he was in a hurry.”

“I’m almost disappointed,” said Roger. “I thought that I had turned up a real booklover. Here we are, all hands drink the health of Mr. Thomas Carlyle.”

The toast was drunk, and they settled themselves in their chairs.

“And here’s to the new employee,” said Helen. This also was dispatched, Aubrey draining his glass with a zeal which did not escape Miss Chapman’s discerning eye. Roger then put out his hand for the Dickens. But first he picked up his beloved Cromwell. He looked at it carefully, and then held the volume close to the light.

“The mystery’s not over yet,” he said. “It’s been rebound. This isn’t the original binding.”

“Are you sure?” said Helen in surprise. “It looks the same.”

“The binding has been cleverly imitated, but it can’t fool me. In the first place, there was a rubbed corner at the top; and there was an ink stain on one of the end papers.”

“There’s still a stain there,” said Aubrey, looking over his shoulder.

“Yes, but not the same stain. I’ve had that book long enough to know it by heart. Now what the deuce would that lunatic want to have it rebound for?”

“Goodness gracious,” said Helen, “put it away and forget about it. We’ll all be dreaming about Carlyle if you’re not careful.”