If Abner Skipp had had nothing but popular novels to review he would
assuredly have perished of starvation, but frequently he received a
medical work, or a history, or a volume of sportive philosophy by
William James, or some such valuable work, which he could sell for a
round sum. There was always plenty to do--all the best magazines
employed him, and twice in the year--a month in spring and a month in
fall--books came to him in such numbers that the expressman dumped them
into the house through a shute like so many coals.
Mrs. Skipp assisted her husband all she could, but being a frail little
woman she was able to work on only the lightest fiction. Angelica, the
oldest daughter, cleared the book bin of a good deal of poetry and gift
books, and even Grandpa Skipp was intrusted with a few juveniles.
But none of the family was more helpful than little Harold, who, after
school time, worked side by side with his father, trimming the ready
made review slips which publishers send out with books, and seeing that
the paste pot never got empty or the paste too thick. Harold, as his
father often proudly observed, was a born book reviewer. From infancy it
was observed that the outside of a book always interested him more than
the inside, and once when his school teacher directed him to write a
sentence containing the word "book," he wrote: "The book is attractively
bound and is profusely illustrated."
One evening, in the very busiest week of the busy season, little
Harold's was the only bright face at the supper table. Abner Skipp had
had a bad day in the city; Mrs. Skipp and Angelica were exhausted from
reviewing and household cares, and Grandpa was peevish because Abner had
taken the "Pea Green Fairy Book" away from him and given him instead a
"Child's History of the Congo Free State."
"What is the matter, Abner?" his wife asked him when the others of the
family had retired. "Does your arm hurt you again?"
"No, wife," replied Abner Skipp. "My arm does not trouble me; I have
handled only the lightest literature for the last fortnight. Alas! it is
the same old worry. The interest on the mortgage will be due again next
week, and in spite of the fact that the cellar is so full of books that
I can scarcely get into it, we have not a dollar above the sum required
to meet our monthly bills."