“Did I yer you say ’twas Gilkison?”
They could not hear her murmur.
“Turn en away. ’E ain’t doo till to-morrow. Or no. Let en come in. I got summat to say to en.”
There was another murmur. Before it could be answered, Gilkison, with a swift look at Ellis, darted down the passage. Ellis, following, noted with amusement that, although his head did not come near the doorway, the bookseller had stooped instinctively. That was the sort of feeling Matt Baildon’s house gave one.
Evidently Gilkison knew his way. The passage seemed pitch dark. A crack of light came sideways from a doorway, and he sidled into it. Putting out a hand to feel the wall, Ellis made for this opening, and went in after him.
Just inside the doorway, and at right angles to it, a long high bookcase jutted into the room. Opposite it, all along the wall, bookshelves reached almost to the ceiling, so that one entered the room through a high laneway of books. The jutting bookcase was so long that it left a small space only through which one could get into the rest of the room; so that the occupants were completely hidden from Ellis as he made his way in. Moreover—and this, plus the length of the projecting bookcase, accounted for the darkness of the entry—the top of the bookcase was piled up to a dangerous height with books stacked, some upright, some on their sides, to make an additional wall of extraordinary symmetry and neatness.
As he rounded the corner, Ellis nearly stumbled, and put out a hand to steady himself. A cracked scream assailed him.
“Mind out! Mind out what thou’rt doin’ of! thee clumsy gert ozebird!”
Ellis found himself looking full into the brilliant, snapping eyes of an old man in a wheeled chair.
“What sort of a bird is that?” he said immediately.
As he spoke, he stepped to one side, the better to see his host. Matthew Baildon sat, leaning forward, one thin, ridged hand on the wheel of his chair. A shawl over his shoulders and a fat plaid muffler about his neck gave him a bunched effect, combining with his tight skull cap, his beaked nose, and long streaming whiskers to make him look like an indignant old hawk puffing out its feathers.
Ellis’s reply disconcerted him for a moment. He glared malevolently.
“Don’t ’ee go oversottin’ they books. ’Tis the work of hours to put ’em up again.”
“I can see that. A work of art. How many have you got on top there—five hundred?”
A triumphant gleam came into the old man’s eyes.
“Five hundred! hark to the man. You’m no sort of a calculator, if you reckons that’s all there’ll be.”
“He’d be a clever man who’d get five hundred books on there.”
Baildon looked at him. Pride and contempt were balanced in his face. He grinned savagely.
“Think so, do ee? Well—sh’ll I tell ee how many there be there?”
“I can’t see how many there are inside the stack. I mean, there might be a lot of very thin books. But I’d lay a bet there aren’t more than five hundred.”
“You’d lost your money, master. Seven hundred and eighty-four books, there are, ’pon top that there case.”
“Seven hundred and eighty-four! Marvellous!” Ellis walked around, to survey them better. “Marvellous,” he repeated. “After that, I’ll believe anything. Even what Gilkison here tells me.”
The old man rose to the bait.
“And w’at do ’e tell ee, eh?”
“Can’t tell you that, Mr. Baildon. Might make you blush. One thing I may give away, though. He says you can find any book in the house inside five minutes.”
This tribute did not appear to please Matt Baildon. He scowled.
“If ’e said that, ’e’s a liard.”
“You used to be able to,” Gilkison claimed anxiously. “I’ve seen you.”
“Used to be. Used to be. Well”—he glared at Ellis—“that did used to be true, I allow. But tidn’ true no longer. I don’t get about so suant these days.”
Mrs. Baildon spoke, so suddenly as to startle them.
“He can tell me where a book is, and I can find it, can’t I, Matt? But nothing like so quick as what he could.”
“No. You’m a fool. You don’t know the books. Not after all these years, you don’t know ’em. I got to say ten from th’end, or ’tis a tall red book three parts along.”
“I’ve no head for so many. Joan’s the clever one.”
“Would be, if she was mind to. But there, w’at d’ee expeck. Young people ’aven’t got no sense.”
Ellis shook his head sadly. Gilkison, judging the moment as nearly propitious as possible, presented him.
“This is Mr. McKay, who is a well-known expert on the literature of the ’nineties.”
“Never yerd of en,” said Baildon promptly.
“He has a rather specialised reputation. The general public has hardly heard of him at all—in this connection.”
“I knows ’most everybody to do with books: and I never yerd tell of en to this minute.”
“For that matter,” said Ellis coolly, “I never heard of you, till this morning.”
“A man can be quite famous in a special circle, and not be known outside it.” Gilkison was getting nervous again. “Like Luttersley, for instance.”
The old man gave a grim chuckle.’
“ ’Twadn’ good folks should come to know much about he.”
“I think that quite a number of people feel that way about Mr. McKay,” Gilkison smiled. “I called this evening——”
“Why for? I wrote to ee plain enough to come to-morrow mornin’.”
“I wanted to present Mr. McKay, and ask if you would allow him to help me. His knowledge would be of the greatest assistance.”
“Rubbidge. You don’t require no ’elp. I shouldn’t ’a asked ee yer, else.”
“I should not waste your time and mine by bringing along some one who would be a hindrance.”
Matt Baildon looked at him for a moment without speaking.
“It’s just so well you ’ave come now,” he said, “ ’cos I shan’t be able to see ee when I said.”
“Really, Mr. Baildon? But——”
“No. I got some one else comin’. Some one important.”
“Indeed.”
Gilkison’s tone was perfect. Ellis gave a snort of delight, and started to examine the shelves.
“Yes. An American. Come all the way from Noo York to see my books.”
“Ah,” Ellis said, without turning. “Those chaps know what’s what.”
“When would you like us to come, then, Mr. Baildon?”
“Day after.”
“As you prefer. I must point out, however, that it will add to the expense if we have to stay an extra day.”
“I don’t pay for he,” Baildon said, pointing at Ellis. “Not a ’a’penny.”
“Nobody asked you to,” Ellis sang, over his shoulder. “I’m here on pleasure.” He turned. “Only two of Dunkerley here. Where’s Beeches at Night?”
“Upstairs,” snapped the old man. “I be mendin’ the cover.”
“Is it the ordinary paper covered edition, or one of the five that were bound specially?”
“There isn’t but two of they ever come ’pon the market,” Baildon answered. A flush appeared on his thin cheeks. “I don’t pay no fancy prices. Never ’ave, nor never will.”
“Some of Mr. Baildon’s best have come from the sixpenny barrow,” Gilkison said.
“Or the penny tray, sometimes.” Matt went off into reminiscence, while Ellis, listening, continued to examine the room.
Quite large originally, it was so filled with books that there was very little space to move. The bookshelves reached from floor to ceiling on all four walls. The window seats were stacked with books, three tables were piled five feet high, and, in front of one of the bookcases, distant about a yard from it, a regular rampart of the largest books reached breast-high, leaving only room enough for a person to pass at either end. Even the gramophone, which stood on the floor by one of the window-seats, had a pile of books on top of it.