e hide of Judge Van Dora? Did
you ever see such a thing in your whole life?" emphasizing the word
"whole" with fine effect.

Mr. Brotherton sat at his desk in the rear of his store, contemplating
the splendor of his possessions. Gradually the rear of the shop had been
creeping toward the alley. It was filled with books, stationery, cigars
and smoker's supplies. The cigars and smoker's supplies were crowded to
a little alcove near the Amen Corner, and the books--school books,
pirated editions of the standard authors, fancy editions of the
classics, new books copyrighted and gorgeously bound in the fashion of
the hour, were displayed prominently. Great posters adorned the vacant
spaces on the walls, and posters and enlarged magazine covers adorned
the bulletin boards in front of the store. Piles of magazines towered on
the front counters--and upon the whole, Mr. Brotherton's place presented
a fairly correct imitation of the literary tendencies of the period in
America just before the Spanish war.

Amos Adams came in, with his old body bent, his hands behind him, his
shapeless coat hanging loosely from his stooped shoulders, his little
tri-colored button of the Loyal Legion in his coat lapel, being the only
speck of color in his graying figure. He peered at Mr. Brotherton over
his spectacles and said: "George--I'd like to look at Emerson's
addresses--the Phi Beta Kappa Address particularly." He nosed up to the
shelves and went peering along the books in sets. "Help yourself, Dad,
help yourself--Glad you like Emerson--elegant piece of goods; wrapped
one up last week and took it home myself--elegant piece of goods."

"Yes," mused the reader, "here is what I want--I had a talk with Emerson
last night. He's against the war; not that he is for Spain, of course,
but Huxley," added Amos, as he turned the pages of his book, "rather
thinks we should fight--believes war lies along the path of greatest
resistance, and will lead to our greater destiny sooner." The old man
sighed, and continued: "Poor Lincoln--I couldn't get him last night:
they say he and Garrison were having a great row about the situation."

The elder stroked his ragged beard meditatively. Finally he said:
"George--did you ever hear our Kenyon play?"

The big man nodded and went on with his work. "Well, sir," the elder
reflected: "Now, it's queer about Kenyon. He's getting to be a wonder. I
don't know--it all puzzles me." He rose, put back the book on its shelf.