TOM was on hand so early at the book store the next morning that he found the Emporium had not yet opened. He had to stand out in the street, until the porter came along to unlock the door.
“You’re early; ain’t you?” the man asked.
“Yes; I didn’t know exactly what time I had to begin, so I thought I’d get here as soon as I could. Where will I find a broom? I have to sweep out the place.”
“I’ll get you one. You want to sprinkle damp sawdust on the floor, and cover up all the books on the tables, so they won’t get dusty. Mr. Townsend is a very particular man.”
“I believe he is, but I like him—what little I have seen of him.”
“Oh, you’ll find he’s all right,” went on the porter, as he opened the door, and showed Tom where to find a broom. Then, while the man went to the cellar to open up some cases of books that had arrived late the previous afternoon, Tom began his sweeping. He had just finished, and taken the cloths off the books, when the junior clerk arrived. In a short time all the other employes were at their places, and presently Mr. Townsend came in.
“Ah, good-morning, Tom,” he said. “I see you have the place in good shape for us. Did you leave the books for Dr. Spidderkins?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah, a very fine man he is, very fine indeed, if he is a trifle eccentric. Did he say anything to you?”
“Not very much. He said something about waiting for the books.”
“I hope they were not too late.”
“I went as quickly as I could with them.”
“I know you did, Tom. I mean I hope I sent you off with them in time. The doctor likes to have things the minute they are promised, though, often, after he has them, he forgets all about them. Was he much put out?”
“Not very. I didn’t have a chance to say much to him, as the lady who answered the door told the doctor it was time for his supper.”
“Ah, I dare say he had forgotten all about it. That’s his way. What did the woman say? She is his sister-in-law, I believe, though she has married a second time.”
Tom related as much of the conversation as he could remember.
“Hum,” mused the bookseller. “She’s a strange woman—very strange. Well, I guess the books got there in time. Now, Tom, I want you to go on an errand for me.”
When Tom got back from having taken some books to a customer who was stopping at the Parker House, he found the Emporium a busy place. There were a number of customers present, for the holiday rush was on, and all the clerks, and Mr. Townsend, were engaged in showing books, or wrapping up parcels.
Seeing that Mr. Townsend was busy, Tom decided to defer for the present reporting on the result of his errand. He hung up his coat and hat, and as there seemed to be nothing else for him to do, he proceeded to tidy up a table of small booklets, that was usually in disorder, as customers were continually looking over the stock.
While he was thus engaged he was approached by a young man, whose clothes were of expensive cut and material.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, in a peculiar drawling accent, “but would you kindly get me a volume of Browning! I can’t seem to locate it amid all the maze of books here, and all the clerks seem to be engaged. I presume I am right in assuming that you are employed here?”
“Browning, the ball player!” exclaimed the young man.
“Oh, yes, I work here,” answered Tom, who paid little attention to accent. “But I’ve only been here two days, and I don’t know much about the books yet.”
“Then perhaps you can’t find for me a volume of Browning?”
“I guess I can,” said Tom confidently. “I’ll look in my special catalogue,” and he produced the one Mr. Townsend had arranged for him. “Browning, the baseball player, you mean, don’t you?” he asked, for there was an athlete of that name, who had made quite a reputation for himself in the New England circuit that fall.
“Browning, the ball player!” exclaimed the young man, as if horrified.
“Yes, the one that played short. He’s got the highest batting average——”
“Don’t! Don’t, my dear young man; don’t I beg of you,” spoke the customer, waving his hands. “Baseball is such—such——”
“It’s a bully game!” exclaimed Tom, enthusiastically. “I used to be captain of a team, when I went to school. Tim Browning——”
“No, no! I mean Browning, the poet,” said the young man hastily. “I want a volume of his verses to send to a young lady. She is very fond of him. So am I.”
“Oh!” said Tom suddenly, much enlightened. “I thought you meant the other Browning. I was looking for the book among the sports. I’ll turn to poetry. Yes, here it is,” he added a moment later, as he found it in the catalogue. “I’ll get it for you.”
He got several different styles of the poet’s work and handed them to the young man.
“Ah, that is what I want!” he exclaimed. “Don’t you think his poetry is simply perfect?”
“I—I don’t care much for poetry,” replied Tom, who, since he worked in a book store, did not want to confess that he had never read a line of Browning.
“Not care for poetry! Not an admirer of Browning! You have missed much, my young friend,” murmured the customer. “I will take this copy,” he went on, selecting an expensive one and handing Tom the money.
“I don’t much care whether he buys poetry or books on sport as long as I sell ’em,” thought the lad as he wrapped up the book. “Five dollars for a book! Whew! I work a week for that. But I’m glad I sold it to him.”
The young man went out, fondly holding the volume of verse to his side. Tom went on arranging the booklets, but presently he had to stop to wait on a lady who wanted a fairy story for her little girl. Here Tom was more at home, and he found the lady quite ready to defer to his judgment as to what sort of a book was best.
Presently a young lady appealed to Tom to find for her a book on philosophy, and though the boy could hardly pronounce the title of it, he managed to locate it.
All that day Tom was kept busy, and he was acquiring more confidence in himself with every sale he made. At the close of the day, when Mr. Townsend looked over the slips made out by the different clerks, he congratulated Tom on the success he had had.
“I hope he keeps me after the holidays are over,” thought our hero. “That’s what I want, a good, steady job, so I can earn money, and then mother and Aunt Sallie won’t have to work so hard.”
Toward the end of that week Dr. Spidderkins paid another visit to the Emporium. He wandered in, and was soon examining volumes in that part of the shop given over to rare and costly books.
“Ah!” he exclaimed as Tom passed him on his way to get some wrapping-paper. “Here is just what I have been looking for. It is a rare old copy of Shakespeare. When did this come in? Why, bless my soul! If it isn’t the boy who prevented me from carrying off books without paying for them the other day,” he added as he recognized Tom. “How are you, young man?”
“Very well, sir.”
“I must have this book,” went on the old doctor. “Let’s see—it will just match that volume of Milton I bought the same day I got the copy of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. No, it wasn’t, either. It was the day I bought Darwin’s volume on evolution, or the day after. I declare, I can’t remember which. But I must take this book along with me. What’s the price?”
“Ten dollars,” answered Tom, after a look at the mystic letters on the fly-leaf.
“Ah, very reasonable—very reasonable, indeed.”
Tom thought it very unreasonable, for the book was an old one, and he knew of whole shelvesful of brand-new books at much lower prices than that. Dr. Spidderkins, however, seemed to think he had a bargain.
“I’ll take it,” he said, putting his hand in his pocket. Then a blank look came over his face. “Bless my soul, I’ve lost my pocketbook!” he exclaimed.
“Lost it?” repeated Tom. “Do you think you dropped it here?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. Maybe I left it at home. I’m so forgetful.”
“We have a telephone here—you could call up your house and ask if it’s there,” suggested Tom.
“So I could. I never thought of that. But I can’t talk very well over the wire, and my sister-in-law can’t hear me as well as she can some persons. Suppose you call up for me? I’ll give you the number. It’s 2256 Back Bay.”
“I’ll call up for you,” said Tom. “Shall I wrap up this book?”
“Yes. I’ll take it, anyhow, and send Mr. Townsend the money. Queer I can’t remember when I last had my pocketbook.”