Chapter II: Part 2

Then Mrs. Mayo returned to the house, and Mr. Reginald Kookle, the author of "Winged Warblers of Waltham" and "The Chickadee and His Children," returned his field glasses to their case, turned up the collar of his famous brown suit, and walked rapidly down the street.

* * * * *

But Miss Patterson had been busy at the library telephone all this time. Scarcely had she ended her conversation with Mrs. Mayo when someone called her to have her repeat "Curfew Shall Not Ring To-night" over the telephone. This was only finished when the bell rang again.

"Hello! This the library?"

"Yes."

"Well, I wish you'd tell me the answer to this. There's a prize offered in the 'Morning Howl' for the first correct answer. 'I am only half as old as my uncle,' said a man, 'but if I were twice as old as he is I should only be three years older than my grandfather, who was born at the age of sixteen. How old was the man?' Now, would you let x equal the age of the uncle, or the man?"

Miss Patterson could not think of any immediate answer to this, nor of any book of reference that would tell her instantly. So she appealed to Mr. Vanhoff, who had returned to the room.

"What was that?" inquired Mr. Vanhoff; "get him to repeat it."

She did so, and the librarian struggled with it for a moment. "Why, it is all nonsense. Tell him that we cannot solve any newspaper puzzles over the telephone. He will have to come to the library."

Then Mrs. Pomfret Smith announced herself on the telephone.

"That the library? Who is this? Miss Patterson? Oh, how do you do? This is so nice of Mr. Vanhoff. I was coming down to the library this morning, but the weather is so horrid that I thought I would telephone instead. Now, my cousin is visiting me, and I have told her about a novel I read last summer, and she is just crazy to read it, too. But I can't for the life of me recall the name of it. Now, do you remember what it was?"

"Why--I'm afraid I don't. Who was the author?"

"That's just the trouble. I can't remember his name to save my life! I'm not even sure that I noticed his name--or her name--whoever it was. I never care much who wrote them--I just look them through, and if they're illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy or anybody like that, I just take them, because I know then they'll be all right. This one had pictures by Christy or Wenzell or one of those men. It was a lovely book--oh, I do wish you could tell me what it was! Where is Miss Anderson? She would know. Isn't she there?"

"No--I am sorry, she will not be here till afternoon. If you could tell me something about the novel--the plot, and so forth, I might have read it myself."

"Oh, of course you've read it. Why, you read all the books that come into the library, don't you?"

"Not quite all."

"You don't? How funny! Why, whatever do you find to do with yourselves down there? You're sure you don't remember the one I want?"

"Why, Mrs. Smith, you haven't told me about the plot of it yet."

"Oh, no, so I haven't. Well--let me see--Um! why, it was about--now, what in the world _was_ it about? Oh dear, I never can think, with this thing up to my ear! What's that, Central? Yes, I got them all right--hold the line, please. Oh dear, I'll have to ring off and think it over, and as soon as I remember, I'll call you up again. Thank you, so much! Good-by."

The next was a man who spoke in a deep voice. "Hello! Is this the library? Have you a history of Peru? You have? Now, that is very fortunate. I do not know how many places I have inquired. I only want a few facts--only a paragraph or two. You can tell them to me over the 'phone, can you not, and I will take them down?"

Miss Patterson had her finger on an article about Peru in the encyclopædia. "'Peru,'" she began to read, "'the ancient kingdom of the Incas--'"

"Of the whichers?" interrupted the man.

"The Incas," she repeated.

"Spell it," he commanded.

"_I n c a s_," she spelled.

"Oh, Lord!" said the man, "that's South America. I've been hearing about them all day. The principal of the High School gave me a song and dance about the Incas. I mean Peru, Indiana. Here, I'll come down to the library--this telephone booth is so hot I can't get my breath. Good-by."

* * * * *

Mrs. Pomfret Smith, unlike Jeffries, had come back. She greeted Miss Patterson with enthusiasm.

"Oh, Miss Patterson, I've remembered all about it now. You see, it starts this way. There is a girl, a New York girl, who has married an English lord, or, rather, she is just going to marry him--the brother of the first man she was engaged to steps in, and tells her that the lord isn't genuine, and he presents her maid with a jeweled pin which his mother, the countess, received from her husband--her first husband, that is--three days after the battle of--oh, I don't know the name of the battle--the 'Charge of the Light Brigade,' it was, and he was in that--no, his uncle was, and he said to his tent-mate, the night before the battle: 'Charley, I'm not coming out of this alive, and my cousin will be the lawful heir, but I want you to take this and dig with it underneath the floor of the old summer house, and the papers that you will find there will make Gerald a rich man.' And so he took it and when he got to Washington he handed it to the old family servant who hadn't seen him for sixty years, and then dropped dead, so they never knew whether he was the real one or only the impostor, and so just as the wedding was about to take place the uncle--he was a senator--said to the bishop, who was going to marry them: '_Please get off this line, I am using it!_' And so it never took place, after all. Now, can you tell me what the name of the book is, Miss Patterson?"

"Why, I am afraid I do not recognize it. It sounds a little like Mrs. Humphry Ward and Ouida and Frances Hodgson Burnett, and someone else, all at once. Was it by any of them, Mrs. Smith?"

"Oh, no, I am sure it was not. Why, I am surprised--I thought you would know it now, without any hesitation!"

"I am sorry."

"Oh, very well, then. Good-by."

The last in a tone as acid and cold as lemon ice. It seemed to express Mrs. Smith's opinion of all librarians. Miss Patterson was much grieved, but the telephone bell rang again before she had time to reflect.

"Is this the library? Oh, yes. I wonder if you have a life of Mrs. Browning?"

"Yes--I think so. What would you like to know about her?"

"Well, there--I am certainly glad. This is Miss Crumpet, you know! Miss Hortense Crumpet. I have had such a time. Have you the book right there? I do wish you would--"

"If you will wait just a minute, I will send for the book--I haven't it here."

"Oh, thank you so much."

The book was fetched, and Miss Patterson informed Miss Crumpet that she now held the volume ready.

"Have you it right there?"

"Yes."

"Well, I want to see a picture of Mrs. Browning. We have a portrait here, and my aunt says it is George Eliot, and I know it is Mrs. Browning. Now, if you could just hold up the book--why, how perfectly ridiculous of me! I can't see it over the telephone, can I? Why, how absolutely absurd! I never thought at all! I was going to come to the library for it, only it is so horrid and rainy, and then I remembered that I saw in the paper about your answering questions by telephone, and I thought, why, how nice, I'll just call them up on the 'phone--and now it won't do me any good at all, will it?"

"I'm afraid not."

"And I'll have to come to the library after all. Oh, dear! Good-by."

"Good-by."

The bell rang again as soon as the receiver had been replaced.

"Hello! How are you for pigs' feet to-day?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Pigs' feet! How many yer got?"

"This is the public library. Did you call for us?"

"Who? The what? No; I'm trying to get Packer and Pickleums. I don't want no public library. What's the matter with that girl at central? This is the third time--"

His conversation ended abruptly as the receiver was hung up. Miss Patterson was soon called again. Mrs. Pomfret Smith was once more unto the breach.

"Miss Patterson? I've remembered some more about that book, now. It had a bright red cover and the name of it was printed in gilt letters. It was about so high--oh, I forgot, you can't see over the telephone, can you? Well, it was about as big as books usually are, you know, and it was quite thick--oh, it must have had a hundred or two hundred pages--perhaps more than that, I am not sure. And the front picture was of a girl--the heroine, I guess, and a man, and he had his arms around her and she was looking up into his face. _Now_, you can remember what book it was, can't you, Miss Patterson?"

A LITERARY MEET

A LITERARY MEET

Dr. Gotthold, formerly librarian to H. H. Prince Otto of Grunewald, has very kindly forwarded a copy of the "Olympian Times" containing an account of the recent field day, gymkhana, and general meet of the Fictitious and Historical Characters' Amateur Athletic Association. It is reproduced here verbatim:

On the morning of the meet everyone was delighted to see that fair weather prevailed. As it was well known that the pious Æneas was going to act as one of the field judges, a good many persons had expected that his old enemy Æolus would contrive some kind of a kibosh in the shape of high winds. But nothing of the sort happened, and thousands streamed out to the grounds in the best of spirits.

The assemblage was a brilliant one. The "Times's" representative noticed a number of automobile parties. A magnificent new car belonging to Helen of Troy carried its fair owner, and a select party consisting of Iseult of Ireland, Mme. Anna Karenina, Paris, Tristram and Don Juan. Another car, belonging to Baron Chevrial, contained that nobleman, as well as Mr. Dorian Gray, Iago, and James Steerforth, Esq. A special railway car belonging to Croesus, King of Lydia, brought a large party, including Omar Khayyam, Comus, Shylock and the Marquis of Carabas.

The football game was scheduled as the first event. The two teams came on the field at a dog-trot led by their respective captains. This was the line-up:

Achilles (Captain), l.e. r.e., Umslopogaas
Mercutio, l.t. r.t., Raffles
John Ridd, l.g. r.g., Learoyd
Ursus, c. c., Falstaff (Hercules)
Robinson Crusoe, r.g. l.g., Roderick Dhu
Sir Launcelot, r.t. l.t., Capt. Brassbound
Robin Hood, r.e. l.e., Hamlet (Captain)
Ulysses, q.b. q.b., S. Ortheris
Othello, r.h.b. l.h.b., Lars Porsena
Rawdon Crawley, l.h.b. r.h.b., Sydney Carton
T. Mulvaney, f.b. f.b., Hector

Officials: Referee, Sherlock Holmes; umpire, King Arthur; field judge, Henry Esmond; linesmen, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

We do not know who was responsible for the make-up of the teams, and we cannot enter into a detailed description of the game, but we must say that a more hopelessly one-sided affair we have never witnessed. The team captained by the Prince of Denmark had about as much chance against that led by the swift-footed son of Peleus as Miss Lindsay's Select School for Girls would against the Yale 'varsity.

Both teams were badly off for tackles, and while we do not wish to criticise the fairly good game played by Sir Launcelot and Captain Brassbound, we cannot help remarking that neither Mercutio nor Raffles had any business in that position.

We understand that Mr. Raffles formerly had some reputation as a cricketer, and we advise him to stick to that game. As for Mercutio (whose reputation, we believe, rests chiefly on a rather unsuccessful duel in Verona a number of years ago) it was plain that his was the weakest part of the line. Time and again Hector tore through Mercutio for big gains.

Indeed, if Hamlet had had the sense to keep pounding at left tackle his team might at least have scored one touchdown. But instead, Captain Hamlet would wander off between the plays, muttering to himself something about to punt or not to punt, and the quarter, Ortheris, was left to run the team alone.

This was unfortunate, for although Mr. Ortheris played a quick and snappy game himself, his signals were badly chosen. We believe that the climate of India, where he used to reside, affected him in some unfavorable manner, so that he is subject to occasional fits of madness. What with the peculiarity of the captain of his team in this respect, it seemed as if their side were badly handicapped. Umslopogaas played brilliantly at right end, but it was no use.

What in the name of common sense impelled their coach to put Sir John Falstaff at center? The day has gone by when weight is the only consideration in that position. Moreover, you cannot train for football on sack and capons. Ursus made the old knight look like thirty cents in counterfeit money. Luckily he was taken out at the end of the first period--wheezing badly--and Hercules took his place.

The game ended as might have been expected--34 to 0, in favor of Achilles's team.

The football game had occupied most of the morning, but after it was over there was still time for the spectators to witness some minor contests before luncheon.

Many wandered over to the tennis courts. A set of mixed doubles was in progress, with Lady Macbeth and Pudd'nhead Wilson opposed by Morgan le Fay and Mr. Isaacs. The Queen of Scotland and her partner from Missouri took a love set at the beginning of the match, but the second set was hotly contested, and finally went to Morgan le Fay and Mr. Isaacs, 7-5.

Morgan le Fay won ace after ace, proving herself the mistress of a very powerful and puzzling service, while Mr. Isaacs covered the court with the agility of a cat. They took the final set, and the match, winning easily with a score of 6-1.

Gentlemen's singles were also being played, and at the time when our representative had to leave the courts the tournament was practically won by Nathan Burke, as the only undefeated players remaining were Hugh Wynne and Alfred Jingle.

Under the trees near by, some games of cards were in progress. Miss Lily Bart was instructing Diana of the Crossways, Major Pendennis, and Mr. Pickwick in auction bridge.

Horatius, hearing the word "bridge" mentioned, hurried over to the table, but when he saw what was going on, lost his interest and walked away toward the golf links with Sir Patrick Spens.

At another table Mr. John Oakhurst seemed to have obliterated the color-line, for he was deeply engaged in a three-handed game of poker with Rev. Mr. Johnsing and Brother Cyanide Whiffles of the Thompson Street Poker Club.

Everybody was interested in aviation, and when the rumor got about that the aviators were going to make some flights there was a general rush toward the hangars. Only three made ascents, however--Darius Green, Icarus, and Peter Pan. The first tried one of his celebrated spiral descents, and of course came to the ground with a crash. His machine was a total wreck.

Icarus did not have much better luck--he was carried off to the hospital. He rose to an enormous height, and is said to have beaten all previous records for altitude, but something went wrong with his biplane, and he fell with terrible force.

King Arthur, his duties as umpire of the football game finished, challenged Macbeth to nine holes of golf, and beat the Scottish king, on his own heath, so to speak. King Arthur's drives were magnificent, showing that the arm that once wielded Excalibur had not weakened since its owner's retirement to the island valley of Avilion. They play very classy golf in Avilion.

Macbeth's putts were beautiful to watch, but as he usually arrived on the green in at least two strokes more than the monarch of the Round Table, they did him very little good. Twice on the drive he sliced, and the ball went wide into a grove of trees. When he asked his caddie the name of the grove, and the youth replied, "Birnam Wood, your Majesty," the former Thane of Cawdor turned pale and hammered the ground with his brassie.

When the royal players came to the ninth tee, Macbeth was heard to mutter, "What though I foozle, top, and slice, and thou opposed be now three up--yet will I try the last--lay on, Mac--I mean, it's your honor, Arthur!"

King Arthur did the difficult ninth hole in bogey, but poor old Macbeth plowed up the turf all along the fair green, and finally holed out amid a burst of Scotch profanity sad to hear.

Neither of their queens was present--her Majesty of Scotland being engaged, as we have said, on the tennis courts, while Queen Guinevere--well, it is enough for anyone to read the line-up of one of the football teams to know that Queen Guinevere was still lingering around the clubhouse, waiting for the players to come out. We have no wish to mention unpleasant things, and we abhor scandals--still facts are facts, and it is the duty of a conscientious newspaper to record them.

Down on the lake that expert submarine navigator, Captain Nemo, was entertaining a large crowd by the maneuvers of his celebrated boat, the Nautilus, and an exhibition of skillful paddling was offered by Hiawatha in his canoe.

The sound of revolver shots drew a number of spectators to see a match between Sherlock Holmes and The Virginian.

The greatest throng, however, surrounded a fencing bout between Cyrano de Bergerac and D'Artagnan. Cyrano had some dispute with the referee, before beginning, on the question of whether he should be allowed to compose a poem while he was fencing. He alleged that it was his custom to do so, and that he could not possibly appear at his best if the privilege were denied. His opponent objected, however.

"Just a ballade, monsieur," pleaded Cyrano, "or at least, a vilanelle."

"Cut out the poet business, Cy!" shouted someone--it is suspected that Chimmie Fadden was the man, and the referee so ruled. D'Artagnan was declared the winner of the match that followed.

* * * * *

After luncheon the whole assemblage were gathered about the diamond for the long expected game of baseball. This was to be played between two scrub teams known as "The Boys" and "The Old Men"--though some of the latter (notably Romeo and Richard Feverel) objected to the classification. These were the nines:

THE BOYS THE OLD MEN

Tom Sawyer, 2b. Allan Quartermain, 2b.
Joe Harper, 3b. Natty Bumppo, r.f.
Tom Bailey, l.f. Friar Tuck, c.f.
Kim, c.f. Romeo, 1b.
Tom Brown, r.f. Sam Weller, s.s.
Jack Hall, s.s. Richard Feverel, l.f.
Frank Nelson, 1b. Tom Jones, 3b.
Mark the Match Boy, c. Don Quixote, c.
Huck Finn, p. Hotspur, p.

The Old Men banged into Huck Finn's delivery for three hits right at the start and came back for a couple more in the second inning. Huck, however, began to look better, and after the fourth he was swinging the ball over in great shape. The Old Men made but two hits in the last seven innings and none in the last five. Kim was the star on the attack. Up four times he made just that many hits, one going for a double.

One of Kim's drives came fast on a long bound and hit Romeo in the face. Kim drove in a pair of runs with his double and started the scoring for The Boys in the first inning, while in the sixth he himself came across with the tally which eventually proved the winning one.

Hotspur pitched a fair game. The greatest difference came in the defensive work of the teams. The Boys went through without a break.

Tom Jones had a case of the wabbles for The Old Men, and there was a lot of uncertainty about the work of the infield because of the breaks he made. The outfielders for The Old Men were also having trouble fielding the ball clean and throwing to the plate.

Sam Weller was the one chap on his team who was going at speed. He pulled off one play which belongs in the Hall of Fame, Joe Harper losing a hit and The Boys two runs as a result.

With Allan Quartermain and Leatherstocking down in the first inning, Friar Tuck fattened his batting average a bit by bunting and beating the throw to first. Romeo put the ball over Tom Brown's head up against the bleacher front and legged it around to third, while Friar Tuck scored, a fumble by Frank Nelson on Tom Brown's return cinching things. Sam Weller lambed a single to center and Romeo scored. Sam was out stealing a moment later.

Tom Sawyer got The Boys away in fine style with a smash to left for a single. Joe Harper drew a walk. Tom Bailey sacrificed, and Kim drove a hot grounder right through Allan Quartermain and wound up on second before the outfielders could get the leather back to the infield. Tom Sawyer and Joe Harper came home. Tom Brown popped up a foul to Romeo, and Kim was doubled off second after the catch.

Both teams kept right on scoring in the second. Dicky Feverel got The Old Men away well with a single and then stole second. Tom Jones put him on third with a sacrifice, and Don Quixote gave him the opportunity to score on a long fly to The Bad Boy. Hotspur whaled a fly over Kim's head. The famous scrapper tried to make it a home run, but was caught at the plate on Jack Hall's return.

In The Boys' half, after two had gone, Mark the Match Boy reached first on a fumble by Tom Jones. Huck Finn drove a single to right. Tom Sawyer put up a hot fly which Allan Quartermain failed to get, and Mark the Match Boy came home, Huck Finn going to third. Tom Sawyer stole second. Joe Harper drove a red-hot one over the bag at second, and it looked like a sure single and two more runs for the kids. Sam Weller went over for a sensational one-hand stop and threw Joe out at first. It was a phenomenal play. That settled the scoring until the sixth inning. Kim got a single, Tom Brown bunted and was safe when Tom Jones fumbled. Jack Hall sacrificed the pair along, and when Hotspur passed Frank Nelson the sacks were full. Mark the Match Boy raised a fly to Friar Tuck and Kim scored on the catch. Huck Finn fanned.

The Boys' final run came in the eighth on Jack Hall's single, Mark the Match Boy's grounder through the lion hunter, and a single by Tom Sawyer. The score:

Innings 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

The Boys 2 1 0 0 0 1 1 1 ..--6
The Old Men 2 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 ..--3

"THE DESERT ISLAND TEST"

"THE DESERT ISLAND TEST"

A roll of papers containing the following narrative has been forwarded to the "Transcript" by Captain "Sol" Farr of the Gloucester fishing schooner "Salt Mackerel."

Captain Farr discovered them, floating about in an olive bottle, a few miles off Boston Light. As soon as he had examined the papers (which are slightly damaged by salt water and olive vinegar) he perceived their bearing upon an important literary question of the day, and very properly sent them to "The Librarian."

The original papers are to be deposited in the Ezra Beesly Free Public Library of Baxter (Captain Farr's native town), where in a week or two they may be seen by anyone applying to the librarian, or one of his assistants, between 9 A.M. and 8 P.M.

The narrative, written in a shaky hand, on twelve sheets of note paper, contains the following remarkable statement:

* * * * *

I, Professor Horatio B. Fassett, M.A., Ph.D., write this appeal (with a perfectly detestable fountain-pen) on an uninhabited and (so far as I am aware) unknown island, somewhere off the eastern coast of South America, on (as near as I can guess) the twelfth of December, 1908. For two years have I dwelt in wretchedness in this place, a most unwilling (and unsuccessful) follower of Robinson Crusoe. I know that it is customary in such appeals as this, which I am about (in the words of the burial service) to commit to the deep, to give, approximately at least, the latitude and longitude of my desert isle, in order that searching parties (which I earnestly pray may be sent for me) shall know where to look.

Alas! all my studies have been devoted to literature and the fine arts, and although I have certain instruments which poor Captain Bucko used to ascertain the ship's position, I am as helpless with them as an infant. True, I have endeavored to look at the sun with them--and the moon, too, but I could not observe that those bodies had any than their usual aspect when thus viewed. As for the signs which are engraved on the surface of these instruments, I could copy them down here in hope that they might give a clue to those expert in navigation; but as they are, so far as I can see, exactly the same as those which were on the instruments when we left New York, I fear it would be of no avail.

The only hint, then, of the geographical position of this island must come from my narrative. I beseech whatever person finds it to send news of me without delay to the president and faculty of Upidee University, where, alas, I suppose my chair (the James A. Rewbarb professorship of German Literature) is already filled.

It is unnecessary for me to speak much of my career. In the obituary notices that doubtless appeared when the ship "Hardtack" failed to arrive at Valparaiso, I suppose it was stated that I was the only passenger on that unfortunate vessel. I am, I believe, the only survivor of her wreck. Worn out with revising proof of the second edition of my doctor's thesis ("That the umlaut should be placed one-fourth of a millimetre higher than is now the custom") I had, at the advice of my physician, embarked on the "Hardtack," sailing from New York for Valparaiso, Sept. 9, 1906.

The voyage was uneventful for about four weeks, and life on the ship (which I think, by the way, was called by the captain a "brig") was not distasteful to me. One morning, however, I heard a commotion overhead, and going upstairs found Captain Bucko in a state of great excitement. I asked him the cause, and he replied that the mate had put the brig in irons.

I had often read of this custom in times of mutiny, so I remarked: "I suppose it was by your orders, Captain?"

He did not reply, and I presently learned the cause of his anxiety. They did not seem to be able to make the ship go ahead in a straight line, and, to make matters worse, a rocky island on which the waves were breaking violently, had been discovered on the right hand side of the vessel.

I ought to explain that I am not perfectly familiar with all the technicalities of ship-navigation, and I retain only a confused idea of what followed.

I know that I was ordered to get into a small rowboat which was jumping about in a most alarming fashion at one side of the ship, and that when I refused to take such a ridiculous step, I was seized by two sailors and thrown into the boat. I must have struck my head on something, for I knew nothing else until I found myself lying on a beach, pounded and bruised by the waves. I got up, and staggered to a place where the sand was dry, and there I fell again exhausted.

Of the captain and the crew of the "Hardtack" I have never seen a trace, except a coat belonging to the mate, which was washed on shore a few days later. Their small boat was probably tipped over by the waves, and they were all drowned. It is strange that I, the only one of them unfamiliar with the ocean, should have been spared. The "Hardtack" itself evidently became hitched on a rock some little distance from the shore, for there it stayed for part of that day, with great waves beating upon it. At last the masts fell down, and in a few days the ship was broken in pieces, till nothing remained. Many of these fragments floated to the shore, with various articles from the cargo.

For the first three days I was excessively miserable. I was forced to sleep out of doors on the first night, and when I felt hungry the next morning, there was nothing to eat. My tastes are simple, but my habits are regular, and in my rooms at Upidee, as well as in the "Hardtack," I was accustomed to have a cup of coffee at half-past seven each morning. Now I searched the shore for some hours, but could find nothing except some mussels or clams and a few starfish. The starfish were very tough, and not at all agreeable in taste, and though a Little Neck clam, properly iced and served with lemon and other condiments, is not an ill beginning to a dinner, I cannot pretend that I found these shellfish, eaten raw on a windy beach, other than nauseous.

But I hasten over these troubles and also over my discovery of a large number of boxes of food which floated ashore, three days later, from the wreck. Some of it was edible and it sufficed until I found other means of sustenance on the island. Of my discovery of two deserted huts (relics of former castaways, perhaps), of my domestication of several wild goats, whom I learned (not without difficulty) to milk, and of my capture of fish in the inlet--of all these things I need not write. My troubles are not material, but intellectual. And they are so great that I earnestly implore some one to come to my rescue.

To make my sufferings clear I must remind the reader that I am that Horatio Fassett who won the $500 prize from "Somebody's Magazine" four years ago for the best answer to the question: "If you were cast away on a desert island what one hundred books would you prefer to have with you?"

I worked hard to compile my list, and it was generally agreed to be the most scholarly selection of one hundred titles ever made. The publishers of "Somebody's Magazine" not only paid me the $500, but presented me with a copy, well bound, of each of the books. These (packed securely in a water-tight box, so constructed as to float) accompanied me in the "Hardtack," and I need tell no scholar that during my first days on this island, as I walked the beach and watched the remnants of the vessel float ashore, it was not so much for cases of concentrated soup nor tins of baked-beans that I yearned, as for my box of the "One Hundred Best Books."

At last it came! That was a happy day--about a week after my arrival on the island. I saw the box, tossed about in the surf, and I dashed in and secured it. I was now living, with comparative comfort, in one of the huts; and thither I carried the books. I was overjoyed. It was my privilege to put my books to the test--something that had never been accorded to the compilers of any of the similar lists which have been made in such profusion. With trembling hands (and a screwdriver) I opened the box and took out the books. They were in perfect order--the waterproof box had been well made.

From this point, I copy the entries in my diary, and let them tell the rest of my dismal story.

"Oct. 16. I arranged the books neatly, this afternoon, on top of some empty biscuit boxes. They were all there: Tasso, Homer, Don Quixote, The Divine Comedy, Browning, and the rest. They looked delightful, and reminded me of my study at Upidee. I wonder if I shall ever see that study again, and I wonder what will become of the second edition of my thesis on the umlaut. It was to appear next April, and now who knows whether I shall be there ready to reply to the attacks which I know it will provoke?

"From this gloomy line of thought, I turned again to the Hundred Best Books. Which should I begin to read? There were my beloved Goethe and Schiller--should I start with them? I took a volume, and had opened it, when it occurred to me that I had not yet gone that day to the high rock where I looked for passing ships. I put Goethe back on the biscuit box, and spent an anxious afternoon staring at the ocean. But I saw nothing.

"The evening I spent in trying to arrange some fishing lines, as the firelight--my only illumination--is not favorable for reading to one afflicted with astigmatism. I miss the electric droplight that I used at Upidee, or even the kerosene lamp in the cabin of the 'Hardtack.' I must try to make some candles.

"Oct. 17. I passed the morning in trying to tame a wild goat--or perhaps I had better say in trying to induce one to graze outside my cabin, instead of investigating the interior. They are not at all shy, but are inclined to be rather sociable. In the afternoon I took Goethe with me to the high rock, where I sat with the volume on my knee keeping a watch for vessels. I cannot say that I read much. German literature makes me feel rather homesick, and I find brings me recollections of the distressing recitations of last year's freshman class.

"Oct. 18. When I went to the lookout to-day I took Browning with me. Good heavens, I found I can no longer read Browning! This was an astounding state of things, and I had to examine myself rather sharply. I remembered that I had never for a moment been in doubt, when I made up my list, of including Browning. I had read, twenty years ago, the 'Dramatic Lyrics,' with the greatest of pleasure, but the longer poems had seemed to me rather dull, and indeed a large proportion of the poet's work was intensely irritating to me on account of its needless and exasperating obscurity. At the time I did not consider this a cause for worry. Browning was a great poet--everyone said so; his treasures did not lie on the surface--one must dive below in order to find the rich pearls which lay concealed there. I remember using this metaphor in a lecture that I delivered before the Woman's Club of Buffalo. I had always intended to study the longer poems; but I had never done it. Now they were unreadable to me. As for the 'Dramatic Lyrics,' they did not charm me as formerly. I found myself longing for a volume of Wordsworth or Tennyson. Neither was included in my Best Books, though I cannot see now, for the life of me, why I didn't include Tennyson. Could it have been because his poems are easy to understand and that I thought it would seem more 'scholarly' to put in Browning?

"Oct. 20. I have not been to the high rock lately except for a brief visit after breakfast. I have had a little rheumatism--not being used to sleeping in draughty cabins. The goats have been a source of entertainment to me, and I have caught some crabs, which I keep in a little pool of salt water near the cabin. They are amusing to watch, and toasted crab-meat is far from bad at supper time. I kill one with a stick and then broil him on a hot stone.

"Yesterday I tried reading again, but I am bound to confess that there was not much solace in it. The Odyssey I soon put down--too much shipwreck and wandering in strange lands. There is no Penelope waiting for me, even if I ever get home alive. And the thought of Ithaca reminded me of Cornell and Professor von Füglemann, who is all ready to tear my thesis on the umlaut to pieces. Shakspeare I picked up, but the first play I opened to was 'The Tempest.' I closed Shakspeare and put him back.

"Nov. 25. Nothing has happened worth recording for weeks. Once I saw smoke, from a steamboat, I suppose, but smoke did not do me any good.

"There is something the matter with this list of Best Books. For one thing, they are most of them so tragic. I would give anything for a volume of Mr. Dooley. But that is not all. I have always realized that the great literature of the world is very largely sombre, and I have no more sympathy now than I ever had with the people who want to read nothing but that which keeps them on a broad grin. Even in my dreary situation I could read tragedy, but I have brought precious little tragedy that I care for. No doubt most of my books are great monuments of literature, but I am afraid I must have forgotten, when I wrote my list, how few of these books I read now. I must have put them in because they are praised by writers of text-books, and because it seemed the proper thing to do.

"As I go over my reading for the past five years at Upidee, in what do I find it to consist? First, the literature and text-books of my profession. Second, current books--history, biography, art criticism, and an infrequent novel or book of verse. There are not many living novelists or poets that I care about. It makes me fairly rage when I think that I hesitated between 'Pickwick' and 'Jerusalem Delivered' when I made up my list, and finally decided in favor of the latter as more weighty--which it certainly is.

"I used my copy to help sink a lobster trap the other day.

"Almost the only novel which I condescended to include in my list is 'Don Quixote,' and why did I do that? Because it has been praised for three hundred years, I suppose, instead of for only forty or fifty. It is about the only humorous work which I did include--and except for places here and there it is a dreary waste.

"Aug. 10, 1907. It is now months since I have had the courage to face this diary. I dreamed last night that I had wandered into a book shop. There were rows of books, for any one of which I would have gladly given my whole celebrated One Hundred. (At least, I would give what is left of them. 'Don Quixote' has been used to paste over cracks in the walls of my cabin. 'Orlando Furioso' served to boil some sea-gulls' eggs one morning for breakfast, when I was short of firewood, and the 'Koran' fell into the fire one night when I hurled it at some animal--a fox, I think, that came into the hut.) The sight of that bookshop made me weep. I had seized a volume of Tennyson, Stevenson's Letters, and 'Sherlock Holmes,' when the shopkeeper jumped over his counter at me--and I woke, sobbing.

"Sept. 1, 1907. One of the goats ate the Æneid to-day.

"Sept. 2. The goat is ill, and I have had to give it one of my few pepsin tablets."

This is the last entry from the diary that I need transcribe. Over a year has elapsed since I wrote it; and my case is desperate. I will now seal up this narrative in a bottle, and throw it into the sea. Come to my rescue, or I fear I shall go mad!

THE CONVERSATION ROOM

THE CONVERSATION ROOM

To the Honorable, the Board of Directors of the Blankville Public Library. Gentlemen: I am forced to lay my complaint before you, because your librarian, Dr. W. M. Pierce, so I am told, has sailed for Europe to attend a meeting of librarians in Brussels, whence he will not return for six or seven weeks.

My name is doubtless familiar to you, but perhaps you are not aware that I am engaged in an important piece of research in your library. When I state that my work is an inquiry into the Indo-Iranian origins of the noun 'Fuddy-dud' and its possible derivation from the Semitic, you will understand that it requires the closest possible application and an entire freedom from interruptions and distractions.

When I began my researches in your library, six days ago, I presented letters to Dr. Pierce. He very kindly installed me in an alcove, where he had placed a table and chairs, and where he allowed me to assemble the books needed in my studies--some one hundred and thirty or forty volumes. These, together with my papers and writing materials, are permitted to remain on the table from one day to another, as obviously it would be inconvenient for me to have to call for them each morning.

It is my custom to begin work at nine o'clock every day, and to continue (save for an hour at noon) until 6 P.M. For a few days all went very well, and I was making fair progress in my work. But during the last two days, and particularly yesterday, I have been subjected to such annoyances that all of my studies have been held at a standstill.

The library, and particularly the remote part of it in which my alcove is situated, has been little frequented during this hot weather. Yesterday, however, an invasion began. The alcove next to mine was visited by a succession of incongruous, inconsequent persons whose conversation made it utterly impossible for me to work. A complaint to Miss Mayhew, the assistant in charge of the library, elicited the fact that conversation is allowed in this alcove.

It is out of the question for me to move my work, as an inspection of the building has shown that there is no other spot where the light suits my eyes.

Yesterday afternoon, totally unable to do any serious work, I took down, in shorthand, the stream of driveling talk that occurred in that alcove. I now transcribe it here, in order that your honorable board may have an opportunity of judging the nature of the interruptions to which I am subjected. After giving them due consideration I trust that you will be able to take action in the matter. In the meanwhile my philological researches are of necessity suspended.

I returned to my work, after luncheon, at two o'clock. The alcove next mine was occupied by two persons--a young man and woman, both about twenty years of age. Their talk reached me, and made it impossible for me to follow any consecutive line of thought. At the time when I began to take down their conversation, the young woman was saying:

"What's 'Gibbon'? People are always talking about reading Gibbon--and then they look awfully wise. I've never dared to ask what they mean."

"Oh, it's Gibbon's history of Rome--the 'Fall of the Roman Empire,' or something like that."

"Have you ever read it?"

"Great Scott, no! It's in about a dozen volumes--I don't know how many. I've read some of it--they made us do it, freshman year."

"Is it awfully dry? Would I like it?"

"It's pretty fierce. Nothing to Grote, though--Grote's 'History of Greece'--that's the limit!"

"Gibbon is a man then? I wasn't sure what he was."

"Yes; he's the author."

"Oh, why, I've seen him! How stupid of me! I saw him when I was in Baltimore visiting the Ashfords. Why, he's just the _grandest_ thing you ever saw in your life. He came at the end of a great long procession, with the dearest little choir-boys at the head, and he was all in scarlet robes, and a great long train, with two more little boys holding up his train, and he had the loveliest lace collar--I just went crazy over him! And I saw him on the street afterwards, too, only he didn't have on his scarlet robes then. He had on black clothes, and a tall hat, and when he lifted his hat to someone he had on a little red skull-cap underneath it. Oh, he's a perfect dear. I'd like to read his book--I wonder if they've got it here?"

"No, no--that's not the man. This was an Englishman--his first name was--I forget what it was. Anyhow he's been dead a long time. He was a very fat man, and he proposed to Mme. de Staël, or George Sand, or one of those women, and when he got down on his knees he was so fat that he couldn't get up again, and had to ask her to help him up."

"How perfectly ridiculous! I hate fat men. I hope she didn't accept him! Did she?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I don't want to read his book, anyhow. But I've simply got to read something that sounds cultured and learned. Aunt Ella has been at me again; she says this is a good time, during vacation. Fanny Brooks has a great long list of the books she has read--I am so tired of having Fanny Brooks thrown at me! She never reads anything interesting, or does anything at all for pleasure. She ought to be a nun. Can't you think of something that will impress Aunt Ella--something that sounds awfully impressive and dry and cultured, but really is easy to read?"

"Well, let me see, how about Browning?"

"I've read him."

"Like him?"

"No."

"It seems to be a tough proposition. What does your Aunt Ella read? Why don't you take some of her books?"

"Oh, I don't know. She reads 'Women of the Renaissance' and things like that. I tried to read some of hers, and I told her I didn't like them. She said I couldn't expect to, because I haven't any foundation. How do you get a foundation--that's what I'd like to know! Aunt Ella is perfectly dippy on Italian art. Gracious, is that clock right? It's nearly three, and I haven't done any improving reading."

"Look here, it's a corking afternoon--you don't want to waste it in this joint. Let's go down to the boathouse and get my canoe."

"I'd like to. But what will I say to Aunt Ella?"

"Oh, we'll take some book with us, and you can read while I paddle. What's that one on that shelf?--it looks dry as the deuce. Here you are, just the thing:--'Notes on the Architectural Antiquities of the District of Gower in Glamorganshire'--that would make a hit with Aunt Ella, all right!"

"It doesn't sound very interesting."

"You're right, there. Well, how will this one do? 'The Recently Discovered Cromlech near Is-sur-Tille.'"

"What on earth is a cromlech?"

"You can search me."

"Let's take them both. I'll get them charged at the desk, and meet you outside. I'll read you all about the cromlech--if there are any words in the book I can pronounce."

With this they went out, and I endeavored to take up my work. Before I could make the slightest progress, however, two more persons entered the alcove. These, to judge from the conversation, were small boys. I had to sit and listen to this chatter:

"What yer got?"

"'Tinkham Brothers' Tide-mill.' What you got?"

"One of Henty's."

"What one?"

"'The Cat of Boobasts.'"

"Aw, that ain't any good. Why didn't yer get 'By England's Aid'?"

"'T warn't in."

"Yes, 't is, too. Jimmy Goodrich just brought it back."

"Well, the teacher won't let yer have it the same day it come in. An' she won't let me give back this one now."

"Aw, you're dead easy! Don't yer know how to work that?"

"No."

"Why, just go down there, an' when she ain't lookin' stick that one you got behind some other books on the shelf. Then go round to that wheel thing near her desk, 'By England's Aid' is on that, an' put it under your arm when she ain't lookin' an' go out quick with it. Then you can come round to-morrer, an' get the other one, an' give it back, an' get your card, an' you can stick back 'By England's Aid' any time. Bring it in under your coat, when you come with it."

"Gee, that's great! Have you ever tried it?"

"Have I? I've had six books at home to once, an' two more on my cards."

"How many cards you got?"

"Two. Ain't you?"

"No, I ain't got but one."

"Didn't they make you take a green card?"

"No; what good are they?"

"They ain't no good, but the teacher makes yer take one. You can get story books on the white card, but the other is for non-fiction."

"What's that?"

"Oh, school books, an' a lot of rotten things like that."

"What do yer want them for?"

"You don't want 'em--excep' a few of 'em. 'The American Boy's Handy Book' is one of 'em. That's all right. Most of 'em are bum. But if you take 'em, it makes a hit with the teacher. They want yer to read 'em. I got a prize last winter for readin' more'n any other feller that comes to the liberry."

"Gee, you must have hated to read all them school books."

"Aw, I didn't read 'em, you mutt. I jus' took 'em home, an' brought 'em back in a day or two. Say, have you ever read any of Alger's?"

"Yup--two of 'em. Eddie Meaghan let me take two of his. You can't get 'em here. I wish you could, though. They're great."

"I know. I tried to get 'em off the teacher down stairs. She said they warn't nice. I says yes they are too, for my brother who's studyin' to be a lawyer read 'em. She said she'd give me some book that was better, an' she give me one called 'Brothers of the Air.'"

"Was it any good?"

"Rotten. But Danny Corrigan, the bootblack, told me about a place, a liberry in back of Schmidt's cigar store where you can get Alger's an' Old Sleuth, and Di'mond Dick, an' Bowery Billy. Gee, the teacher'd have a fit if she sees them--she took one of Old Sleuth's away from Jimmy Goodrich, an' burned it up, an' wrote to his mother about it."

"I'm goin' down to the children's room, now. Do you s'pose I can work that gag now, an' get 'By England's Aid'?"

"Sure. I'll go down, too, an' show yer how."

* * * * *

Whereupon these two nuisances departed. Really it seems amazing that children and frivolous persons should be allowed in libraries. As it was four o'clock now, I did hope to be allowed to study in peace for what remained of the afternoon. But the hope was vain, for inside of five minutes two women came into that alcove, that Cave of the Winds, as I may call it.

They apparently brought some books with them, and they instantly began to discuss them in a manner that drove every idea from my head. There was nothing left for me to do but to record their talk in order to make my complaint perfectly clear to your honorable board. This was the conversation:

"Well, now, this says that Daniel Pingree died at Marblehead in 1703. If that's so, how under the sun, I'd like to know, was he married to Pamela Perkins in 1706?"

"Why, it doesn't say that, does it?"

"Look for yourself. There it is. And who was Pamela Pingree who died in 1689?"