“My dear fellow,” said Dulcet, calmly, coming up to me, “you shouldn't have done that. You've very nearly spoilt it all. Come on, let's go in and get your tobacco.”
Basswood's proved to be one of those interesting combination tobacco, stationery, toy, and bookshops which are so common on the upper West Side. I have often noticed that these places are by no means unfruitful as hunting ground for books, because the dealers are wholly ignorant of literature and sometimes one may find on their shelves some forgotten volume that has been there for years, and which they will gladly part with for a song. A good many of these stores have, tucked away at the back, a shabby stock of circulating library volumes that have come down through many changes of proprietorship. Only the other day I saw in just such a place first editions of Kenneth Grahame's “The Golden Age” and Arthur Machen's “The Three Impostors,” which the storekeeper was delighted to sell for fifteen cents each.
A dark young man was behind the tobacco counter, and from him I got a packet of my usual blend.
“Mr. Basswood in?” said Dulcet.
“Just stepped out,” said the young man.
We lit our pipes and looked round the shop, glancing at the magazines and the queer miscellany of books. As it was approaching Christmas time there was a profuse assortment of those dreadful little bibelots that go by the name of “gift books,” among which were the usual copies of “Recessional” and “Vampire,” Thoreau's “Friendship,” and “Ballads of a Cheechako,” bound in what the trade calls “padded ooze”. I was particularly heartened to observe that one of these atrocities, called “As a Man Thinketh,” was described on the box (for all such books come in little cardboard cases) as being bound in antique yap. This pleased me so much that I was about to call it to Dulcet's attention, when I saw that he was looking at me from the rear of the store with a spark in his eye. I approached and found that he was staring at a doorway partly concealed by a pile of Christmas toys and novelties. Over this door was a sign: J. Basswood, Rare Book Department.
“Can we go in and look at the rare books?” said Dulcet.
“Sure thing,” said the young man. “Help yourself. The boss'll be back soon, if you want to buy anything.”
Mr. Basswood was evidently a man of some literary discretion. To our amazement we found, in a dark little room lined with shelves, a judicious assortment of modern books, several hundred volumes, and all first editions or autographed copies. The prices were marked in cipher, so we could not tell whether there were any bargains among them, but I know that I saw several particularly rare and desirable things which I would have been glad to have.
“Good heavens,” I said to Dulcet, “friend Basswood is a real collector. There isn't a thing here that isn't of prime value.”