est to the club,
this work, which might be said to represent all that the Bodleian stood
for, was in itself sufficient to justify the club's existence. If the
Bodleian had done nothing else, if it should do nothing more, it had
produced a masterpiece.

There was a sealed copy of the Procrustes, belonging, I believe, to one
of the committee, lying on the table by which I stood, and I had picked
it up and held it in my hand for a moment, to emphasize one of my
periods, but had laid it down immediately. I noted, as I sat down, that
young Hunkin, our English visitor, who sat on the other side of the
table, had picked up the volume and was examining it with interest. When
the last review was read, and the generous applause had subsided, there
were cries for Baxter.

"Baxter! Baxter! Author! Author!"

Baxter had been sitting over in a corner during the reading of the
reviews, and had succeeded remarkably well, it seemed to me, in
concealing, under his mask of cynical indifference, the exultation which
I was sure he must feel. But this outburst of enthusiasm was too much
even for Baxter, and it was clear that he was struggling with strong
emotion when he rose to speak.

"Gentlemen, and fellow members of the Bodleian, it gives me unaffected
pleasure--sincere pleasure--some day you may know how much pleasure--I
cannot trust myself to say it now--to see the evident care with which
your committee have read my poor verses, and the responsive sympathy
with which my friends have entered into my views of life and conduct.
I thank you again, and again, and when I say that I am too full for
utterance,--I'm sure you will excuse me from saying any more."

Baxter took his seat, and the applause had begun again when it was
broken by a sudden exclamation.

"By Jove!" exclaimed our English visitor, who still sat behind the
table, "what an extraordinary book!"

Every one gathered around him.

"You see," he exclaimed; holding up the volume, "you fellows said so
much about the bally book that I wanted to see what it was like; so I
untied the ribbon, and cut the leaves with the paper knife lying here,
and found--and found that there wasn't a single line in it, don't you
know!"

Blank consternation followed this announcement, which proved only too
true. Every one knew instinctively, without further investigation, that
the club had been badly sold. In the resulting confusion Baxter escaped,
but later was waited upon by a committee, to w