Libro had not heard from Ethel for months, although it seemed like ages to him! On the cold afternoon that he had pawned his overcoat he went to his rooms and thought if it would not be better to end it all, quietly and decently. He thought for a long time. He went to the little bookcase and picked up an old edition of Boethius on the "Consolations of Philosophy," and only the title consoled him. He, however, found many long-tried friends, and their broad margins and blue and crimson morocco covers made him forget that man was made to mourn. His first editions of the poets made him oblivious to his condition and he lived once again on high Parnassus.
Libro was looking over the Poems of John Keats, published in 1817, when a catalogue slip fell out. On the slip it stated that a copy had once sold for five hundred dollars! This, then, was meat and drink for him! He would sell it! He could live for months on poor Keats. But his soul revolted. He was not a cannibal. He could not live off the flesh of his own.
But at last he was compelled to return to Steinman. He wrapped up the precious volume tenderly, affectionately. He took it bravely, for was he not offering at the sacrifice the dearest of his possessions? He gently, timidly, unwrapt before the pawnbroker the little volume, awaiting expectantly the admiration that always followed its appearance. But, alas, he was not among book-lovers.
"No books!" exclaimed Steinman. "I've got stuck on them once or twice before. Not one cent!"
"You,—you—" but Libro could not find words to explain his hatred. He would have killed him had he a weapon near.
"Don't you know that book has sold for five hundred dollars at auction," exclaimed Libro.
"Then sell it at auction," replied Steinman, politely. As the poor and crushed bibliophile turned to go, the proprietor interrupted him.
"Wait. If you are so interested in that old plunder, perhaps you would like to see this."
Steinman held in his hands a dingy old volume. Libro could not resist. An unknown force compelled him to look at it. With hatred consuming him, he nevertheless, like a true bibliophile, received from his enemy the book. He opened it.
"Why, they are Shakespeare quartos!" he almost shouted, and then stopped suddenly.