TOM IS SUSPICIOUS
Glad that he had not accused the old gentleman of trying to steal the
books, Tom moved away, leaving his employer and Dr. Spidderkins in
earnest conversation. Tom could hear them talking about rare editions,
first folios, and books or pamphlets that were out of print, and very
valuable.
“Here, boy, wrap up this bundle,” called a clerk.
“Sure,” replied Tom good-naturedly. “Shall I bring it back to you?”
“No, mark this address on it, and put it where the expressman will get
it. It’s got to be delivered to-day.”
“The new boy is better than the other one we had,” observed a second
clerk to the one from whom Tom had just taken an order.
“He certainly is. I only hope he keeps it up.”
The rest of that morning Tom found himself busily occupied. There
came a little let-up in the rush, about noon, and the lad ventured to
ask the senior clerk something about the queer old man who was still
browsing away among the books.
“He is one of our best customers,” replied the clerk. “His name is Dr.
Lemuel Spidderkins.”
“Does he practise medicine?”
“He used to, but he is retired now, and about all he does is to collect
books. Hardly a day passes but what he buys two or three here, or in
other book stores. He spends a lot of money that way. You see he’s so
forgetful he dare not risk practising his profession.”
“He certainly is queer,” remarked Tom, and he told the clerk his
experience with the doctor.
“That’s nothing,” was the answer. “He often comes in here, and walks
off with three or four books without paying for them. If we see him we
always politely call his attention to them. If we don’t, it doesn’t
matter, for he generally recollects what he has done when he reaches
home, and he sends the money for them. Yes, he is very eccentric.”
“Then I did the right thing,” said Tom, “when I offered to wrap them up
for him.”
“Oh, yes. He and Mr. Townsend are great friends. He has bought books of
us for years.”
“Here--er--new boy--what’s your name!” suddenly called the book store
proprietor, from where he stood talking to Dr. Spidderkins. “Wrap these
books up.”
Tom hurried to his employer, and took several large and heavy volumes
which the old physician had evidently selected from the shelves.
“Ah, there is the young man who helped me look up some facts
about--er--well now, isn’t that queer, I can’t remember what it was
about,” said the doctor, as he caught sight of Tom. “Was it about how
the Egyptians used to worship cats?”
“It was about belladonna and fruit cake,” answered Tom.
“Oh, yes, so it was. Yes, he was quite a help to me--I mean he showed
me that I had the wrong memoranda,” went on the physician. “I must get
a secretary if my memory keeps on failing me. But I must pay you for
these books, Mr. Townsend. I’ll take them right along with me, or I’ll
forget all about them.”
“Better let me send them,” suggested the proprietor of the Emporium.
“They’ll make quite a heavy bundle.”
“Perhaps you had better. Here is the money,” and the doctor held out
several bills.
“Do you want that book you have under your arm?” asked Mr. Townsend
with a laugh, pointing to a small volume, almost hidden by the big
sleeve of the doctor’s coat.
“Have I a book there? Why, bless my soul, so I have! I remember now, I
took it down to look up a certain fact about how the Chinese use opium
to deaden pain in sickness. It is just like a book I have, only mine is
an earlier edition. I think I will take this. You may wrap it up with
the others. Queer, how forgetful I am becoming. Now be sure those books
are up to my house to-night.”
“They’ll be there,” Mr. Townsend assured the physician, as Tom went to
the counter to wrap them up.
Dr. Spidderkins took his departure, and soon after this, Tom was told
he could go out and get some lunch. He did not eat an elaborate meal
and was soon back at his place.
During the afternoon he went on a number of errands, arranged several
shelves of books, dusted off long rows of volumes, and waited on one or
two customers.
“I’m beginning to learn the book business,” thought the lad proudly,
after he had made his third sale without an error. True they were only
small ones, involving the purchase of a pad, a pencil, and the last one
being a small book, purchased by a girl. But they meant a lot to Tom.
“It will be closing time in half an hour,” remarked one of the younger
clerks to Tom. “Do you live far from here?”
“Not very. About half an hour’s walk. But I thought you kept open late
during the holidays?”
“We will, beginning next week. It will be ten o’clock every night
then, but we get supper money.”
“That’s good,” remarked Tom.
“Here, what’s this!” suddenly exclaimed Mr. Townsend, as he saw the
bundle of books which Tom had wrapped up for Dr. Spidderkins. “Haven’t
these books been called for by the expressman?”
“No, sir,” replied the clerk, in charge of that part of the work.
“This will never do,” went on the proprietor. “The doctor wants the
books to-night. Call up the express office and see if they are coming.”
The clerk put the telephone into operation, and presently reported to
Mr. Townsend:
“He says the man forgot to call on his afternoon trip, and it’s too
late now.”
“That’s too bad!” exclaimed Mr. Townsend. “Those books must go to Dr.
Spidderkins to-night, or he’ll be very much disappointed, and he’s too
good a customer to disappoint. Tom, you had better jump on a car and
take them to him. Do you know your way around the Back Bay district?”
The Back Bay district is the section of Boston where are located the
residences of the rich, and it is quite exclusive.
“I guess I can find the place, sir,” said Tom confidently, though he
had only been in the locality a few times.
“Well, here is your car fare. Be careful of the books now, as some of
them are quite expensive. Be on hand early in the morning.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Tom, as he put on his overcoat, and with the
bundle of books, which were quite heavy, he started off.
He was soon in the Back Bay district, and a little inquiry enabled him
to find the doctor’s house.
“My, it’s a big place!” exclaimed Tom. “He must have money to live in a
house like that.”
He went up the front steps and rang the bell. The door was presently
opened by a woman, and, in the light that streamed out into the
darkness from the hall, Tom saw that she was about middle age, and that
her features were rather sharp and hard. Her face was not made more
attractive by the way her hair was arranged, for it was drawn tightly
back on both sides of her head.
“Well, what do you want?” she asked snappishly. “We don’t want to
buy anything, and if you’re the boy from the grocery you’re too late
with the stuff, and you must go round to the back door. I can’t have
tradesmen coming to the front door.”
“These are some books Dr. Spidderkins purchased to-day,” replied Tom.
“I brought them, because the expressman forgot to call.”
“What’s that? Books?” asked a voice from within, that the boy
recognized as the doctor’s. “Who has books for me?”
Tom caught a glimpse of the elderly gentleman. He was in his slippers
and a dressing gown, and his arms were so full of books that he could
not have carried another one.
“They are books from Mr. Townsend,” said Tom.
“Oh, yes. Come right in,” invited the doctor. “I was wondering why
they didn’t arrive. Come right in with them, my boy. I want to look up
something about a certain rare plant----”
“He’ll do nothing of the kind!” interrupted the woman. “I guess I’m not
going to have snow tracked into my house! Besides, you know you started
to go to supper, and there you are puttering over those books. Oh,
Lemuel, you’re so forgetful!”
“So I am! So I am,” admitted the doctor in a queer sort of voice. “I
remember now, I did start to go to supper. I knew it was something I
ought to do. I’m glad you reminded me. I’ll eat at once,” and, placing
the books he was holding on a chair in the hall, the old gentleman
turned back.
“Leave the books here,” said the woman to Tom. “Are there any charges?”
“No; everything is paid.”
“All right,” and she abruptly shut the door.
“Rather a cool reception,” murmured Tom. “My, but she’s cross! I
shouldn’t like to live with her. I wonder how the doctor stands it,
he’s so quiet and studious? I wonder if she’s his wife? No, she can’t
be. The clerk said he wasn’t married. She must be a housekeeper, or
some relation. My, but she seems to be able to make him do just as she
likes! The idea of not letting him take his own books that he bought
and paid for. I guess he’s so easy that she has him under her thumb.”
The time came when this was demonstrated to Tom, even more forcibly
than it was on this occasion.