obile or a
country house or a Morris chair or a parasol--which makes it just as
effective an ad for those goods as it is for the stockings. Every now
and then Phillips sticks a book into his paintings, and I expect the
Fifth Avenue book trade benefits by it. A book that fits the mind as
well as a silk stocking does the ankle will be sure to sell.

MIFFLIN--You are all crass materialists. I tell you, books are the
depositories of the human spirit, which is the only thing in this world
that endures. What was it Shakespeare said--

Not marble nor the gilded monuments
Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme--

By the bones of the Hohenzollerns, he was right! And wait a minute!
There's something in Carlyle's Cromwell that comes back to me.

He ran excitedly out of the room, and the members of the Corn Cob
fraternity grinned at each other. Gladfist cleaned his pipe and poured
out some more cider. "He's off on his hobby," he chuckled. "I love
baiting him."

"Speaking of Carlyle's Cromwell," said Fruehling, "that's a book I
don't often hear asked for. But a fellow came in the other day hunting
for a copy, and to my chagrin I didn't have one. I rather pride myself
on keeping that sort of thing in stock. So I called up Brentano's to
see if I could pick one up, and they told me they had just sold the
only copy they had. Somebody must have been boosting Thomas! Maybe
he's quoted in Tarzan, or somebody has bought up the film rights."

Mifflin came in, looking rather annoyed.

"Here's an odd thing," he said. "I know damn well that copy of
Cromwell was on the shelf because I saw it there last night. It's not
there now."

"That's nothing," said Quincy. "You know how people come into a
second-hand store, see a book they take a fancy to but don't feel like
buying just then, and tuck it away out of sight or on some other shelf
where they think no one else will spot it, but they'll be able to find
it when they can afford it. Probably someone's done that with your
Cromwell."

"Maybe, but I doubt it," said Mifflin. "Mrs. Mifflin says she didn't
sell it this evening. I woke her up to ask her. She was dozing over
her knitting at the desk. I guess she's tired after her trip."

"I'm sorry to miss the Carlyle quotation," said Benson. "What was the
gist?"

"I think I've got it jotted down in a notebook," said Roger, hunting
along a shelf. "Yes, here it is." He read aloud:

"The works of