The Haunted Bookshop by Christopher Morley (parable of the sower read online TXT) 📕

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 anyone 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 himself. 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 secondhand 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 today, 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 secondhand 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 secondhand booksellers⁠—all save Mifflin.

He