Beyond a singular desire to enter a large publishing house, Dennis had no idea as to the direction of his efforts.
Aside from the fact that books held an unaccountable fascination for him, he could not explain this predilection, for their influence over him was in the aggregate.
He loved to wander, with aimless preoccupation, among closely-packed shelves, and in pursuance of this indirection was familiar with the interior of every library in the city of Philadelphia.
He appeared to have too much respect for the books to touch them, and was sufficiently in awe of their contents not to attempt to read them.
He was impressed by the volume of things, and had, unsuspected by himself, the capacity of the bibliophile to detect and enjoy the subtle aroma which emanates from leaves and binding.
In harmony, therefore, with the resolute quality which had secured to him what success he had enjoyed in his abandoned business, Dennis decided to exhaust the pleasing possibilities presented by this elevated industry before applying elsewhere.
The éclat of possible authorship did not influence him, despite the encouragement afforded him in the surprising efforts of his imagination displayed in achievements such as the following, with which he embellished the front of his father’s establishment:
This Suit
was
$50
and cheap at that
I’ll let it go for
$20
and so on indefinitely.
Urged, then, by the advantages which lubricate the lines of least resistance, and stimulated by that clarion phrase in his unfailing campaign document, his copy of Beaconsfield: “I have begun many things many times and have finally succeeded,” Dennis presented himself, about ten o’clock, at one of the well-known publishing houses.