“The collector’s instinct seems to be a curious by-product of the human mind; and not only of the human mind, for magpies, monkeys, and even dogs, sometimes have it. When a dog makes a store of bones, old and entirely fleshless, he is like the collector who keeps obsolete things just because they are obsolete. A used postage stamp is to a man what a bone without flesh is to a dog; but the collector of postage stamps goes further than the dog, in that he prefers an old postage stamp to a new one, while no dog, however ardent a collector of bones without flesh, would not rather have a bone with flesh on it. Yet there is more method in the human collector, since he always has before him the ideal of a complete collection, whereas no dog, probably, ever dreamed of acquiring specimens of all the different kinds of bones there are in the world. This ideal of a complete collection is the usual spur of the human collector; and often he will collect the most out-of-the-way things in the hope of attaining it. But there is also the spur of rivalry, and because of that there are not many collectors of things that no one else collects. Every collector likes to have at least one rival whom he may out-do, and from whom perhaps he may steal; for the collector’s instinct is sometimes too strong for the most honest of men, so that they come to regard stealing as only a bold and skilful kind of collecting. They would never steal anything except what they collect; but in stealing a fine specimen they are only rectifying the iniquity of chance which has given that specimen to an ignoramus who does not deserve it. For them collecting is a game, and stealing is not a breach of the rules. Indeed, there is only one breach of the rules, viz.:—forging. But even forgeries make collecting more exciting; and perhaps they are not really a breach of the rules, but only an added complication in the game, a new kind of bunker, so to speak, which tests the skill of the player.”
Great minds think alike! Oh, thank you!
In my numerous calls I have only once been openly treated with suspicion, and that happened in a county town which boasts of an imposing jail. Possibly the existence of that massive pile with its undesirable inmates had given cause to the local antique dealer to be ever doubtful of his visitors. My friend and I had left the motor at the hotel, found a small shop crowded with antiques, opened the door, which was of the stable pattern in two sections, and walked in. After a few minutes, during which we were examining curios, and making audible comments, the proprietor came out of the back, and demanded to know how we got in.
“Through the door.”
“Yes, but why didn’t you ring the bell?”
“Perhaps the bell is out of order.”
“No, that won’t wash, I know your sort.”
He was irate, so we left him in possession. My friend was very indignant, and was not appeased when I hinted that the unpleasant incident would not have occurred if I had been by myself.