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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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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。
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THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP
〃That's funny；〃 said Roger to himself。 〃Surely I locked the door？〃 He
walked to the front of the shop； switching on the cluster of lights that hung
from the ceiling。 The door was ajar； but everything else seemed as usual。
Bock； hearing his footsteps； came trotting out from the kitchen； his claws
rattling on the bare wooden floor。 He looked up with the patient inquiry of
a dog accustomed to the eccentricities of his patron。
〃I guess I'm getting absent…minded；〃 said Roger。 〃I must have left the
door open。〃 He closed and locked it。 Then he noticed that the terrier was
sniffing in the History alcove； which was at the front of the shop on the
left…hand side。
〃What is it； old man？〃 said Roger。 〃Want something to read in bed？〃
He turned on the light in that alcove。 Everything appeared normal。 Then
he noticed a book that projected an inch or so beyond the even line of
bindings。 It was a fad of Roger's to keep all his books in a flat row on the
shelves； and almost every evening at closing time he used to run his palm
along the backs of the volumes to level any irregularities left by careless
browsers。 He put out a hand to push the book into place。 Then he
stopped。
〃Queer again；〃 he thought。 〃Carlyle's Oliver Cromwell！ I looked for
that book last night and couldn't find it。 When that professor fellow was
here。 Maybe I'm tired and can't see straight。 I'll go to bed。〃
The next day was a date of some moment。 Not only was it
Thanksgiving Day； with the November meeting of the Corn Cob Club
scheduled for that evening； but Mrs。 Mifflin had promised to get home
from Boston in time to bake a chocolate cake for the booksellers。 It was
said that some of the members of the club were faithful in attendance more
by reason of Mrs。 Mifflin's chocolate cake； and the cask of cider that her
brother Andrew McGill sent down from the Sabine Farm every autumn；
than on account of the bookish conversation。
Roger spent the morning in doing a little housecleaning； in preparation
for his wife's return。 He was a trifle abashed to find how many mingled
crumbs and tobacco cinders had accumulated on the dining…room rug。 He
cooked himself a modest lunch of lamb chops and baked potatoes； and
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was pleased by an epigram concerning food that came into his mind。 〃It's
not the food you dream about that matters；〃 he said to himself； 〃it's the
vittles that walk right in and become a member of the family。〃 He felt that
this needed a little polishing and rephrasing； but that there was a germ of
wit in it。 He had a habit of encountering ideas at his solitary meals。
After this； he was busy at the sink scrubbing the dishes； when he was
surprised by feeling two very competent arms surround him； and a pink
gingham apron was thrown over his head。 〃Mifflin；〃 said his wife； 〃how
many times have I told you to put on an apron when you wash up！〃
They greeted each other with the hearty； affectionate simplicity of
those congenially wedded in middle age。 Helen Mifllin was a buxom；
healthy creature； rich in good sense and good humour； well nourished both
in mind and body。 She kissed Roger's bald head； tied the apron around
his shrimpish person； and sat down on a kitchen chair to watch him finish
wiping the china。 Her cheeks were cool and ruddy from the keen air； her
face lit with the tranquil satisfaction of those who have sojour