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〃The same； I believe；〃 said Mifflin。 〃Do you know him？〃
〃Ah；〃 cried the young man with reverence。 〃There is a man who can
tell you the virtues of advertising。 If he is interested in books； it is
advertising that made it possible。 We handle all his copy I've written a
lot of it myself。 We have made the Chapman prunes a staple of
civilization and culture。 I myself devised that slogan ‘We preen
ourselves on our prunes' which you see in every big magazine。 Chapman
prunes are known the world over。 The Mikado eats them once a week。
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THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP
The Pope eats them。 Why； we have just heard that thirteen cases of them
are to be put on board the George Washington for the President's voyage to
the peace Conference。 The Czecho…Slovak armies were fed largely on
prunes。 It is our conviction in the office that our campaign for the
Chapman prunes did much to win the war。〃
〃I read in an ad the other dayperhaps you wrote that； too？〃 said the
bookseller； 〃that the Elgin watch had won the war。 However； Mr。
Chapman has long been one of my best customers。 He heard about the
Corn Cob Club； and though of course he is not a bookseller he begged to
come to our meetings。 We were glad to have him do so； and he has
entered into our discussions with great zeal。 Often he has offered many a
shrewd comment。 He has grown so enthusiastic about the bookseller's way
of life that the other day he wrote to me about his daughter （he is a
widower）。 She has been attending a fashionable girls' school where； he
says； they have filled her head with absurd； wasteful； snobbish notions。 He
says she has no more idea of the usefulness and beauty of life than a
Pomeranian dog。 Instead of sending her to college； he has asked me if
Mrs。 Mifflin and I will take her in here to learn to sell books。 He wants her
to think she is earning her keep； and is going to pay me privately for the
privilege of having her live here。 He thinks that being surrounded by
books will put some sense in her head。 I am rather nervous about the
experiment； but it is a compliment to the shop； isn't it？〃
〃Ye gods；〃 cried Gilbert； 〃what advertising copy that would make！〃
At this point the bell in the shop rang； and Mifflin jumped up。 〃This
part of the evening is often rather busy；〃 he said。 〃I'm afraid I'll have to go
down on the floor。 Some of my habitues rather expect me to be on hand
to gossip about books。〃
〃I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed myself；〃 said Gilbert。 〃I'm
going to come again and study your shelves。〃
〃Well； keep it dark about the young lady；〃 said the bookseller。 〃I don't
want all you young blades dropping in here to unsettle her mind。 If she
falls in love with anybody in this shop； it'll have to be Joseph Conrad or
John Keats！〃
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THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP
As he passed out； Gilbert saw Roger Mifflin engaged in argument with
a bearded man who looked like a college professor。 〃Carlyle's Oliver
Cromwell？〃 he was saying。 〃Yes； indeed！ Right over here！ Hullo； that's
odd！ It WAS here。〃
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THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP
Chapter II
The Corn Cob Club＇1＇
＇1＇ The latter half of this chapter may be omitted by all readers who
are not booksellers。
The Haunted Bookshop was a delightful place； especially of an
evening； when its drowsy alcoves were kindled with the brightness of
lamps shining on the rows of volumes。 Many a passer…by would stumble
down the steps from the street in sheer curiosity； others； familiar visitors；
dropped in with the same comfortable emotion that a man feels on
entering his club。 Roger's custom was to sit at his desk in the rear；
puffing his pipe and reading； though if any customer started a
conversation； the little man was quick and eager to carry it on。 The lion of
talk lay only sleeping in him； it was not hard to goad it up。
It may be remarked that all bookshops that are open in the evening are
busy in the after…supper hours。 Is it that the true book…lovers are
nocturnal gentry； only venturing forth when darkness and silence and the
gleam of hooded lights irresistibly suggest reading？ Certainly night…time
has a mystic affinity for literature； and it is strange that the Esquimaux
have created no great books。 Surely； for most of us； an arctic night would
be insupportable without O。 Henry and Stevenson。 Or； as Roger Mifflin
remarked during a passing enthusiasm for Ambrose Bierce； the true noctes
ambrosianae are the noctes ambrose bierceianae。
But Roger was prompt in closing Parnassus at ten o'clock。 At that hour
he and Bock （the mustard…coloured terrier； named for Boccaccio） would
make the round of the shop； see that everything was shipshape； empty the
ash trays provided for customers； lock the front door； and turn off the
lights。 Then they would retire to the den； where Mrs。 Mifflin was
generally knitting or reading。 She would brew a pot of cocoa and they
would read or talk for half an hour or so before bed。 Sometimes Roger
would take a stroll along Gissing Street before turning in。 All day spent
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THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP
with books has a rather exhausting effect on the mind； and he used to
enjoy the fresh air sweeping up the dark Brooklyn streets； meditating some
thought that had sprung from his reading； while Bock sniffed and padded
along in the manner of an elderly dog at night。
While Mrs。 Mifflin was away； however； Roger's routine was somewhat
different。 After closing the shop he would return to his desk and with a
furtive； shamefaced air take out from a bottom drawer an untidy folder of
notes and manuscript。 This was the skeleton in his closet； his secret sin。 It
was the scaffolding of his book； which he had been compiling for at least
ten years； and to which he had tentatively assigned such different titles as
〃Notes on Literature；〃 〃The Muse on Crutches；〃 〃Books and I；〃 and 〃What
a Young Bookseller Ought to Know。〃 It had begun long ago； in the days of
his odyssey as a rural book huckster； under the title of 〃Literature Among
the Farmers；〃 but it had branched out until it began to appear that （in bulk
at least） Ridpath would have to look to his linoleum laurels。 The
manuscript in its present state had neither beginning nor end； but it was
growing strenuously in the middle； and hundreds of pages were covered
with Roger's minute script。 The chapter on 〃Ars Bibliopolae；〃 or the art
of bookselling； would be； he hoped； a classic among generations of book
vendors still unborn。 Seated at his disorderly desk； caressed by a
counterpane of drifting tobacco haze； he would pore over the manuscript；
crossing out； interpolating； re…arguing； and then referring to volumes on
his shelves。 Bock would snore under the chair； and soon Roger's brain
would begin to waver。 In the end he would fall asleep over his papers；
wake with a cramp about two o'clock； and creak irritably to a lonely bed。
All this we mention only to explain how it was that Roger was dozing
at his desk about midnight； the evening after the call paid by Aubrey
Gilbert。 He was awakened by a draught of chill air passing like a mountain
brook over his bald pate。 Stiffly he sat up and looked about。 The shop
was in darkness save for the bright electric over his head。 Bock； of more
regular habit than his master； had gone back to his couch in the kitchen；
made of a packing case that had once coffined a set of the Encyclopaedia
Britannica。