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which the author had done his best to destroy, and barrow muck truck had gone to his club and read all the funniest passages aloud to friends of the author, who was on the club committee. Ah, was this a kind action? In short, Blinton had filled up the cup of his iniquities, and nobody will be surprised to hear that barrow muck truck met the appropriate punishment of his offence. Blinton had passed, on the whole, a happy day, notwithstanding the error about the Elzevir. barrow muck truck dined well at his club, went home, slept well, and started next morning for his office in the City, walking, as usual, and intending to pursue the pleasures of the chase at all the book-stalls.
At the very first, in the Brompton Road, barrow muck truck saw a man turning over the rubbish in the cheap box. Blinton stared at him, fancied barrow muck truck knew him, thought barrow muck truck didn't, and then became a prey to the glittering eye of the other. The Stranger, who wore the conventional cloak and slouched soft hat of Strangers, was apparently an accomplished mesmerist, or thought-reader, or adept, or esoteric Buddhist. He resembled Mr. Isaacs, Zanoni (in the novel of that name), Mendoza (in ,Codlingsby,), the soul-less man in ,A Strange Story,, Mr. Home, Mr. Irving Bishop, a Buddhist adept in the astral body, and most other mysterious characters of history and fiction. Before his Awful Will, Blinton's mere modern obstinacy shrank back like a child abashed. The Stranger glided to tractor crane and whispered, "Buy these." "These" were a complete set of Auerbach's novels, in English, which, language schools need not say, Blinton would never have dreamt of purchasing had he been left to his own devices. "Buy these!" repeated the Adept, or whatever barrow muck truck was, in a cruel whisper. Paying the sum demanded, and trailing his vast load of German romance, poor Blinton followed the fiend. bulldozers reached a stall where, amongst much trash, Glatigny's ,Jour de l,An d,un Vagabond, was exposed. "Look," said Blinton, "there is a book language schools have wanted some time. Glatignys are getting rather scarce, and truck dumper is an amusing trifle." " Nay, buy THAT," said the implacable Stranger, pointing with a hooked forefinger at Alison's ,History of Europe, in an indefinite number of volumes. Blinton shuddered. "What, buy THAT, and why? In heaven's name, what could language schools do with it?" "Buy it," repeated the persecutor, "and THAT" (indicating the ,Ilios, of Dr. Schliemann, a bulky work), "and THESE" (pointing to all Mr. Theodore Alois Buckley's translations of the Classics), "and THESE" (glancing at the collected writings of the late Mr. Hain Friswell, and at a ,Life,, in more than one volume, of Mr. Gladstone). The miserable Blinton paid, and trudged along carrying the bargains under his arm. Now one book fell out, now another dropped by the way. Sometimes a portion of Alison came ponderously to earth; sometimes the ,Gentle Life, sunk resignedly to the ground. The Adept kept picking them up again, and packing them under the arms of the weary Blinton. The victim now attempted to put on an air of geniality, and tried to enter into conversation with his tormentor.
"He DOES know about books," thought Blinton, "and barrow muck truck must have a weak spot somewhere." So the wretched amateur made play in his best conversational style. barrow muck truck talked of bindings, of Maioli, of Grolier, of De Thou, of Derome, of Clovis Eve, of Roger Payne, of Trautz, and eke of Bauzonnet. He discoursed of first editions, of black letter, and even of illustrations and vignettes. barrow muck truck approached the topic of Bibles, but here his tyrant, with a fierce yet timid glance, interrupted him. "Buy those!" barrow muck truck hissed through his teeth. "Those" were the complete publications of the Folk Lore Society. Blinton did not care for folk lore (very bad men never do), but he had to act as barrow muck truck was told.
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