g rows. There were others in
great piles. A few lay flat. It had never occurred to him, shut up so
long in a flat without any book save the telephone directory, that there
could be so many books in the whole of New York. And all were so new!
and had such fresh, untorn covers!

He had stood before the window quite some time, his eyes going from book
to book thoughtfully, while one hand tugged at his hair, and the other,
thrust into his shirt front, caressed his own dear volume, when he
became conscious of the near presence of two people, a man and a woman.
The woman was the nearer of the two. On glancing up at her, he found her
looking down. That embarrassed him, and he stopped pulling at his hair.

She smiled. "Do you like books, little boy?" she asked.

He nodded. "More'n _anything_!" he declared fervently.

A pause; then, "Would you like to have a book?" she asked next.

At that, pride and covetousness struggled for first place in him. Pride
won. He straddled both feet a bit wider and thrust a thumb into his
belt. "I've got a book," he answered.

So far as he was concerned, he thought his remark commonplace,
ordinary--certainly not at all amusing. But there was never any telling
how this thing or that would strike a grown-up. The man's mouth popped
open and he exploded a loud laugh, followed by a second and louder.

"Sh! sh!" admonished the woman, glancing at Johnnie.

"It's old, but it's always good," protested the man, half
apologetically.

Along with his boasting, Johnnie had drawn Aladdin forward to the
opening in his shirt. Evidently the man had caught a glimpse of that
torn cover. Now the boy hastily poked the book to a place under one arm.
"It _is_ old," he conceded. "But that don't hurt it--_I_ don't mind."

"Of course, you don't!" chimed in the woman, heartily. "A book's a book
as long as it holds together. Besides some books are more valuable as
they get older."

"Sure!" agreed Johnnie.

She left them and went inside. And Johnnie found himself being stared at
by the man.

The man was a millionaire. Johnnie noted this with a start. He had a way
of recognizing millionaires. When he lived with his Aunt Sophie, his
Uncle Albert was the chauffeur of one. On the two occasions when that
wealthy gentleman showed himself at his red-brick garage in Fifty-fifth
Street, he wore a plush hat, dark blue in color, and an overcoat with a
fur collar. This short, stout stranger before the window wore the same.