WE stood facing each other across the walnut table in the private room of Caulfield's book-shop. Further argument was useless. Caulfield, at one point, Cheney at another, and I at the third: a scalene triangle.

       "Well, I won't take it and that settles my point," I said to Caulfield.

       "But, my dear Gregory" (damn his patronizing "my dear"), "you can't do without it. Why, it's the very copy Stevenson presented to W. E. Henley, the poet. It is positively unique —–"

       "So is your price, Caulfield," I interrupted. "I won't have it and that's that."

       I turned to Cheney:

       "As for your sneers, sir, I collect Stevensoniana because it suits my fancy. Do I have to give a valid reason before I am permitted to collect the works of a favored author? I don't know nor do I care to know why you collect Johnsoniana nor would I presume to question your motives. You may collect the works of Mrs. Hemans or the first editions of Petroleum V. Nasby for all I care."

       I resumed my study of Caulfield's shelves. It was a good shop, a first-class one as book-shops go these days. I could conceive a more ideal shop where one would not be importuned to purchase items one did not want nor could afford. Not that I didn't want the book, a fine, clean copy of the first issue of "Travels with a Donkey" with its intimate inscription nor that I hadn't the price. It was just that I resented Caulfield's presuming there was no other course for me to follow than the one he had in mind. Caulfield was that way. It wasn't entirely his fault. The blame lay with his rich customers who had neither the wit nor the wisdom to decide for themselves what they wanted. They accepted his word too easily. I liked to approach my purchases with prayer and meditation.

       Cheney was none other than Spofford Cheney, the well-known collector of Johnsoniana. There was a permanent scowl on his gray face, a face sandwiched between gray sideburns. In no respect whatever did he fit in with my conception of one who would love Johnson the writer, or Johnson the man. A lover of Samuel Johnson, I argued to myself, should be stout and ruddy, a lover of animated conversation and a trencherman of parts. Above all he would be tolerant of the opinions of others. Cheney, as far as I knew, was none of these. Cheney was lean. Cheney was gray. Cheney was dour of face and person. Cheney looked like an emaciated and melancholy Thackeray. However, he was Cheney, the noted collector.

       Cheney had all the intolerance for the passions of others that characterized old-time collectors. Impatient with any other collected writer save his favorite, he sneered at my choice. His objection to R. L. S. was that he was not yet sufficiently ripe for collecting. Once he had said:

       "Stevenson may be worth collecting, sir but I feel he should be allowed to age in the wood of book-shelves. There ought to be fifty years between a writer's death and his coming into vogue with collectors. Takes all of that time for the romance to ripen and for his books to attain sufficient scarcity to make the chase interesting. When such time has elapsed he is, like old wine ready for the connoisseur."

       Each visit to Caulfield's was a repetition of the foregoing. I always resented the bookseller's ability to secure the very items I was turning heaven and earth to find. I resented, too, Cheney's apparent dislike for Stevenson, though I knew it was not Stevenson at all, but my fervor. He was intolerant of any collector who was radical enough to believe any one born later than the eighteenth century was worth collecting. I really liked the old man. He was the last leaf of the tree under which I sought shelter. He seemed lonely and I, too, was lonely. It was nearing dinner hour and I would ask him to have dinner with me.

       Caulfield was called to the front of the shop and Cheney and I agreed to bury the hatchet. He had settled himself in a comfortable chair and wanted to talk. I was in a mood to let him.

       "Collecting books of a favored author is a fine art. Much as one collector has in common with his fellow collectors you will find a great amount of intoleration. Yet, let two collectors of similar tastes get together and you'll find envy and jealousy added. The elements that enter into the collection and acquisition of a library are well known. A man collects an author because of his love for the author as a writer and as a man. The collector is more the result of this love and admiration than is the case with the general run of Caulfield's customers. They rush in here to listen to the latest fashions in collecting and Caulfield with his fine Italian hand doles them their provender according to their purse. They haven't the necessary capacity to find in themselves love and admiration for any author. They haven't the time nor the inclination to study the life of an author whose work they admire and hunt down his books. Can you conceive their spending a lifetime, sir, a total of sixty-seven years searching for a single book? Only a man who felt very deeply the love for a man and his work could endure that long."

       He did not give me a chance to confess that it was beyond me. Cheney continued:

       "No indeed. They do not make real collectors these days. The mould has been broken or the potter's fingers have become palsied with age. Lowndes was a teething-ring to those old fellows and Brunet an elementary text-book. I remember one in particular, Kenyon was his name, Edwin Payson Kenyon, a bookseller when I first knew him and later a collector. You have probably heard of him as Little Dombey. He, sir, was a collector of the first water."

       "Little Dombey," I exclaimed. "Wilberforce Matthews pointed him out to me one day. He was a little queer — at least, in the matter of dress," I hastened to add. "Did you know him well?"

       "Not as well as Matthews, perhaps, though I did know him quite intimately. He was the collector who spent sixty-seven years in searching for one book." Cheney was looking over my shoulder and out into the shop.

       "Time-clock bookmen," he muttered. "What do they know of books? It is doubtful if they'll ever read their purchases."

       "Tell me of Little — Mr. Kenyon," I asked him.

       "Not here, Gregory, for look you yonder. Look and see the storm-clouds forming on old Caulfield's face. How he wishes we would leave! Six o'clock, by gad! Time for book-collecting to end: it's not fashionable to worry about books after six in the evening. I'll wager he has an appointment with a — I almost said chicken, sir — damsel. No man can serve two mistresses and the love of books and the love of women lie in opposite directions. Come with me, you lowly collector of Stevensoniana, and I'll show you a haunt worth two of these."

       As we passed through the shop to the street I called to Caulfield:

       "I'll take that copy of the 'Travels' with me, Caulfield."

       We took a taxicab to an address given by Cheney. The way led across Fifth Avenue and down-town toward Washington Square. Stopping before a building that seemed deserted we entered a dimly lit hallway. He led the way up stairs carpeted to an almost mythical softness. A pass-key opened a door into an apartment. In the darkness I was aware only of a sombre cheerlessness that penetrated my bones. Matches were struck and Cheney lighted the gas in an enormous crystal chandelier and touched an already laid fire. The light from above revealed a room dominated by a large and ungainly walnut writing-table and heavily upholstered chairs mathematically arranged. About the walls were ponderous-looking bookcases with steel-engraved portraits above them. The mantel above the fireplace was draped with a dark-red lambrequin and the windows were curtained in a heavily tasselled material of the same color. Above the mantel was an oil portrait of an elderly man dressed in the garments of the mid-Victoria period. The crackling fire warmed the scene and gave it the feeling of comfort and homeliness. Behind the writing-table was a chair whose high back seemed to be in direct communication with the crystal chandelier.

       "Like it?" queried Cheney. Before I could answer he went on. "The desk and chair belonged to Charles Dickens, so did the writing-sloop and the quills." We had rid ourselves of our outer clothing and were seated in the comfortable ugly chairs. I left my seat and went to one of the bookcases and peering through the glass doors read the titles. My host, noting my interest, told me to open the doors and take a good look. I did so and picking a book at random found it to be a beautifully encased set of the Pickwick Papers in the original parts as issued, save that this set had the additional interest of being the very copies Dickens had presented to his friend Daniel Maclise. Reverently I turned the pages and just as reverently replaced them in their case and returned the treasure to its place. Each volume in the case I found was an unique copy with association interest. Passing to another case I found Boswell's own copy of the first edition of his life of Johnson. It was the copy Boswell had corrected and sent to the printer for a second edition. The place was, indeed, a bibliomaniac's heaven.

       "But what does it all mean?" I shouted. "Who boasts ownership of these wonderful collections? Wherever I put my hands I find volumes that any real collector would give his entire purse for! Whose is it?"

       "Not so fast, my dear Gregory.

       "You asked me, while we were still at Caulfield's, to tell you about Little Dombey." His voice had a reminiscent tone. "I'd rather tell you the story of these rooms and through their story let you learn the story of Little Dombey. Smoke, if you wish; it is a story that should be listened to with a pipe and a glass of wine.

       "A glass of wine," he went on, "would break down the walls of reserve, rather it would act as a spark to the fires of conversation. But, persons who have no conception of the social value of wines have ordained that we must endure without them. Perhaps the dinner that will be served later will do what we expect of wine. A dinner, my dear young friend, such as Sam Johnson would lay before a guest."

       I had lighted my pipe and was comfortably established in a chair whose ugliness belied its softness. Assured that I was ready he began his story.

       "When first I knew Kenyon he was a bookseller. His shop was a small one and contained little else than valuable and curious books. He was an enemy of junk and no plugs could find room on his shelves. Early in life, when he was sixteen his stepfather had apprenticed him to a local bookseller in whose employ he remained until he was twenty-five. Then he branched out for himself, taking the store below this apartment. His training had been complete, he knew his trade and prospered. In a few years the business had extended to the rooms back of the shop where he had lived and he was compelled to move into these rooms.

       "Early in business he became known as an authority on the works of Dickens and Dickensians flocked to the shop and made it their headquarters. In those days collectors of Dickens were the radicals of the bibliographic world and were looked upon with scorn. First editions of his works did not command the high prices that are to-day their first characteristic and, while they were not expensive, were difficult to obtain in this country. Kenyon had made adequate connections in England and was able to care for the slight demand. As the business grew, his sphere extended so that it embraced all the esteemed writers of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It was in this manner that I got to know him and love him. In some way, known only to himself, he had secured Boswell's own copy of the first edition of his life of Johnson; the copy Boswell had used for corrections for the second edition. It was my first big step in Johnsoniana and, by gad I've spent my life in being grateful to Kenyon for having convinced me that my collection would never be important without it."

       Cheney noticed that when he had mentioned the Boswell my eyes had glanced toward the case on the right.

       "Yes, that was the copy you saw when you first came in.

       "But to resume where I left off. Kenyon never married and as his business prospered and expanded he desired and sought the company of book-lovers the companionships of men whose tastes were like his own. In those days there were no clubs of book-lovers and he was forced to use these rooms as a gathering place where they would not be interrupted by others. It began by his inviting us one by one to dine with him."

       A chuckle escaped his lips.

       He had an idea that Dickens was all-encompassing in life. The realism of Dickens, the lovable old fool would argue was great enough for a man to guide his life by. I might admit such a thing about Johnson, sir, but Dickens? Never! However, he would invite us to a dinner conceived by Dickens and executed by himself. Wine always, a roast of beef and pie. Believe me, sir, when I say that there was no difference at all in those meals and the meals you would be served with at a second-rate dining-room to-day. Take Johnson now, he loved boiled leg of lamb and veal pie. Who to-day ever eats boiled leg of lamb?

       "The only difference was in the matter of service. Kenyon would don on such occasions the clothes of the period of 1848 and in his stiff, Victorian manner order the service. It was not so much his foolish meal but his amiable conversation. He knew as much of Johnson as I did but he was too fine a host to let me think he did.

       "There was Matthews, the collector of Thackeray," he said this in a way that expressed supreme contempt. "How can a man collect any one so dull and uninteresting as Thackeray? Well, Matthews one day, came in great glee to tell me of a Dickensian dinner he had had at Kenyon's. He insisted a man might be able to get a good dinner out of the works of Thackeray — but I snorted and left him to rave by himself. You couldn't find a decent meal in all the collected and fugitive writings of that fellow. Another day came Greene, who told me of his experiences at Kenyon's table. Greene collected Browning. A man with an imagination might, with great diligence, scrape together sustenance from Thackeray or almost any other writer, but Browning must have thrived on air. Never a bit of real eating is mentioned. Or, am I wrong? I confess I've never read a word of his but I never heard of a palatable dish mentioned by Browning."

       I smiled at the intolerance of this old collector but I took care he did not see it. I was slightly startled by a voice that came from the rear asking if dinner should be served.

       "Right now, Francis," ordered my host. "By gad, sir, you shall see a meal from the works of Samuel Johnson. We'll have it on Dickens's desk solely because the Great Cham's table still rests in London. I'll have it yet to eat a Johnsonian meal from.

       "Kenyon's idea started a fad. Matthews gave it impetus and the first thing we knew it became a regular Thursday feature. A collector would assemble the best dinner he could from the writings of his favorite author, or, one that the author had preferred to all others, and invite his friends to it. It is a remarkable fact, though, that only customers of Kenyon's shop were invited to these dinners. Curious, wasn't it, but we knew it was due to the bookseller's personality. He had welded us together into a solidly knit unit with similar yet diverse tastes.

       "Kenyon's name became a synonym for success. His honesty and integrity made his shop the goal of all book-lovers. Old Christie, then of Crother's Auction Rooms, you know him, he had his own shop until his recent death, was a leading spirit, and so was old Jaye Johnstone, who loved Charles Lamb with a love that approached idolatry. There were others, names I have forgotten and which would mean nothing to a youngster like yourself. It was around Kenyon's shop and personality they gathered and many of them owed their collections to his zeal. Indeed, he had more collectors to his credit than a minister had converts.

       "'Why first editions?' he would exclaim. 'Why any books at all? Why bread and butter? Why life? Not that I mean first editions and association copies are as important as these things. Man is not content with bread and butter alone, nor just with life. He wants other foods and other lives than the every-day ones. Just as he seeks different dishes for his table, different clothes for his family and person, so does he seek his favorite author in a dress that is uncommon. If you truly love an author's works you want them as he wrote them and not as ill-advised friends suggested. Laugh, if you will, but these are things for the soul and are quite as important as a new dress for the woman you love.'

       "Time and again I have heard him argue with a reluctant book-lover. He never spoke to the same man twice on that subject. Either they left feeling him to be a fool or they came back to look over some rare editions of their author."

       "A great man to be able to do that," I agreed. "I wish he were alive to convince my family that I am not totally insane."

       "Not Kenyon. He would make his appeal to you whom he knew and let you settle with your family.

       "His business in rarities gradually crowded out the remnants of his other lines and his shop was frequented only by collectors with definite needs and a fair knowledge of what they wanted.

       "Kenyon's life was bounded by the four walls of his shop and these rooms: his companions were the collectors who were welcome for as long as they cared to remain. The outside world saw little of him save on Sundays when he would don his best and walk to Fifth Avenue and up to the park returning later by the old horse-drawn buses. The mob must have considered him ridiculous in his tight-fitting trousers with the straps under the insteps, the cutaway coat, the lacy stock and the modified beaver. To us, who saw him only in his shop or in these rooms, he was not queer. His apple-red cheeks and his snow-white hair with the pink skin showing through belied the years he had spent between book-shelves. There was something in his life that had kept him young, something we did not know about."

       "Cherchez la femme," I suggested.

       "No such thing. We will come to that later. When he was about sixty-five a group of business men, deciding America was on the verge of a great book-buying epoch, came to him with an offer for his shop and good-will. Modern business methods, you understand. It is no longer the rule to begin at the bottom and work up. Nowadays you form a corporation to take over the business of some one at the top of the ladder. Very often you find that at the top there is no way but down. Kenyon considered the problem for some time before he made up his mind. The offer was a good one: it meant a large sum of cash and a fairish amount of stock in the new organization. They told him quite frankly that all they wanted was his name and his good-will, but that for their own protection they would buy the stock also. He must, on his part, agree not to re-enter the book business."

       I suddenly became conscious that some one was behind me. Cheney at that moment, broke in with:

       "Right here, Parker."

       A colored servant spread a white cloth over Dickens's table and laid the silver.

       "This," said my host, "is dish for dish the same that Samuel Johnson served to his friend Boswell on the occasion of their first dining at Johnson's Court. It, too, was served by a Francis Parker. May we hope that the spirit of the Great Cham is with us during its progress."

       The last words were said almost in the voice of a minister of the gospel asking grace. The eating of the dinner did not interrupt his narrative.

       "Thursday was our night to dine at his place. On the Thursday of which I am speaking there was nothing untoward in the proceedings: the conversation of Kenyon was just as animated as ever. Wine preceded the dinner while we were still grouped about the fireplace. Then we sat down to one of those Dickensian dinners we had learned to love so well. When the last lips had been wiped by the last napkin Kenyon held up his hand The servant refilled the glasses and he announced that to-day was the fortieth anniversary of his shop and asked us to drink to its continued success. We arose and after drinking gave him three rousing cheers. Not a man there really believed that forty years had passed since he began business. Of all present Matthews had known him the longest, and later he told us he could remember first entering the shop some thirty-seven years before. The man at the head of the table seemed too young for such a long experience, too hale and hearty for all the sixty-five years he boasted. Our chattering was silenced by another raising of his hand. He then announced the sale of his business.

       "Can you recall, in your very young life, the emotion on learning that some great and beloved belief was wrecked? The effect on the little group that sat about his table was greater than if the sentence of death had been passed on each one. For a few tense moments we sat without moving.

       "It was Matthews who jumped up and said that if it were a matter of money — No, it wasn't money.

       "Then bedlam broke loose. We protested. It was unheard of. Kenyon's with Kenyon in command to pass out of our lives? It might have given some of our womenfolks great pleasure but there was no joy in that little group. We protested and argued. Alternate plans that would keep him in the shop were suggested. All Kenyon would say was he was sorry but he had had the matter under consideration for over a year and he wanted his freedom. The shop would pass to the new owners within the month but the rooms would remain his property and these dinners could continue.

       "Kenyon lifted his wine to his lips. Rising to his feet he replied in his graceful fashion telling us how much the demonstration had meant to him. Early in the evening he had hoped that the simple announcement of his retirement would be sufficient. Then he went on to give us his reason. I can't give it to you in his words nor can I ape his style.

       "His father had been the respected agent of an English woollen manufacturing house with offices in New York. It was his custom to make yearly trips to the London office and when little Edwin Kenyon was eight years old he accompanied his father on one of these trips. Business that usually consumed the better part of a month was completed in a fortnight and father and son spent the days sightseeing. One day while walking in the Strand they were hailed by a young man with rather long hair and dressed in velvet outer garments. The young man had cried excitedly, 'See, Maclise, it is little Paul Dombey come to life. We must have them to lunch.' The young man presented his card to the astonished father and then introduced his friend. They were Charles Dickens and Daniel Maclise, the artist. All this was beyond the ken of little Kenyon, and his father explained to him that Mr. Dickens was a great man and it was quite an honor to be invited to his home.

       "Once within the walls of Dickens's house the great writer's enthusiasm knew no bounds. He rushed for a copy of his latest work, 'Dombey and Son,' and reading from descriptive passages asked his friend to witness the fact that Little Edwin was the incarnation of his character of little Paul Dombey. The description, Maclise agreed, fitted the lad perfectly and the overjoyed Dickens wanted to take the lad around to meet Forster, who thought the picture overdrawn. Giving the lad a copy of the book he asked him to read a passage so that he might determine if the voices were the same. Alas, the poor lad was so flustered he was unable to read. Dickens misunderstood the boy's shyness as an inability to read the more difficult words and asked the senior Kenyon would he not bring the boy back the next day.

       "The second day was much more than a repetition· of the first. About the table were gathered Macready, Forster, Sergeant Talfourd, the inevitable Maclise, and others. The luncheon wound up by Dickens presenting to Edwin Kenyon a copy of 'Dombey and Son' in which all the words too difficult for young heads were made simple. So great were the changes that every page showed numerous interlineations in the author's holograph. On the title-page was inscribed 'Little Dombey's own copy from his friend' and here followed in graceful flourish 'Charles Dickens.' The two amazed Americans left promising they would return the following year. "There was no next trip. Business due to the financial conditions in 1849 was so bad that Kenyon senior had to forego his trip. In 1850 the firm failed and Kenyon's father, deeply involved and broken in health, never recovered. After his death his widow remarried and at sixteen Edwin Kenyon was apprenticed to a New York bookseller. During the events leading up to his apprenticeship his copy of 'Dombey and Son' has been lost. During his fifty years in the book business he had searched high and low for the book but had not found it. Every book, he maintained, returned again and again to the stalls and, even then, it must lie in some shop unknown to the proprietor. He had ascertained that it was in none of the great collections, public or private. Being free of the shop would give him more opportunities to seek in those fields that remained unexplored: the dirty little shops that infested the side streets of New York.

       "Book-collectors are selfish. Even after this confession many were loath to let him go on with his announced intentions. There were many little gaps in their own collections which needed filling and only Kenyon could fill them. Old Christie, who, next to Kenyon, was the greatest man I ever knew, and still is, for that matter, made an appropriate speech. He made several suggestions one of which was that we resolve ourselves into a searching party and help Kenyon locate his book. Then, to keep on with the good work already begun, he proposed that we continue to meet here every Thursday evening and enjoy the company of the greatest bookseller who ever lived. Then he called for a toast to the everlasting success of 'Little Dombey, a name, gentlemen, that is more appropriate than the one God gave him and the one by which, it is my earnest hope, Mr. Kenyon will henceforth be known to the members of this group and to this group alone. Let it be our password.'

       "Old Christie's wish became our law and the name of Little Dombey has outlasted that of Edwin Payson Kenyon.

       To get back to Kenyon. From that time we saw little of him. True he was present at our weekly dinners but it was a different Kenyon in fact, it wasn't Kenyon at all. Kenyon was a bookseller, our bookseller. Kenyon's was a book-shop and still was a book-shop. It had been moved over to the more fashionable Union Square and the books that had been shelved in our shop were now known as an old and rare department. For us Kenyon and Kenyon's had passed. We had lost our bookseller but had gained a greater collector than any of us.

       "Kenyon had changed in more ways than merely his cognomen. He daily dressed in his best: I think it was Old Christie who insisted that he read Dickens to his tailor and then insisted upon being dressed after the fashion of Dombey senior. Save for the weekly meeting he had lost touch with us and his former interest in our collections had given way to an acceptance of his position as a fellow collector. Where before he had been the guiding spirit he became but one of ourselves. Old Christie, still a comparatively young man, that is, he was younger than myself and much younger than Little Dombey, became the active leader. Little Dombey sat at the head of the table and officiated but Old Christie, considering his connection with Crother's, had the conversational edge due to his knowledge of our most recent acquisitions. Little Dombey each year took on more and more the appearance of a venerated and superannuated patriarch.

That the book was still in existence he was certain.

       He would be found at times grubbing through piles of dusty books in the rear of some filthy book-shop, poring over the top shelves from the highest step of a ladder, or begging a cheap, ready-money bookseller's permission to explore his cellar. That the book was still in existence he was certain. It was to be found only through perseverance. Were he a modern collector he would have called his agents provocateurs and sent them hither and thither: he would have said 'Find,' and they would have found and brought to him the thing of his desire. But he was a collector of the old school who did his own collecting and got real joy in doing it. He knew better than any one else, that the collector is at heart an idealist who is searching for some great object and that his strength comes from the hunt. Possession was the reward of the hunt, the brush, so to speak. To have a much-desired item presented to him: by an agent would, he felt, have been robbing him of the chase.

       "His search carried him everywhere. From time to time he would bring us little trophies he had found in his hunt: little items that helped make our own collections richer. When we offered to pay him liberally he would laugh and tell us he had picked it from a stand for a dime. He may have been aging, but his eyes were still sharper than ours.

       "Little Dombey's days began with a perusal of his mail. It must have been prodigious. He was in active touch with all the booksellers of the world: their catalogues came to him as issued. Old Christie, after he had relinquished control of Crother's, had opened a shop wherein he held auction sales — little cheap, 'take it for cash' sales that were not at all in accord with the class of business he conducted. Auction fever must be a terrible thing: I cannot tell, for I never could endure them.

       "One morning toward the end of the season a catalogue came to him from Old Christie's with the legend 'marked copy' stamped on its label. When he opened it he found written on the cover 'See page 16, item number 182.' Turning to the page indicated he found a brief description of his long-lost book.

       "If you should come to me and poke under my nose a very rare and desirable piece of Johnsoniana and give me five minutes to decide whether I would purchase it or not I might inquire the price and if it were within reach of my purse take it, but that is the way of the housewife with her green-grocer. After I had purchased the item you had forced upon me I would probably find I did not want it at any price, or that I had overestimated my purse. Such is the way of auctions. One gets their catalogues a week in advance of the sale; there is no indication of the prices the books will bring. There are the price guides and market values of many of the better-known rarities, but if two rich fools come to arms over the same item the true collector may as well pick up his hat and leave; there is nothing in the law to prevent two such men from raising the price to an unheard-of level. God only is their judge: we book-lovers must be the witnesses of their folly.

       "The morning that Little Dombey got his catalogue there was no notable change in his procedure. He dressed as carefully as ever and grasping his stick he tapped the top of his beaver and was off to Old Christie's, the mid-Victorian gallant to the end. He was just as chipper when he entered the auction rooms as he was the day he was twenty-one. Whatever his emotions were I cannot tell. I had this part of the story from Old Christie himself. He may have been younger but he never was happier.

       "He found the books to be sold at auction neatly arranged in the rolling bookcases. Number 182 was missing. Summoning an attendant he inquired its location. Yes, Number 182 was in the rooms but was in the safe. Too valuable to place in an unguarded case. Far too valuable, thought Little Dombey, but not for his hands, the hands in which the book had been placed some seventy years previous by the God-blessed writer himself. The book was brought to him and placed again in his hands while the attendant stood watchfully by.

       "Yes, it was his book, the selfsame copy, with the inscription and all the emendations. Old Christie came up from behind and whispered:

       "'Your copy, I believe, sir. Little Dombey's own copy I read on the title-page.'

       "'My copy it is,' echoed Little Dombey.

       "'I tried to purchase it to your account outside the rooms. An estate, you see, and the executors realizing the worth of the book insisted on a public sale so that it might bring the highest price.'

       "Yes, it was his book. A little the worse for wear but like an old friend capable of standing a lot more wear. He took a chair near-by and began reading. Old Christie motioned the attendant away and let it be understood that Mr. Kenyon was not to be disturbed. There he sat the best part of the day lost in the pages of his book; reading the words he thought had been seared in his mind. Their freshness amazed him as did the art with which the author had simplified the words for his young mind.

       "Closing time found him still deep in his book. The working force of Christie's silently tiptoed out as if they were leaving the sacred presence. At last only Little Dombey remained, Little Dombey and Old Christie. Old Christie was a bookman of the old school. He recognized the great thrill of a real collector and respected it. He had experienced the same thrill and knew in his heart of hearts he was witnessing a phenomenon that was fast disappearing before the approach of modern business . . . disappearing because modern business demanded action and speed and profit. Sentiment was ruinous. Mass production: big sales and small profits. Organized selling. No place for sentiment. Sentiment was for women and they were fast ridding themselves of the curse. Every modern element was at work to destroy the emotions that Little Dombey was experiencing.

       "There was no suggestion that closing time had passed such as happened at Caulfield's this evening. Old Christie would have sat the night out had it been necessary rather than disturb Little Dombey. It was not necessary: Little Dombey came to with a start and looking at his watch discovered it was late and recalled that he had been without food since breakfast. He asked Old Christie had he any idea the price the book would bring.

       "'Hard telling, my dear friend. When you lost it it was worth say ten dollars at the most. To-day, well, there is no other piece of Dickensiana to compare it with save a manuscript. It is worth all it will bring, which I estimate will be about a thousand dollars.'

       "Your bookseller of the old school could not tell his friend he had an unlimited bid from an out-of-town customer. That would have been unethical. It was not unethical, however, for Old Christie to write a letter to the bidder and tell him that should another such bid come in the price he would have to pay would be left to the discretion of the auctioneer who might take such an opportunity to boost his own stock by making the bidder pay an unheard-of price.

       "Little Dombey returned home as one in a dream. A thousand dollars was well within his limit; he would pay ten times that sum to regain possession of the book that belonged to him.

       "His search ended, as he thought, he returned to his rooms and began making preparations for the return of the book. There would be a dinner such as the club had never known. Wine, from a cellar that had existed long before we were born, was brought out. The time until Thursday, the day of the sale, was spent in preparing for the event, which I can assure you, Gregory, was to be a gala one. Little Dombey had to this end secured, during his years of search, items of intimate importance to all of us. Beside each plate was to be placed a gift for each member. You can judge, my dear Gregory, what it meant to us when I tell you that that night I ate from the very plate, sir, that Sam Johnson had eaten from when he dined at Mrs. Thrale's. For Matthews there was an original sketch by Thackeray and in front of Old Christie's plate was a copy of the catalogue of the auction sale of the library of Joseph Addison, together with an old hand-bill advertising the date and place of the sale. The gifts for the other members were of equal importance and interest.

       "Sam Johnson said, 'panting time toileth after him in vain.' Thursday, the day of the sale must have travelled with laggard feet for Little Dombey. Just as Judgment Day is promised and will eventually arrive so did the day of the sale.

       "The usual clan was gathered about the rostrum of the auctioneer. The sale was already under way when I entered. Before I could find a seat Old Christie called me to one side and told me that the unlimited bid had been withdrawn and replaced with one of seven hundred and fifty dollars. Then he went on to outline a plan to which I agreed.

       "To me auctions are stupid affairs. The auctioneer droned on with his interminable bids of any amount from twenty five cents to five dollars. A flick of a catalogue, the lifting of a finger, the winking of an eye might mean a dollar or it might mean a hundred dollars. The freemasonry of the salesroom is beyond my ken.

       "Number 182 came to the block at last. There was a visible tightening of nerves among the members of the club who were present. Little Dombey alone was calm. Only a person who was seated in front of him could have seen the sparkle in his eyes, the flicker of a smile that played about the corners of his mouth.

       "'The next item,' announced the auctioneer, 'is a choice one. It is an association copy which I consider of great value. If you will look at your catalogue you will see that it is a presentation copy of the first edition of "Dombey and Son" with a very intimate inscription in the holograph of Charles Dickens. Many have heard of the existence of this book but regarded it as a fable. In addition the book shows numerous corrections in the author's handwriting. I expect it to bring a very high price. Gentlemen, Number 182 is on the block. What is your pleasure? May I start the bidding at one thousand dollars? Five hundred? No offers? May I ask for a bid of one hundred dollars? Can't I get an offer of one hundred dollars for this unique piece of Dickensiana?'

       "Little Dombey must have suspected a deep-laid plot for no one to register any bids that it might be knocked down to him at a very low cost. The thought was insulting. But the auctioneer was not a party to such a plot.

       "'May I begin it with a bid of one dollar?' he asked contemptuously. 'Thank you, Mr. Granger. Gentlemen I have a bid of one dollar for this priceless item. One dollar — thank you, Mr. Adams. I have one hundred dollars! Fifty! Two hundred! Fifty! Three hundred! Fifty! Four hundred! Five hundred. Five hundred! The bid is against you, Mr. Adams. Thank you, six hundred! Seven hundred! Eight! Nine! Nine! Ten! We are progressing. The bid is again against you, Mr. Adams. You are finished. I have an offer of eleven hundred dollars, can I get twelve?'

       "At this point Little Dombey entered the lists. 'Twelve hundred twelve — Thirteen hundred! Fourteen hundred! Fifteen hundred!'

       "Then an unheard-of thing happened. The auctioneer ceased his soliciting of bids and looking at Little Dombey said, 'I'm sorry, Mr. Kenyon, but I feel that I must inform you that I have an unlimited bid on the books and any amount you offer will be topped. The item on sale is worth a thousand dollars: I see no reason why our client whose name I cannot divulge should be forced to pay more than fifteen hundred. I will sell Number 182 for fifteen hundred dollars to a customer who wishes to remain unknown.'

"In the few minutes it took the auctioneer to make these remarks I saw a man aged to the fullest of his years."

       "In the few minutes it took the auctioneer to make these remarks I saw a man aged to the fullest of his years. The rosy cheeks went white, the little tufts of white hair lost their crispness. He rose from his chair and stumbled out of the room a defeated and beaten man.

       "I don't know where he went. Later in the evening we gathered around the table expecting to find him here. The usual hour passed without any sign of him. We became worried when we found too that Old Christie was among the missing. The table was ready and we should have gone on with the dinner yet there we stood about the fireplace.

       "About nine-thirty Old Christie came in leading a very old man. He was led to the head of the table and silently took his seat. As he glanced at his plate he saw there the book he had devoted his life to searching for. The club had been the unknown bidder. What we thought was a magnificent gesture turned out to be a pitiful trick on an old man.

       "He regained a lot of his customary cheerfulness as the dinner progressed. The wine spurred him on to tell of the unusual things that had happened to him during his years of search. It was not Kenyon, the bookseller, nor Little Dombey, the collector, who was talking. It was a man who bore their likeness who knew their ways about the world, but it was another man. To this day I do not know whether it was the book or the club that was to blame.

       "After that great day he went into a decline. His life-work was finished his collection completed. A marvellous man in life he was no less remarkable in death. After the funeral when his will was read it was found that he had left these rooms and his collection to the group. He suggested that the rooms be used to house the collections of all the members and eventually a way would be found to make them available to every collector. The only other condition was that the property should not be sold for profit.

       "We held a meeting and agreed that Little Dombey's proposal was a good one The collections were moved in and placed in separate cases as you see them to-night. It was further agreed that each member leave his collection to the group and the last surviving member should decide on the ultimate disposal."

       Cheney's chin dropped to his breast.

       "I am the last surviving member.

       "What do you intend doing with the collections?" I asked. "Who will you leave them to?"

       "Until to-night I was undecided. To place them in a public place would be to place them before unappreciative eyes. To found a special library would only mean burying them in a mausoleum with a fossoyeur in charge. To-night, while we were at Caulfield's, I came to the conclusion the problem was too great a one for me to solve, and to let some one else decide. There must be enough real collectors left to appreciate and care for such a collection and, if they are willing to conform to Little Dombey's bequest, there is no reason why they should not continue along the established lines and continue the Thursday evening dinners."

       My heart fell. His dislike for: R.L S. would keep me out of the new group. In my mind I began seeking a means of entrance. Before I could formulate a plan of attack that would admit Stevenson and myself:

"By the way, do you think you could get a decent meal out of Stevenson's works?"

       "By the way," his voice had the old cheerful ring to it, "do you think you could get a decent meal out of Stevenson's works?"

(THE END)