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

paced through the narrow aisles, scanning the blissful throng of seekers. He went down to the educational department in the basement, up to the medical books in the gallery, even back to the sections of Drama and Pennsylvania History in the raised quarterdeck at the rear. There was no trace of Roger.

At a desk under the stairway he saw a lean, studious, and kindly-looking bibliosoph, who was poring over an immense catalogue. An idea struck him.

“Have you a copy of Carlyle’s Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell?” he asked.

The other looked up.

“I’m afraid we haven’t,” he said. “Another gentleman was in here asking for it just a few minutes ago.”

“Good God!” cried Aubrey. “Did he get it?”

This emphasis brought no surprise to the bookseller, who was accustomed to the oddities of edition hunters.

“No,” he said. “We didn’t have a copy. We haven’t seen one for a long time.”

“Was he a little bald man with a red beard and bright blue eyes?” asked Aubrey hoarsely.

“Yes⁠—Mr. Mifflin of Brooklyn. Do you know him?”

“I should say I do!” cried Aubrey. “Where has he gone? I’ve been hunting him all over town, the scoundrel!”

The bookseller, douce man, had seen too many eccentric customers to be shocked by the vehemence of his questioner.

“He was here a moment ago,” he said gently, and gazed with a mild interest upon the excited young advertising man. “I daresay you’ll find him just outside, in Ludlow Street.”

“Where’s that?”

The tall man⁠—and I don’t see why I should scruple to name him, for it was Philip Warner⁠—explained that Ludlow Street was the narrow alley that runs along one side of Leary’s and elbows at right angles behind the shop. Down the flank of the store, along this narrow little street, run shelves of books under a penthouse. It is here that Leary’s displays its stock of ragamuffin ten-centers⁠—queer dingy volumes that call to the hearts of gentle questers. Along these historic shelves many troubled spirits have come as near happiness as they are like to get⁠ ⁠… for after all, happiness (as the mathematicians might say) lies on a curve, and we approach it only by asymptote⁠ ⁠… The frequenters of this alley call themselves whimsically The Ludlow Street Business Men’s Association, and Charles Lamb or Eugene Field would have been proud to preside at their annual dinners, at which the members recount their happiest book-finds of the year.

Aubrey rushed out of the shop and looked down the alley. Half a dozen Ludlow Street Business Men were groping among the shelves. Then, down at the far end, his small face poked into an open volume, he saw Roger. He approached with a rapid stride.

“Well,” he said angrily, “here you are!”

Roger looked up from his book good-humouredly. Apparently, in the zeal of his favourite pastime, he had forgotten where he was.

“Hullo!” he said. “What are you doing in Brooklyn? Look here, here’s a copy of Tooke’s Pantheon⁠—”

“What’s the idea?” cried Aubrey harshly. “Are you trying to kid me? What are you and Weintraub framing up here in Philadelphia?”

Roger’s mind came back to Ludlow Street. He looked with some surprise at the flushed face of the young man, and put the book back in its place on the shelf, making a mental note of its location. His disappointment of the morning came back to him with some irritation.

“What are you talking about?” he said. “What the deuce business is it of yours?”

“I’ll make it my business,” said Aubrey, and shook his fist in the bookseller’s face. “I’ve been trailing you, you scoundrel, and I want to know what kind of a game you’re playing.”

A spot of red spread on Roger’s cheekbones. In spite of his apparent demureness he had a pugnacious spirit and a quick fist.

“By the bones of Charles Lamb!” he said. “Young man, your manners need mending. If you’re looking for display advertising, I’ll give you one on each eye.”

Aubrey had expected to find a cringing culprit, and this back talk infuriated him beyond control.

“You damned little bolshevik,” he said, “if you were my size I’d give you a hiding. You tell me what you and your pro-German pals are up to or I’ll put the police on you!”

Roger stiffened. His beard bristled, and his blue eyes glittered.

“You impudent dog,” he said quietly, “you come round the corner where these people can’t see us and I’ll give you some private tutoring.”

He led the way round the corner of the alley. In this narrow channel, between blank walls, they confronted each other.

“In the name of Gutenberg,” said Roger, calling upon his patron saint, “explain yourself or I’ll hit you.”

“Who’s he?” sneered Aubrey. “Another one of your Huns?”

That instant he received a smart blow on the chin, which would have been much harder but that Roger misgauged his footing on the uneven cobbles, and hardly reached the face of his opponent, who topped him by many inches.

Aubrey forgot his resolution not to hit a smaller man, and also calling upon his patron saints⁠—the Associated Advertising Clubs of the World⁠—he delivered a smashing slog which hit the bookseller in the chest and jolted him half across the alley.

Both men were furiously angry⁠—Aubrey with the accumulated bitterness of several days’ anxiety and suspicion, and Roger with the quick-flaming indignation of a hot-tempered man unwarrantably outraged. Aubrey had the better of the encounter in height, weight, and more than twenty years juniority, but fortune played for the bookseller. Aubrey’s terrific punch sent the latter staggering across the alley onto the opposite curb. Aubrey followed him up with a rush, intending to crush the other with one fearful smite. But Roger, keeping cool, now had the advantage of position. Standing on the curb, he had a little the better in height. As Aubrey leaped at him, his face grim with hatred, Roger met him with a savage buffet on the jaw. Aubrey’s foot struck against the curb, and he fell backward onto the stones. His head crashed violently on the cobbles, and the old cut on his scalp