"I don't know it," I confessed. "Poetry is not much in my line. Let
me look at the title-page. Ah--Robert Southey."
"I rather thought it was Southey," said Mr. Baxter immediately.
"I fancy you are more widely read than I am," I remarked.
"I make a point of reading aloud a passage out of one of my books
every day, sir. I acquired the habit under the late Archdeacon. We
read together constantly. He had very definite views on the value of
reading. 'A man with books about him,' he used to say, 'is a man
surrounded by friends far more interesting and distinguished than any
he is likely to meet when he dines with the Bishop. A man with a
library of his own, however small, is at once a capitalist who can
never go bankrupt and an aristocrat who moves in circles to which the
common herd cannot penetrate. In other words, a man with a library
is a man respected!' That was why I founded my own, sir. The
Archdeacon himself contributed the first few volumes."
"Is it a large library?" I asked, glancing furtively at my
wrist-watch.
"No, sir; of very modest dimensions. But it is sufficiently large to
be utilized by nearly all my friends."
"You lend them books, then?"
"Oh, no, sir. I would not do that. My books are everything to
me--and you know what book-borrowers are! My friends are welcome to
tap my literary resources, but it must be through me as medium."
"I don't quite understand," I said, noting out of the corner of my
eye that Mr. Pettigrew, the druggist next door, had emerged from
behind the carved wooden screen which masks the mysteries of his
dispensing department from the layman's eye, and was now visible
through the shop window, busy with white paper and sealing-wax.
"When a seeker after knowledge calls upon me," explained the
indefatigable Mr. Baxter, "I select from my library the appropriate
volume and read, or recite, to him such passages as appear to me most
applicable to his case. In this way I ensure the safety and
cleanliness of my literary property--
"So here you are! I thought so. Have you been buying another of
those dirty things?"
A small, alert, slightly shrewish girl of about fifteen had suddenly
appeared from nowhere, and was now transfixing my flinching companion
with the eye of the Ancient Mariner.
"Only fourpence, my dear," replied Mr. Baxter deferentially.
"That's right. Throw money about!" said the young lady. "Have you
got fourpence?" she added, with a slight softening of manner.
"Well, to be exact, I rather think all I have at the moment is
threepence."
The Ancient Mariner produced a penny.
"Here you are," she said, handing him the coin with a not altogether
successful attempt at an indulgent smile. "You haven't bought
anything for a fortnight. Go in and pay for it, and then come home
to dinner, do!"
"Good-morning, Mr. Baxter! How's the library this morning?"
The druggist was standing in his doorway, with a facetious twinkle in
his eye. Evidently Mr. Baxter's library was an accepted target for
local humour.
Mr. Baxter took no notice, but disappeared into the bookshop. Mr.
Pettigrew handed me my bottle.
"One of our characters, that old fellow," he said, with that little
air of civic pride which marks the country-townsman booming local
stock. "Quite a poor man, but possesses an extensive
library--_quite_ extensive. His learning is at the service of his
fellow-citizens. He likes to be called The Oracle. Supposing you
want to know something about Shakespeare, or Julius Cæsar, or
Wireless Telegraphy, or Patagonia, you go to Baxter. You press the
button and he does the rest! Lives a bit in the clouds, of course;
and I wouldn't go so far as to say that his information is always
infallible. In fact"--Mr. Pettigrew tapped his forehead
significantly--"his upper storey--"
"Who made up a wrong prescription, and poisoned a baby?" demanded an
acid voice immediately under the humourist's elbow. He swung round.
The small girl, crimson with wrath, but with her emotions well under
control, stood gazing dispassionately before her, apparently talking
to herself.
"Whose wife gave a party," she continued--"and nobody came? Whose
daughter wants to marry the curate--and he won't? Who--"
"That'll do," announced Mr. Pettigrew, shortly, and retired in
disorder into his shop. Simultaneously The Oracle emerged from the
bookshop with Robert Southey under his arm, and with a stately
inclination in my direction departed down the street, under the grim
and defiant escort of his infant guardian.