book-snatcher in all London, and the most barefaced. Wanted our fourth volume of the 'Athenian Oracle.' I saw his eyes reached out this way, and that way, and always resting on that volume. I saw him edging along to the shelf. Got another odd volume just like it in his wicked old hand, ready to change it when I wasn't looking."
"Ah," said Mr. Emblem, waking up from his dream of Iris and her father's letter; "ah, they will try it on. Keep your eyes open, James."
"No thanks, as usual," grumbled Mr. James as he returned to his gum and his scissors. "Might as well have left him to snatch the book."
Here, however, James was wrong, because it is the first duty of an assistant to hinder and obstruct the book-snatcher, who carries on his work by methods of crafty and fraudulent exchange rather than by plain theft, which is a mere brutal way. For, first, the book-snatcher marks his prey; he finds the shop which has a set containing the volume which is missing in his own set; next, he arms himself with a volume which closely resembles the one he covets, and then, on pretense of turning over the leaves, he watches his opportunity to effect an exchange, and goes away rejoicing, his set complete. No collector, as is very well known, whether of books, coins, pictures, medals, fans, scarabs, book-plates, autographs, stamps, or anything else, has any conscience at all. Anybody can cut out slips and make a catalogue, but it requires a sharp assistant, with eyes all over his head like a spider, to be always on guard against this felonious and unscrupulous collector.
Next, there came two schoolboys together, who asked for and bought a crib to "Virgil;" and then a girl who wanted some cheap French reading-book. Just as the clock began to strike five, Mr. Emblem lifted his head and looked up. The shop-door opened, and there stepped in, rubbing his shoes on the mat as if he belonged to the house, an elderly gentleman of somewhat singular appearance. He wore a fez cap, but was otherwise dressed as an Englishman—in black frock coat, that is, buttoned up—except that his feet were incased in black cloth shoes, so that he went noiselessly. His hair was short and white, and he wore a small white beard; his skin was a rather dark brown; he was, in fact, a Hindoo, and his name was Lala Roy.
He nodded gravely to Mr. James and walked into the back shop.
"It goes well," he asked, "with the buying and the selling?"
"Surely, Lala, surely."
"A quiet way of buying and selling; a way fit for one who meditates," said the Hindoo, looking round. "Tell me, my friend, what ails the child? Is she sick?"
"The child is well, Lala."
"Her mind wandered this morning. She failed to perceive a simple method which I tried to teach her. I feared she might be ill."
"She is not ill, my friend, but I think her mind is troubled."
"She is a woman. We are men. There is nothing in the world that is able to trouble the mind of the philosopher."
"Nothing," said Mr. Emblem manfully, as if he, too, was a disciple. "Nothing; is there now?"
The stoutness of the assertion was sensibly impaired by the question.
"Not poverty, which is a shadow; nor pain, which passes; nor the loss of woman's love, which is a gain; nor fall from greatness—nothing. Nevertheless," his eyes did look anxious in spite of his philosophy, "this trouble of the child—will it soon be over?"
"I hope this evening," said Mr. Emblem. "Indeed I am sure that it will be finished this evening."
"If the child had a mother, or a brother, or any protectors but ourselves, my friend, we might leave her to them. But she has nobody except you and me. I am glad that she is not ill."
He left Mr. Emblem, and passing through the door of communication between house and shop, went noiselessly up the stairs.
One more visitor—unusual for so many to call on a September afternoon. This time it was a youngish man of thirty or so, who stepped into the shop with an air of business, and, taking no notice at all of the assistant, walked swiftly into the back shop and shut the door behind him.
"I thought so," murmured Mr. James. "After he's been counting up his investments, his lawyer calls. More investments."
Mr. David Chalker was a solicitor and, according to his friends, who were proud of him, a sharp practitioner. He was, in fact, one of those members of the profession who, starting with no connection, have to make business for themselves. This, in London, they do by encouraging the county court, setting neighbors by the ears, lending money in small sums, fomenting quarrels, charging commissions, and generally making themselves a blessing and a boon to the district where they reside. But chiefly Mr. Chalker occupied himself with lending money.
"Now, Mr. Emblem," he said, not in a menacing tone, but as one who warns; "now, Mr. Emblem."
"Now, Mr. Chalker," the bookseller repeated mildly.
"What are you going to do for me?"
"I got your usual notice," the old bookseller began, hesitating, "six months ago."
"Of course you did. Three fifty is the amount. Three fifty, exactly."
"Just so. But I am afraid I am not prepared to pay off the bill of sale. The interest, as usual, will be ready."
"Of course it will. But this time the principal must be ready too."
"Can't you get another client to find the money?"
"No, I can't. Money is tight, and your security, Mr. Emblem, isn't so good as it was."
"The furniture is there, and so is the stock."
"Furniture wears out; as for the stock—who knows what that is worth? All your books together may not be worth fifty pounds, for what I know."
"Then what am I to do?"
"Find the money yourself. Come, Mr. Emblem, everybody knows—your grandson himself told me—all the world knows—you've been for years saving up for your granddaughter. You told Joe only six months ago—you can't deny it—that whatever happened to you she would be well off."
Mr. Emblem did not deny the charge. But he ought not to have told this to his grandson, of all people in the world.
"As for Joe," Mr. Chalker went on, "you are going to do nothing for him. I know that. But is it business like, Mr. Emblem, to waste good money which you might have invested for your granddaughter?"
"You do not understand. Mr. Chalker. You really do not, and I cannot explain. But about this bill of sale—never mind my granddaughter."
"You the aforesaid Richard Emblem"—Mr. Chalker began to recite, without commas—"have assigned to me David Chalker aforesaid his executors administrators and assigns all and singular the several chattels and things specifically described in the schedule hereto annexed by way of security for the payment of the sum of three hundred and fifty pounds and interest thereon at the rate of eight per cent. per annum."
"Thank you, Mr. Chalker. I know all that."
"You can't complain, I'm sure. It is five years since you borrowed the money."
"It was fifty pounds and a box of old law books out of your office, and I signed a bill for a hundred."
