In Luck at Last | Page 7

long."
There came another visitor. This time it was a lanky boy, with, a blue
bag over his shoulder and a notebook and pencil-stump in his hand. He
nodded to the assistant as to an old friend with whom one may be at
ease, set down his bag, opened his notebook, and nibbled his stump.
Then he read aloud, with a comma or semicolon between each, a dozen
or twenty titles. They were the names of the books which his employer
wished to pick up. The red-eyed assistant listened, and shook his head.
Then the boy, without another word, shouldered his bag and departed,
on his way to the next second-hand book-shop.
He was followed, at a decent interval, by another caller. This time it
was an old gentleman who opened the door, put in his head, and looked
about him with a quick and suspicious glance. At sight of the assistant
he nodded and smiled in the most friendly way possible, and came in.
"Good-morning, Mr. James; good-morning, my friend. Splendid
weather. Pray don't disturb yourself. I am just having a look
round--only a look round, you know. Don't move, Mr. James."
He addressed Mr. James, but he was looking at the shelves as he spoke,
and, with the habit of a book-hunter, taking down the volumes, looking
at the title-pages and replacing them; under his arm he carried a single
volume in old leather binding.
Mr. James nodded his head, but did disturb himself; in fact, he rose

with a scowl upon his face, and followed this polite old gentlemen all
round the shop, placing himself close to his elbow. One might almost
suppose that he suspected him, so close and assiduous was his
assistance. But the visitor, accepting these attentions as if they were
customary, and the result of high breeding, went slowly round the
shelves, taking down book after book, but buying none. Presently he
smiled again, and said that he must be moving on, and very politely
thanked Mr. James for his kindness.
"Nowhere," he was so good as to say, "does one get so much personal
kindness and attention as at Emblem's. Good-morning, Mr. James;
good-morning, my friend."
Mr. James grunted; and closed the door after him.
"Ugh!" he said with disgust, "I know you; I know your likes. Want to
make your set complete--eh? Want to sneak one of our books to do it
with, don't you? Ah!" He looked into the back shop before he returned
to his paste and his slips. "That was Mr. Potts, the great Queen Anne
collector, sir. Most notorious book-snatcher in all London, and the most
barefaced. Wanted our fourth volume of the 'Athenian Oracle.' I saw
his eyes reached out this way, and that way, and always resting on that
volume. I saw him edging along to the shelf. Got another odd volume
just like it in his wicked old hand, ready to change it when I wasn't
looking."
"Ah," said Mr. Emblem, waking up from his dream of Iris and her
father's letter; "ah, they will try it on. Keep your eyes open, James."
"No thanks, as usual," grumbled Mr. James as he returned to his gum
and his scissors. "Might as well have left him to snatch the book."
Here, however, James was wrong, because it is the first duty of an
assistant to hinder and obstruct the book-snatcher, who carries on his
work by methods of crafty and fraudulent exchange rather than by plain
theft, which is a mere brutal way. For, first, the book-snatcher marks
his prey; he finds the shop which has a set containing the volume which
is missing in his own set; next, he arms himself with a volume which

closely resembles the one he covets, and then, on pretense of turning
over the leaves, he watches his opportunity to effect an exchange, and
goes away rejoicing, his set complete. No collector, as is very well
known, whether of books, coins, pictures, medals, fans, scarabs,
book-plates, autographs, stamps, or anything else, has any conscience
at all. Anybody can cut out slips and make a catalogue, but it requires a
sharp assistant, with eyes all over his head like a spider, to be always
on guard against this felonious and unscrupulous collector.
Next, there came two schoolboys together, who asked for and bought a
crib to "Virgil;" and then a girl who wanted some cheap French
reading-book. Just as the clock began to strike five, Mr. Emblem lifted
his head and looked up. The shop-door opened, and there stepped in,
rubbing his shoes on the mat as if he belonged to the house, an elderly
gentleman of somewhat singular appearance. He wore a fez cap, but
was otherwise dressed as an Englishman--in black frock coat, that is,
buttoned up--except that his feet