Mementoes of Average Jones’ exploits in his chosen field hang on the
walls of his quiet sanctum. Here the favored visitor may see the two
red-ink dots on a dated sheet of paper, framed in with the card of a
chemist and an advertised sale of lepidopteroe, which drove a famous
millionaire out of the country. Near by are displayed the exploitation
of a lure for black-bass, strangely perforated (a man’s reason hung on
those pin-pricks), and a scrawled legend which seems to spell “Mercy”
(two men’s lives were sacrificed to that); while below them, set in
somber black, is the funeral notice of a dog worth a million dollars;
facing the call for a trombone-player which made a mayor, and the
mathematical formula which saved a governor. But nowhere does the
observer find any record of one of the Ad-Visor’s most curious cases,
running back two thousand years; for its owner keeps it in his desk
drawer, whence the present chronicler exhumed it, by accident, one day.
Average Jones has always insisted that he scored a failure on this,
because, through no possible fault of his own, he was unable to restore
a document of the highest historical and literary importance. Of that,
let the impartial reader judge.
It was while Average Jones was waiting for a break of that deadlock of
events which, starting from the flat-dweller with the poisoned face,
finally worked out the strange fate of Telfik Bey, that he sat, one
morning, breakfasting late. The cool and breezy inner portico of the
Cosmic Club, where small tables overlook a gracious fountain shimmering
with the dart and poise of goldfish, was deserted save for himself, a
summer-engagement star actor, a specialist in carbo-hydrates, and a
famous adjuster of labor troubles; the four men being fairly typical of
the club’s catholicity of membership. Contrary to his impeccant habit,
Average Jones bore the somewhat frazzled aspect of a man who has been
up all night. Further indication of this inhered in the wide yawn, of
which he was in mid-enjoyment, when a hand on his shoulder cut short
his ecstasy.
“Sorry to interrupt so valuable an exercise,” said a languid voice.
“But—” and the voice stopped.
“Hello, Bert,” returned the Ad-Visor, looking up at the faultlessly
clad slenderness of his occasional coadjutor, Robert Bertram. “Sit down
and keep me awake till the human snail who’s hypothetically ministering
to my wants can get me some coffee.”
“What particular phase of intellectual debauchery have you been up to
now?” inquired Bertram, lounging into the chair opposite.
“Trying to forget my troubles by chasing up a promising lead which
failed to pan, out. ‘Wanted: a Tin Nose,’ sounds pretty good, eh?”
“It is music to my untutored ear,” answered Bertram.
“But it turned out to be merely an error of the imbecile, or perhaps
facetious printer, who sets up the _Trumpeter’s_ personal column. It
should have read, ‘Wanted—a Tea Rose.’”
“Even that seems far from commonplace.”
“Only a code summons for a meeting of the Rosicrucians. I suppose you
know that the order has been revived here in America.”
“Not the true Rosicrucians, surely!” said Bertram.
“They pretend to be. A stupid lot who make child’s play of it,” said
Average Jones impatiently. “Never mind them. I’d rather know what’s on
your mind. You made an observation when you came in, rather more
interesting than your usual output of table-talk. You said ‘but’ and
nothing further. The conjunction ‘but,’ in polite grammar, ordinarily
has a comet-like tail to it.”
“Apropos of polite grammar, do you speak Latin?” asked Bertram
carelessly.
“Not enough to be gossipy in it.”
“Then you wouldn’t care to give a job to a man who can’t speak anything
else?”
“On that qualification alone?”
“No-o, not entirely. He is a good military engineer, I believe.”
“So that’s the other end of the ‘but,’ is it?” said Average Jones. “Go
on. Elaborate.”
Bertram laid before his friend a printed clipping in clear, large type,
saying: “When I read this, I couldn’t resist the notion that somehow or
other it was in your line; pursuit of the adventure of life, and all
that. Let’s see what you make of it.”
Average Jones straightened in his chair.
“Latin!” he said. “And an ad, by the look of it. Can our blind friend,
J. Alden Honeywell, have taken to the public prints?”
“Hardly, I think. This is from the _Classical Weekly_, a Baltimore
publication of small and select patronage.”
“Hm. Looks ra-a-a-ather alluring,” commented Average Jones with a
prolonged drawl. “Better than the Rosicrucian fakery, anyhow.”
He bent over the clipping, studying these words:
_L. Livius M. F. Praenestinus, quodlibet in negotium non inhonestum qui
victum meream locare ve lim. Litteratus sum; scriptum facere bene scio.
Stipendia multa emeritus, scientiarum belli, præsertim muniendi, sum
peritus. Hac de re pro me spondebit M. Agrippa. Latine tantum solo.
Siquis me velit convenire, quovis die mane adesto in publicis hortis
urbis Baltimorianæ ad signum apri._
“Can you make it out?” asked Bertram.
“Hm-m-m. Well—the general sense. Livius seems to yearn in modern print
for any honest employment, but especially scrapping of the ancient
variety or secretarying. Apply to Agrippa for references. Since he
describes his conversation as being confined to Latin, I take it he
won’t find many jobs reaching out eagerly for him. Anybody who wants
him can find him in the Park of the Wild Boar in Baltimore. That’s
about what I make of it. Now, what’s his little lay, I wonder.”
“Some lay of Ancient Rome, anyhow,” suggested Bertram. “Association
with Agrippa would put him back in the first century, B. C., wouldn’t
it? Besides, my informant tells me that Mr. Livius, who seems to have
been an all-around sort of person, helped organize fire brigades for
Crassus, and was one of the circle of minor poets who wrote rhapsodies
to the fair but frail Clodia’s eyebrows, ear-lobes and insteps.”
“Your informant? The man’s actually been seen, then?”
“Oh, Yes. He’s on view as per advertisement, I understand.”
Average Jones rose and stretched his well-knit frame. “Baltimore will
be hotter than the Place-as-Isn’t,” he said plaintively. “Martyrdom by
fire! However, I’m off by the five-o’clock train. I’ll let you know if
anything special comes of it, Bert.”
Barye’s splendid bronze boar couches, semi-shaded, in the center of
Monument Park, Baltimore’s social hill-top. There Average lounged and
strolled through the longest hour of a glaring July morning. People
came and went; people of all degrees and descriptions, none of whom
suggested in any particular the first century, B. C. One individual
only maintained any permanency of situation. He was a gaunt, powerful,
freckled man of thirty who sprawled on a settee and regarded Average
Jones with obvious and amused interest. In time this annoyed the
Ad-Visor, who stopped short, facing the settee.
“He’s gone,” said the freckled man.
“Meaning Livius, the Roman?” asked Average Jones.
“Exactly. Lucius Livius, son of Marcus Praenestinus.”
“Are you the representative of this rather peculiar person, may I ask?”
“It would be a dull world, except for peculiar persons,” observed the
man on the settee philosophically. “I’ve seen very many peculiar
persons lately by the simple process of coming here day after day. No,
I’m not Mr. Livius’ representative. I’m only a town-bound and
interested observer of his.”
“There you’ve got the better of me,” said Average Jones. “I was rather
anxious to see him myself.”
The other looked speculatively at the trim, keen-faced young man. “Yet
you do not look like a Latin scholar,” he observed; “if you’ll pardon
the comment.”
“Nor do you,” retorted Jones; “if the apology is returnable.”
“I suppose not,” owned the other with a sigh. “I’ve often thought that
my classical capacity would gain more recognition if I didn’t have a
skin like Bob Fitzsimmons and hands like Ty Cobb. Nevertheless, I’m in
and of the department of Latin of Johns Hopkins University. Name,
Warren. Sit down.”
“Thanks,” said the other. “Name, Jones. Profession, advertising
advisor. Object, curiosity.”
“A. V. R. E. Jones; better known as Average Jones, I believe?”
“‘_Experto crede!_ Being dog Latin for ‘You seem to know all about
it.’” The new-comer eyed his vis-à-vis. “Perhaps you—er—know Mr. Robert
Bertram,” he drawled.
“_Oculus_—the eye—_tauri_—of the bull. Bull’s eye!” said the freckled
one, with a grin. “I’d heard of your exploits through Bertram, and
thought probably you’d follow the bait contained in my letter to him.”
“Nothing wrong with your nerve-system, is there?” inquired Average
Jones with mock anxiety. “Now that I’m here, where is L. Livius. And so
forth?”
“Elegantly but uncomfortably housed with Colonel Ridgway Graeme in his
ancestral barrack on Carteret Street.”
“Is this Colonel Graeme a friend of yours?”
“Friend and—foe, tried and true. We meet twice a week, usually at his
house, to squabble over his method of Latin pronunciation and his
construction of the ablative case. He’s got a theory of the ablative
absolute,” said Warren with a scowl, “fit to fetch Tacitus howling from
the shades.”
“A scholar, then?”
“A very fine and finished scholar, though a faddist of the rankest
type. Speaks Latin as readily as he does English.”
“Old?”
“Over seventy.”
“Rich?”
“Not in money. Taxes on his big place keep him pinched; that and his
passion for buying all kinds of old and rare books. He’s got, perhaps
an income of five thousand, clear, of which about three thousand goes
in book auctions.”
“Any family?”
“No. Lives with two ancient colored servants who look after him.”
“How did our friend from B. C. connect up with him?”
“Oh, he ran to the old colonel like a chick to its hen. You see, there
aren’t so very many Latinists in town during the hot weather. Perhaps
eighteen or twenty in all came from about here and from Washington to
see the prodigy in ‘the Park of the Boar,’ after the advertisement
appeared. He wouldn’t have anything to do with any of us. Pretended he
didn’t understand our kind of Latin. I offered him a place, myself, at
a wage of more _denarii_ than I could well afford. I wanted a chance to
study him. Then came the colonel and fairy grabbed him. So I sent for
you—in my artless professional way.”
“Why such enthusiasm on the part of Colonel Graeme?”
“Simple enough. Livius spoke Latin with in accent which bore out the
old boy’s contention. I believe they also agreed on the ablative
absolute.”
“Yes—er—naturally,” drawled Average Jones. “Does our early Roman speak
pretty ready Latin?”
“He’s fairly fluent. Sometimes he stumbles a little on his
constructions, and he’s apt to be—well—monkish—rather than classical
when in full course.”
“Doesn’t wear the _toga virilis_, I suppose.”
“Oh, no. Plain American clothes. It’s only his inner man that’s Roman,
of course. He met with bump on the head—this is his story, and he’s got
a the scar to show for it—and when he came to, he’d lost ground a
couple of thousand years and returned to his former existence. No
English. No memory of who or what he’d been. No money connection
whatsoever with the living world.”
“Humph! Wonder if he’s been a student of Kippling. You remember ‘The
Greatest Story in the World; the reincarnated galley slave?’ Now as to
this Colonel Graeme; has he ever published?”
“Yes. Two small pamphlets, issued by the Classicist Press, which
publishes the _Classical Weekly_.”
“Supporting his fads, I suppose.”
“Right. He devoted one pamphlet to each.”
Average Jones contemplated with absorbed attention an ant which was
making a laborious spiral ascent of his cane. Not until it had gained a
vantage point on the bone handle did he speak again.
“See here, Professor Warren: I’m a passionate devotee of the Latin
tongue. I have my deep and dark suspicions of our present modes of
pronunciation, all three of ’em. As for the ablative absolute, its
reconstruction and regeneration have been the inspiring principle of my
studious manhood. Humbly I have sat at the feet of Learning, enshrined
in the Ridgway Graeme pamphlets. I must meet Colonel Graeme—after
reading the pamphlets. I hope they’re not long.”
Warren frowned. “Colonel Graeme is a gentleman and my friend, Mr.
Jones,” he said with emphasis. “I won’t have him made a butt.”
“He shan’t be, by me,” said Average Jones quietly. “Has it perhaps
struck you, as his friend, that—er—a close daily association with the
psychic remnant of a Roman citizen might conceivably be non-conducive
to his best interest?”
“Yes, it has. I see your point. You want to approach him on his weak
side. But, have you Latin enough to sustain the part? He’s shrewd as a
weasel in all matters of scholarship, though a child whom any one could
fool in practical affairs.”
“No; I haven’t,” admitted Average Jones. “Therefore, I’m a mute. A
shock in early childhood paralyzed my centers of speech. I talk to you
by sign language, and you interpret.”
“But I hardly know the deaf-mute alphabet.”
“Nor I. But I’ll waggle my fingers like lightning if he says anything
to me requiring an answer, and you’ll give the proper reply. Does
Colonel Graeme implicitly credit the Romanism of his guest?”
“He does, because he wants to. To have an educated man of the classic
period of the Latin tongue, a friend of Cæsar, an auditor of Cicero and
a contemporary of Virgil, Horace and Ovid come back and speak in the
accent he’s contended for, make a powerful support for his theories.
He’s at work on a supplementary thesis already.”
“What do the other Latin men who’ve seen Livius, think of the
metempsychosis claim?”
“They don’t know. Livius explained his remote antecedents only after he
had got Colonel Graeme’s private ear. The colonel has kept it quiet.
‘Don’t want a rabble of psychologists and soul-pokers worrying him to
death,’ he says.”
“Making it pretty plain sailing for the Roman. Well, arrange to take me
there as soon as possible.”
At the Graeme house, Average Jones was received with simple courtesy by
a thin rosy-cheeked old gentleman with a dagger-like imperial and a
dreamy eye, who, on Warren’s introduction, made him free of the unkempt
old place’s hospitality. They conversed for a time, Average Jones
maintaining his end with nods and gestures, and (ostensibly) through
the digital mediumship of his sponsor.
Presently Warren said to the host:
“And where is your visitor from the past?”
“Prowling among my books,” answered the old gentleman.
“Are we not going to see him?”
The colonel looked a little embarrassed. “The fact is, Professor
Warren, Livius has taken rather an aversion to you.”
“I’m sorry. How so?”
A twinkle of malice shone in the old scholar’s eye. “He says your Latin
accent frets his nerves,” he explained.
“In that case,” said Warren, obeying a quick signal from his
accomplice, “I’ll stroll in the garden, while you present Mr. Jones to
Livius.”
Colonel Graeme led the way to a lofty wing, once used as a
drawing-room, but now the repository for thousands of books, which not
only filled the shelves but were heaped up in every corner.
“I must apologize for this confusion, sir,” said the host. “No one is
permitted to arrange my books but myself. And my efforts, I fear, serve
only to make confusion more confounded. There are four other rooms even
more chaotic than this.”
At the sound of his voice a man who had been seated behind a tumulus of
volumes rose and stood. Average Jones looked at him keenly. He was
perhaps forty-five years of age, thin and sinewy, with a close-shaven
face, pale blue eyes, and a narrow forehead running high into a mop of
grizzled locks. Diagonally across the front part of the scalp a scar
could be dimly perceived through the hair. Average Jones glanced at the
stranger’s hands, to gain, if possible, some hint of his former
employment. With his faculty of swift observation, he noticed that the
long, slender fingers were not only mottled with dust, but also
scuffed, and, in places, scarified, as if their owner had been
hurriedly handling a great number of books.
Colonel Graeme presented the new-comer in formal Latin. He bowed. The
scarred man made a curious gesture of the hand, addressing Average
Jones in an accent which, even to the young man’s long-unaccustomed
cars, sounded strange and strained.
“_Di illi linguam astrinxere; mutus est_,” said Colonel Graeme,
indicating the younger man, and added a sentence in sonorous metrical
Greek.
Average Jones recalled the Æschylean line. “Well, though ‘a great ox
hath stepped on my tongue,’ it hasn’t trodden out my eyes, praises be!”
said he to himself as he caught the uneasy glance of the Roman.
By way of allaying suspicion, he scribbled upon a sheet of paper a few
complimentary Latin sentences, in which Warren had sedulously coached
him for the occasion, and withdrew to the front room, where he was
presently joined by the Johns Hopkins man. Fortunately, the colonel
gave them a few moments together.
“Arrange for me to come here daily to study in the library,” whispered
Jones to the Latin professor.
The other nodded.
“Now, sit tight,” added Jones.
He stepped, soft-footed, on the thick old rug, across to the library
door and threw it open. Just inside stood Livius, an expression of
startled anger on his thin face. Quickly recovering himself, he
explained, in his ready Latin, that he was about to enter and speak to
his patron.
“Shows a remarkable interest in possible conversation,” whispered
Jones, on his withdrawal, “for a man who understands no English. Also
does me the honor to suspect me. He must have been a wily chap—in the
Consulship of Plancus.”
Before leaving, Average Jones had received from Colonel Graeme a
general invitation to spend as much time as he chose, studying among
the books. The old man-servant, Saul, had orders to admit him at any
hour. He returned to his hotel to write a courteous note of
acknowledgment.
Many hours has Average Jones spent more tediously than those passed in
the cool seclusion of Colonel Ridgway Graeme’s treasure-house of print.
He burrowed among quaint accumulations of forgotten classics. He dipped
with astonishment into the savage and ultra-Rabelaisian satire of Von
Hutter’s “_Epistolæ, Obscurorum Virorum_,” which set early sixteenth
century Europe a-roar with laughter at the discomfited monks; and he
cleansed himself from that tainted atmosphere in the fresh air and free
English of a splendid Audubon “first”—and all the time he was conscious
that the Roman watched, watched, watched. More than, once Livius
offered aid, seeking to apprise himself of the supposed mute’s line of
investigation; but the other smilingly fended him off. At the end of
four days, Average Jones had satisfied himself that if Livius were
seeking anything in particular, he had an indefinite task before him,
for the colonel’s bound treasures were in indescribable confusion.
Apparently he had bought from far and near, without definite theme or
purpose. As he bought he read, and having read, cast aside; and where a
volume fell, there it had license to lie. No cataloguer had ever sought
to restore order to that bibliographic riot. To seek any given book
meant a blind voyage, without compass or chart, throughout the mingled
centuries.
Often Colonel Graeme spent hours in one or the other of the huge
book-rooms talking with his strange protege and making copious notes.
Usually the old gentleman questioned and the other answered. But one
morning the attitude seemed, to the listening Ad-Visor, to be reversed.
Livius, in the far corner of the room, was speaking in a low tone. To
judge from the older man’s impatient manner the Roman was interrupting
his host’s current of queries with interrogations of his own. Average
Jones made a mental note, and, in conference with Warren that evening,
asked him to ascertain from Colonel Graeme whether Livius’s inquiries
had indicated a specific interest in any particular line of reading.
On the following day, however, an event of more immediate import
occupied his mind. He had spent the morning in the up-stairs library,
at the unevadable suggestion of Colonel Graeme, while the colonel and
his Roman collogued below. Coming down about noon, Average Jones
entered the colonel’s small study just in time to see Livius, who was
alone in the room, turn away sharply from the desk. His elbow was held
close to his ribs in a peculiar manner. He was concealing something
under his coat. With a pretense of clumsiness, Average Jones stumbled
against him in passing. Livius drew away, his high forehead working
with suspicion. The Ad-Visor’s expression of blank apology, eked out
with a bow and a grimace, belied the busy-working mind within. For, in
the moment’s contact, he had heard the crisp rustle of paper from
beneath the ill-fitting coat.
What paper had the man from B. C. taken furtively from his benefactor’s
table? It must be large; otherwise he could have readily thrust it into
his pocket. No sooner was Livius out of the room than Average Jones
scanned the desk. His face lighted with a sudden smile. Colonel Graeme
never read a newspaper; boasted, in fact, that he wouldn’t have one
about the place. But, as Average Jones distinctly recalled, he had,
himself, that very morning brought, in a copy of the _Globe_ and
dropped it into the scrap basket near the writing-table. It was gone.
Livius had taken it.
“If he’s got the newspaper-reading habit,” said Average Jones to
himself, “I’ll set a trap for him. But Warren must furnish the bait.”
He went to look up his aide. The conference between them was long and
exhaustive, covering the main points of the case from the beginning.
“Did you find out from Colonel Graeme,” inquired Average Jones,
“whether Livius, affected any particular brand of literature?”
“Yes. He seems to be specializing on late seventeenth century British
classicism. Apparently he considers that the flower of British
scholarship of that time wrote a very inferior kind of dog Latin.”
“Late seventeenth century Latinity,” commented Average Jones.
“That—er—gives, us a fair start. Now as to the body-servant.”
“Old Saul? I questioned him about strange callers. He said he
remembered only two, besides an occasional peddler or agent. They were
looking for work.”
“What kind of work?”
“Inside the house. One wanted to catalogue the library.”
“What did he look like?”
“Saul says he wore glasses and a worse tall hat than the colonel’s and
had a full beard.”
“And the other?”
“Bookbinder and repairer. Wanted to fix up Colonel Graeme’s collection.
Youngish, smartly dressed, with a small waxed moustache.”
“And our Livius is clean-shaven,” murmured Average Jones. “How long
apart did they call?”
“About two weeks. The second applicant came on the day of the last
snowfall. I looked that up. It was March 27.”
“Do you know, Warren,” observed Average Jones, “I sometimes think that
part of your talents, at least, are wasted in a chair of Latin.”
“Certainly, there is more excitement in this hide-and-seek game, as you
play it, than in the pursuits of a musty pedant,” admitted the other,
crackling his large knuckles. “But when are we going to spring upon
friend Livius and strip him of his fake toga?”
“That’s the easiest part of it. I’ve already caught him filling a
fountain-pen as if he’d been brought up on them, and humming the
spinning chorus from _The Flying Dutchman;_ not to mention the lifting
of my newspaper.”
“_Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit_,” murmured Warren.
“No. As you say, no fellow can be on the job all the time. But our
problem is not to catch Livius, but to find out what it is he’s been
after for the last three months.”
“Three months? You’re assuming that it was he who applied for work in
the library.”
“Certainly. And when he failed at that he set about a very carefully
developed scheme to get at Colonel Graeme’s books anyway. By inquiries
he found out the old gentleman’s fad and proceeded to get in training
for it. You don’t know, perhaps, that I have a corps of assistants who
clip, catalogue and file all unusual advertisements. Here is one which
they turned up for me on my order to send me any queer educational
advertisements: ‘Wanted—Daily lessons in Latin speech from competent
Spanish scholar. Write, Box 347, _Banner_ office.’ That is from the New
York _Banner_ of April third, shortly after the strange caller’s second
abortive attempt to get into the Graeme library.”
“I suppose our Livius figured out that Colonel Graeme’s theory of
accent was about what a Spaniard would have. But he couldn’t have
learned all his Latin in four months.”
“He didn’t. He was a scholar already; an accomplished one, who went
wrong through drink and became a crook, specializing in rare books and
prints. His name is Enderby; you’ll find it in the Harvard catalogue.
He’s supposed to be dead. My assistant traced him through his
Spanish-Latin teacher, a priest.”
“But even allowing for his scholarship, he must have put in a deal of
work perfecting himself in readiness of speech and accent.”
“So he did. Therefore the prize must be big. A man of Enderby’s caliber
doesn’t concoct a scheme of such ingenuity, and go into bondage with
it, for nothing. Do you belong to the Cosmic Club?”
The assistant professor stared. “No,” he said.
“I’d like to put you up there. One advantage of membership is that its
roster includes experts in every known line of erudition, from scarabs
to skeeing. For example, I am now going to telegraph for aid from old
Millington, who seldom misses a book auction and is a human
bibliography of the wanderings of all rare volumes. I’m going to find
out from him what British publication of the late seventeenth century
in Latin is very valuable; also what volumes of that time have changed
hands in the last six months.”
“Colonel Graeme went to a big book auction in New York early in March,”
volunteered Warren, “but he told me he didn’t pick up anything of
particular value.”
“Then it’s something he doesn’t know about and Livius does. I’m going
to take advantage of our Roman’s rather un-B.-C.-like habit of reading
the daily papers by trying him out with this advertisement.”
Average Jones wrote rapidly and tossed the result to his coadjutor who
read:
“LOST—Old book printed in Latin. Buff leather binding, a little faded
(‘It’s safe to be that,’ explained Average Jones). No great value
except to owner. Return to Colonel Ridgway Graeme, 11 Carteret Street,
and receive reward.”
The advertisement made its appearance in big type on the front pages of
the Baltimore paper of the following day. That evening Average Jones
met Warren, for dinner, with a puckered brow.
“Did Livius rise to the bait?” asked the scholar.
“Did he!” chuckled Average Jones. “He’s been nervous as a cat all day
and hardly has looked at the library. But what puzzles me is this.” He
exhibited a telegram from New York.
“Millington says positively no book of that time and description any
great value. Enderby at Barclay auction in March and made row over some
book which he missed because it was put up out of turn in catalogue.
Barclay auctioneer thinks it was one of Percival privately bound books
1680-1703. An anonymous book of Percival library, _De Meritis Librorum
Britannorum_, was sold to Colonel Graeme for $47, a good price. When do
I get in on this?
“(Signed), ROBERT BERTRAM.”
“I know that treatise,” said Warren. “It isn’t particularly rare.”
Average Jones stared at the telegram in silence. Finally he drawled:
“There are—er—books and—er—books—and—er—things in books. Wait here for
me.”
Three hours later he reappeared with collar wilted, but spirits elate,
and abruptly announced:
“Warren, I’m a cobbler.”
“A what?”
“A cobbler. Mend your boots, you know.”
“Are you in earnest?”
“Certainly. Haven’t you ever remarked that a serious-minded earnestness
always goes with cobbling? Though I’m not really a practical cobbler,
but a proprietary one. Our friend, Bertram, will dress and act the
practical part. I’ve wired him and he’s replied, collect, accepting the
job. You and I will be in the background.”
“Where?”
“NO. 27 Jasmine Street. Not a very savory locality. Why is it, Warren,
that the beauty of a city street is generally in inverse ratio to the
poetic quality of its name? There I’ve hired the shop and stock of Mr.
Hans Fichtel for two days, at the handsome rental of ten dollars per
day. Mr. Fichtel purposes to take a keg of beer a-fishing. I think two
days will be enough.”
“For the keg?”
“For that noble Roman, Livius. He’ll be reading the papers pretty
keenly now. And in to-morrow’s, he’ll find this advertisement.”
Average Jones read from a sheet of paper which he took from his pocket:
“FOUND—Old book in foreign language, probably Latin, marked ‘Percival.’
Owner may recover by giving satisfactory description of peculiar and
obscure feature and refunding for advertisement. Fichtel, 27 Jasmine
Street.”
“What is the peculiar and obscure feature, Jones?” asked Warren.
“I don’t know.”
“How do you know there is any?”
“Must be something peculiar about the book or Enderby wouldn’t put in
four months of work on the chance of stealing it. And it must be
obscure, otherwise the auctioneer would have spotted it.”
“Sound enough!” approved the other. “What could it be? Some
interpolated page?”
“Hardly. I’ve a treatise in my pocket on seventeenth century
book-making, which I’m going to study to-night. Be ready for an early
start to meet Bertram.”
That languid and elegant gentleman arrived by the first morning train.
He protested mightily when he was led to the humble shoe-shop. He
protested more mightily when invited to don a leather apron and smudge
his face appropriately to his trade. His protests, waxing vehement and
eventually profane, as he barked his daintily-kept fingers, in
rehearsal for giving a correct representation of an honest artisan
cobbling a boot, died away when Average Jones explained to him that on
pretense of having found a rare book, he was to worm out of a cautious
and probably suspicious criminal the nature of some unique and hidden
feature of the volume.
“Trust me for diplomacy,” said Bertram airily.
“I will because I’ve got to,” retorted Average Jones. “Well, get to
work. To you the outer shop: to Warren and me this rear room. And,
remember, if you hear me whetting a knife, that means come at once.”
Uncomfortably twisted into a supposedly professional posture, Bertram
wrought with hammer and last, while putting off, with lame, blind and
halting, excuses, such as came to call for their promised footgear. By
a triumph of tact he had just disposed of a rancid-tongued female who
demanded her husband’s boots, a satisfactory explanation, or the
arbitrament of the lists, when the bell tinkled and the two watchers in
the back room heard a nervous, cultivated voice say:
“Is Mr. Fichtel here?”
“That’s me,” said Bertram, landing an agonizing blow on his thumb-nail.
“You advertised that you had found an old book.”
“Yes, sir. Somebody left it in the post-office.”
“Ah; that must have been when I went to mail some letters to New York,”
said the other glibly. “From the advertised description, the book is
without doubt mine. Now as to the reward—”
“Excuse me, but you wouldn’t expect me to give it up without any
identification, sir?”
“Certainly not. It was the _De Meritis Libror_—”
“I can’t read Latin, sir.”
“But you could make that much out,” said the visitor with rising
exasperation. “Come; if it’s a matter of the reward—how much?”
“I wouldn’t mind having a good reward; say ten dollars. But I want to
be sure it’s your book. There’s something about it that you could
easily tell me sir, for any one could see it.”
“A very observing shoemaker,” commented the other with a slight sneer.
“You mean the—the half split cover?”
“Swish-swish; whish-swish,” sounded from the rear room.
“Excuse me,” said Bertram, who had not ceased from his pretended work.
“I have to get a piece of leather.”
He stepped into the back room where Average Jones, his face alight,
held up a piece of paper upon which he had hurriedly scrawled:
“Mss. bound into cover. Get it out of him. Tell him you’ve a brother
who is a Latin scholar.”
Bertram nodded, caught up a strip of calf-skin and returned.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “the split cover and what’s inside?”
The other started. “You didn’t get it out?” he cried. “You didn’t tear
it!”
“No, sir. It’s there safe enough. But some of it can be made out.”
“You said you didn’t read Latin.”
“No, sir; but I have a brother that went through the Academy. He reads
a little.” This was thin ice, but Bertram went forward with assumed
assurance. “He thinks the manuscript is quite rare. Oh, Fritz! Come
in.”
“Any letter of Bacon’s is rare, of course,” returned the other
impatiently. “Therefore, I purpose offering you fifty dollars reward.”
He looked up as Average Jones entered. The young man’s sleeves were
rolled up, his face was generously smudged, and a strip of cobbler’s
wax beneath the upper lip, puffed and distorted the firm line of his
mouth. Further, his head was louting low on his neck, so that the
visitor got no view sufficient for recognition.
“Lord Bacon’s letter—er—must be pretty rare, Mister,” he drawled
thickly. “But a letter—er—from Lord Bacon—er—about Shakespeare—_that_
ought to be worth a lot of money.”
Average Jones had taken his opening with his customary incisive
shrewdness. The mention of Bacon had settled it, to his mind. Only one
imaginable character of manuscript from the philosopher
scholar-politician could have value enough to tempt a thief of
Enderby’s calibre. Enderby’s expression told that the shot was a true
one. As for Bertram, he had dropped his shoemaker’s knife and his
shoemaker’s role.
“Bacon on Shakespeare! Shades of the departed glory of Ignatius
Donnelly!”
The visitor drew back. Warren’s gaunt frame appeared in the doorway.
Jones’ head lifted.
“It ought to be as—er—unique,” he drawled, “as an—er—Ancient Roman
speaking perfect English.”
Like a flash, the false Livius caught up the knife from the bench where
the false cobbler had dropped it and swung toward Average Jones. At the
moment the ample hand of Professor Warren, bunched into a highly
competent fist, flicked across and caught the assailant under the ear.
Enderby, alias Livius, fell as if smitten by a cestus. As his arm
touched the floor, Average Jones kicked unerringly at the wrist and the
knife flew and tinkled in a far corner. Bertram, with a bound, landed
on the fallen man’s chest and pinned him.
“Did he get you, Average?” he cried.
“Not—er—this time. Pretty good—er—team work,” drawled the Ad-Visor.
“We’ve got our man for felonious assault, at least.”
Enderby, panting under Bertram’s solid knee, blinked and struggled.
“No use, Livius,” said Average Jones. “Might as well quiet down and
confess. Ease up a little on him, Bert. Take a look at that scar of his
first though.”
“Superficial cut treated with make-up paint; a clever job,” pronounced
Bertram after a quick examination.
“As I supposed,” said Average Jones.
“Let me in on the deal,” pleaded Livius. “That letter is worth ten
thousand, twelve thousand, fifteen thousand dollars—anything you want
to ask, if you find the right purchaser. And you can’t manage it
without me. Let me in.”
“Thinks we’re crooks, too?” remarked Average Jones. “Exactly what’s in
this wonderful letter?”
“It’s from Bacon to the author of the book, who wrote about 1610. Bacon
prophesies that Shakespeare, ‘this vagabond and humble mummer’ would
outshine and outlive in fame all the genius of his time. That’s all I
could make out by loosening the stitches.”
“Well, that _is_ worth anything one could demand,” said Warren in a
somewhat awed tone.
“Why didn’t you get the letter when you were examining it at the
auction room?” inquired Average Jones.
“Some fool of a binder had overlooked the double cover, and sewed it
in. I noticed it at the auction, gummed the opening together while no
one was watching, and had gone to get cash to buy the book; but the
auctioneer put it up out of turn and old Graeme got it. Bring it to me
and I’ll show you the ‘pursed’ cover. Many of the Percival books were
bound that way.”
“We’ve never had it, nor seen it,” replied Average Jones. “The
advertisement was only a trap into which you stepped.”
Enderby’s jaw dropped. “Then it’s still at the Graeme house,” he cried,
beating on the floor with his free hand. “Take me back there!”
“Oh, we’ll take you,” said Warren grimly.
Close-packed among them in a cab, they drove him back to Carteret
Street. Colonel Ridgway Graeme was at home and greeted them
courteously.
“You’ve found Livius,” he said, with relief. “I had begun to fear for
him.”
“Colonel Graeme,” began Average Jones, “you have—”
“What! Speech!” cried the old gentleman. “And you a mute! What does
this mean?”
“Never mind him,” broke in Enderby Livius. “There’s something more
important.”
But the colonel had shrunk back. “English from you, Livius!” he cried,
setting his hand to his brow.
“All will be explained in time, Colonel,” Warren assured him.
“Meanwhile, you have a document of the utmost importance and value. Do
you remember buying one of the Percival volumes at the Barclay
auction?”
The collector drew his brows down in an effort to remember.
“An octavo, in fairly good condition?” he asked.
“Yes, yes!” cried Enderby eagerly. “Where is it? What did you do with
it?”
“It was in Latin—very false Latin.” The four men leaned forward,
breathless. “Oh, I remember. It slipped from my pocket and fell into
the river as I was crossing the ferry to Jersey.”
There was a dead, flat, stricken silence. Then Average Jones turned
hollow eyes upon Warren.
“Professor,” he said, with a rueful attempt at a smile, “what’s the
past participle, passive, plural, of the Latin verb, ‘to sting’?”