Dorian | Page 2

especially books.
Ah, look here! Spread out on a table on the sidewalk in front of this second-hand store was a lot of books, a hundred or more--books of all kind--school books, history, fiction, all of them in good condition, some only a little shopworn, others just like new. Dorian Trent eagerly looked them over. Here were books he had read about, but had not read--and the prices! Dickens' "David Copperfield", "Tale of Two Cities", "Dombey and Son", large well-printed books, only a little shopworn, for thirty-five cents; Thackeray's "Vanity Fair", twenty-five cents; books by Mrs. Humphrey Ward and Margaret Deland; "Robinson Crusoe", a big book with fine pictures. Dorian had, of course, read "Robinson Crusoe" but he had always wanted to own a copy. Ah, what's this? Prescott's "Conquest of Peru", two volumes, new, fifty cents each! Dorian turned the leaves. A man stepped up and also began handling the books. Yes, here were bargains, surely. He stacked a number together as if he desired to secure them. Dorian becoming fearful, slipped the other volume of the Conquest under his arm and made as if to gather a number of other books under his protection. He must have some of these before they were all taken by others. The salesman now came up to him and asked:
"Find something you want?"
"O, yes, a lot of things I like" replied Dorian.
"They're bargains."
Dorian needed not to be told that.
"They're going fast, too."
"Yes, I suppose so."
His heart fell as he said it, for he realized that he had no money to buy books. He had come to town to buy shoes, which he badly needed. He glanced down at his old shoes. They were nearly falling to pieces, but they might last a little longer. If he bought the "Conquest of Peru" he would still have two dollars left. Could he buy a pair of shoes for that amount? Very likely but not the kind his mother had told him to get, the kind that were not too heavy or "stogy" looking, but would be "nice" for Sundays. He held tightly on to the two books, while Dickens and Thackeray were still protectingly within his reach. What could he do?
Down there in Peru there had been a wonderful people whom Pizarro, the bad, bold Spaniard had conquered and abused. Dorian knew about it all vaguely as a dim fairy tale; and here was the whole story, beautifully and minutely told. He must have these books. This bargain might never come again to him. But what would his mother say? She herself had added the last half dollar to his amount to make sure that he could get the nicer kind.
"Well, sir, how many of these will you have?" asked the salesman.
"I'll--I'll take these two, anyway"--meaning Prescott's Conquest--"and let me see", he looked hungrily over the titles--"And this one 'David Copperfield'." It was hard to select from so many tempting ones. Here was one he had missed: "Ben Hur"--, a fine new copy in blue and gold. He had read the Chariot Race, and if the whole story was as interesting as that, he must have it. He handed the volume to the salesman. Then his hand touched lovingly a number of other books, but he resisted the temptation, and said: "That's all--this time."
The clerk wrapped the purchase in a newspaper and handed the package to Dorian who paid for them with his two silver dollars, receiving some small silver in change. Then, with his package under his arm, the boy walked on down the street.
Well, what now? He was a little afraid of what he had done. How could he face his mother? How could he go home without shoes? Books might be useful for the head, but they would not clothe the feet. He jingled the coins in his pocket as he walked on down to the end of the business section of the city. He could not buy any kind of shoes to fit his big feet for a dollar and twenty cents. There was nothing more to do but to go home, and "face the music", so he walked on in a sort of fearsome elation. At a corner he discovered a new candy store. Next to books, Dorian liked candy. He might as well buy some candy for the twenty cents. He went into the store and took his time looking at the tempting display, finally buying ten cents worth of chocolates for himself and ten cents worth of peppermint lozenges for his mother.
You see, Dorian Trent, though sixteen years old, was very much a child; he did many childish things, and yet in some ways, he was quite a man; the child in him and the man in him did not seem to merge into the boy, but were