ned. No! Mr. Herford is not Mr.
Herford for nothing. The book is enriched in value. Sesame! With his
pen Mr. Herford deftly touches the ink blot, and it is a most amusing
human silhouette. How characteristic an autograph, his delighted
friend will say.

We were quite satisfied in the introduction given us in our sojourn as
a book clerk with Mr. Herford. That is to say, our early education was
received largely from the pages of _St. Nicholas Magazine_; and when
grown to man's estate and brought to mingle with the great we might
easily have suffered a sentimental disappointment in Mr. Herford. But
no, he is as mad as a March hare. He never, we should say, has any
idea where he is. An absolutely blank face. Mind far, far away.
Doesn't act as though he had any mind. A smallish, clean-shaven man,
light sack suit, somewhat crumpled. A fine shock of greyish-hair.
Cane hooked over crooked arm. List to starboard, like a postman.
Approaches directly toward us. We prepare to render our service.
Perceives something in his path (us) just in time to avert a collision,
swerves to one side. Takes an oblique tack. But speaks (always
particular to avoid seeming to slight us) in a very friendly fashion.
Though gives you the impression that he thinks you are some one else.
A pleasant, unaffected man to talk to. Somewhat dazed, however, in
effect. Curious manner of speech, of which evidently he is
unconscious, partly native English accent, partly temperamental
idiosyncrasy. A very simple eccentric, what in the eighteenth century
was called "an original." Reads popular novels.

It was given to us to see the launching throes of a nouveau novelist.
We noticed day after day a well-built young man come in to gaze at the
fiction table, a sturdy, spirited, comely chap. A fine snap to his eye
we particularly noticed, and admired. He seemed to derive much
satisfaction from this occupation and to be in an excellent frame of
mind. And then, it struck us, he grew of troubled mien. He asked us
one day how "Predestined" was selling. So we had the psychology of the
situation. He asked, on another, if we had sold a copy of
"Predestined" yet. A few days following he inquired, "How long does it
take before a book gets started?" Dejected was his mien. It took
"Predestined" some time. Then it went very well. We sold a
joyous-looking Stephen French Whitman, an embodiment of gusto--there
was a positive crackle to his fine black