The boys reached the building which had been turned over to the Y. M. C. A. as headquarters. It was well lighted up, for like most enterprising towns of its size, Cliffwood boasted of an electric plant, as well as gas-works and a water supply.
A number of boys were in the main room, chatting, and waiting for others to come. Later on they expected to listen to a lecture by a gentleman who had been with Commander Peary in the frozen North, and had a deeply interesting story to tell, illustrated by moving pictures of the ice and snow regions.
“Here’s Peg, our fine librarian!” announced one fellow as the pair entered. “Now we can see what he’s been doing about that new circulating library of the Y. M. C. A. boys of Cliffwood.”
“Yes, get out your key, Peg, and open the door to the little room off here,” begged a second impatient member.
“Just what I mean to do, fellows,” announced Peg, smiling with pleasure. “Now, don’t rub it in too hard if things are not up to the standard. Given a little more time and I promise you it will look better.”
When the door was opened and they trooped in, almost filling the small room that had been handed over to them for the Boys’ Library, they found that several shelves were filled with books. Every one of these volumes had its own jacket made of some smooth, tough brown paper, with the title carefully printed on the back, as well as the name of the author.
On the little desk were several books in which a record could be kept concerning each and every book taken out. Peg had taken advice from older heads—Mr. Holwell among the rest—and nothing was to be left to chance. Peg was always a great hand for system, and enjoyed having an opportunity to put a few pet theories of his into practice.
“You see,” explained the proud librarian, “every book here has been approved by Mr. Holwell, who has made a study of juvenile literature. He knows as well as anything that boys can’t be forced to read books they don’t like; and so he says the only way is to give them books with enough healthful adventure to make them want to read, and with the right kind of uplifting sentiment mixed in to leaven the dough.”
“That’s the ticket,” asserted Clint Babbett, energetically. “If you want to wean boys from reading stories full of blood and thunder you’ve got to give them a substitute that will hold them, and yet not do any harm. Boys are queer animals, my father always says, and not one man in fifty really understands how to handle ’em. And as to women, huh, I reckon none of ’em do, after a boy gets ten years old.”
“I like the way Mr. Holwell explains his theory of handling boys reading,” said Dick. “He likens it to playing doctor, and giving the patient homeopathic sugar coated pills that contain the medicine wanted. It pleases, and does good at the same time.”