ou wrote that, too?" said the
bookseller, "that the Elgin watch had won the war. However, Mr.
Chapman has long been one of my best customers. He heard about the
Corn Cob Club, and though of course he is not a bookseller he begged to
come to our meetings. We were glad to have him do so, and he has
entered into our discussions with great zeal. Often he has offered
many a shrewd comment. He has grown so enthusiastic about the
bookseller's way of life that the other day he wrote to me about his
daughter (he is a widower). She has been attending a fashionable
girls' school where, he says, they have filled her head with absurd,
wasteful, snobbish notions. He says she has no more idea of the
usefulness and beauty of life than a Pomeranian dog. Instead of
sending her to college, he has asked me if Mrs. Mifflin and I will take
her in here to learn to sell books. He wants her to think she is
earning her keep, and is going to pay me privately for the privilege of
having her live here. He thinks that being surrounded by books will
put some sense in her head. I am rather nervous about the experiment,
but it is a compliment to the shop, isn't it?"

"Ye gods," cried Gilbert, "what advertising copy that would make!"

At this point the bell in the shop rang, and Mifflin jumped up. "This
part of the evening is often rather busy," he said. "I'm afraid I'll
have to go down on the floor. Some of my habitues rather expect me to
be on hand to gossip about books."

"I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed myself," said Gilbert. "I'm
going to come again and study your shelves."

"Well, keep it dark about the young lady," said the bookseller. "I
don't want all you young blades dropping in here to unsettle her mind.
If she falls in love with anybody in this shop, it'll have to be Joseph
Conrad or John Keats!"

As he passed out, Gilbert saw Roger Mifflin engaged in argument with a
bearded man who looked like a college professor. "Carlyle's Oliver
Cromwell?" he was saying. "Yes, indeed! Right over here! Hullo,
that's odd! It WAS here."

Chapter II

The Corn Cob Club[1]

[1] The latter half of this chapter may be omitted by all readers who
are not booksellers.

The Haunted Bookshop was a delightful place, especially of an evening,
when its drowsy alcoves were kindled with the brightness of lamps
shining on the rows of volumes. Many a passer-by would stumble down
the steps from the street in sheer curiosity; o