The Haunted Bookshop by Christopher Morley (good books to read for 12 year olds .txt) 📕

“Roger, my dear,” said Helen, “why don’t you get on with the reading?”

Roger knocked out his pipe, turned Bock out of his chair, and sat down with infinite relish to read the memorable character sketch of Christopher, the head waiter, which is dear to every lover of taverns. “The writer of these humble lines being a Waiter,” he began. The knitting needles flashed with diligence, and the dog by the fender stretched himself out in the luxuriant vacancy of mind only known to dogs surrounded by a happy group of their friends. And Roger, enjoying himself enormously, and particularly pleased by the chuckles of his audience, was approaching the ever-delightful items of the coffee-room bill which is to be found about ten pages on in the first chapter—how sad it is that hotel bills are not so rendered in these times—when the bell in the shop clanged. Picking up his pipe and matchbox, and grumbling “It’s always the way,” he hurried out of the room.

He was agreeably surprised to find that his caller was the young advertising man, Aubrey Gilbert.

“Hullo!” he said. “I’ve been saving something for you. It’s a quotation from Joseph Conrad about advertising.”

“Good enough,” said Aubrey. “And I’ve got something for you. You were so nice to me the other evening I took the liberty of bringing you round some tobacco. Here’s a tin of Blue-Eyed Mixture, it’s my favourite. I hope you’ll like it.”

“Bully for you. Perhaps I ought to let you off the Conrad quotation since you’re so kind.”

“Not a bit. I suppose it’s a knock. Shoot!” The bookseller led the way back to his desk, where he rummaged among the litter and finally found a scrap of paper on which he had written:

Being myself animated by feelings of affection toward my fellowmen, I am saddened by the modern system of advertising. Whatever evidence it offers of enterprise, ingenuity, impudence, and resource in certain individuals, it proves to my mind the wide prevalence of that form of mental degradation which is called gullibility. JOSEPH CONRAD.

“What do you think of that?” said Roger. “You’ll find that in the story called The Anarchist.”

“I think less than nothing of it,” said Aubrey. “As your friend Don Marquis observed the other evening, an idea isn’t always to be blamed for the people who believe in it. Mr. Conrad has been reading some quack ads, that’s all. Because there are fake ads, that doesn’t condemn the principle of Publicity. But look here, what I really came round to see you for is to show you this. It was in the Times this morning.”

He pulled out of his pocket a clipping of the LOST insertion to which Roger’s attention had already been drawn.

“Yes, I’ve just seen it,” said Roger. “I missed the book from my shelves, and I believe someone must have stolen it.”

“Well, now, I want to tell you something,” said Aubrey. “To-night I had dinner at the Octagon with Mr. Chapman.” “Is that so?” said Roger. “You know his daughter’s here now.”

“So he told me. It’s rather interesting how it all works out. You see, after you told me the other day that Miss Chapman was coming to work for you, that gave me an idea. I knew her father would be specially interested in Brooklyn, on that account, and it suggested to me an idea for a window-display campaign here in Brooklyn for the Daintybits Products. You know we handle all his sales promotion campaigns. Of course I didn’t let on that I knew about his daughter coming over here, but he told me about it himself in the course of our talk. Well, here’s what I’m getting at. We had dinner in the Czecho-Slovak Grill, up on the fourteenth floor, and going up in the elevator I saw a man in a chef’s uniform carrying a book. I looked over his shoulder to see what it was. I thought of course it would be a cook-book. It was a copy of Oliver Cromwell.”

“So he found it again, eh? I must go and have a talk with that chap. If he’s a Carlyle fan I’d like to know him.”

“Wait a minute. I had seen the LOST ad in the paper this morning, because I always look over that column. Often it gives me ideas for advertising stunts. If you keep an eye on the things people are anxious to get back, you know what they really prize, and if you know what they prize you can get a line on what goods ought to be advertised more extensively. This was the first time I had ever noticed a LOST ad for a book, so I thought to myself “the book business is coming up.” Well, when I saw the chef with the book in his hand, I said to him jokingly, “I see you found it again.” He was a foreign-looking fellow, with a big beard, which is unusual for a chef, because I suppose it’s likely to get in the soup. He looked at me as though I’d run a carving knife into him, almost scared me the way he looked. “Yes, yes,” he said, and shoved the book out of sight under his arm. He seemed half angry and half frightened, so I thought maybe he had no right to be riding in the passenger elevator and was scared someone would report him to the manager. Just as we were getting to the fourteenth floor I said to him in a whisper, “It’s all right, old chap, I’m not going to report you.” I give you my word he looked more scared than before. He went quite white. I got off at the fourteenth, and he followed me out. I thought he was going to speak to me, but Mr. Chapman was there in the lobby, and he didn’t have a chance. But I noticed that he watched me into the grill room as though I was his last chance of salvation.”

“I guess the poor devil was scared you’d report him to the police for stealing the book,” said Roger. “Never mind, let him have it.”

“Did he steal it?”

“I haven’t a notion. But somebody did, because it disappeared from here.”

“Well, now, wait a minute. Here’s the queer part of it. I didn’t think anything more about it, except that it was a funny coincidence my seeing him after having noticed that ad in the paper. I had a long talk with Mr. Chapman, and we discussed some plans for a prune and Saratoga chip campaign, and I showed him some suggested copy I had prepared. Then he told me about his daughter, and I let on that I knew you. I left the Octagon about eight o’clock, and I thought I’d run over here on the subway just to show you the LOST notice and give you this tobacco. And when I got off the subway at Atlantic Avenue, who should I see but friend chef again. He got off the same train I did. He had on civilian clothes then, of course, and when he was out of his white uniform and pancake hat I recognized him right off. Who do you suppose it was?”

“Can’t imagine,” said Roger, highly interested by this time.

“Why, the professor-looking guy who came in to ask for the book the first night I was here.”

“Humph! Well, he must be keen about Carlyle, because he was horribly disappointed that evening when he asked for the book and I couldn’t find it. I remember how he insisted that I MUST have it, and I hunted all through the History shelves to make sure it hadn’t got misplaced. He said that some friend of his had seen it here, and he had come right round to buy it. I told him he could certainly get a copy at the Public Library, and he said that wouldn’t do at all.”

“Well, I think he’s nuts,” said Aubrey, “because I’m damn sure he followed me down the street after I left the subway. I stopped in at the drug store on the corner to get some matches, and when I came out, there he was underneath the lamp-post.”

“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 a 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,