"Isn't it? It was brought by some Italian twins to a village in Missouri, where it had an exciting history. Look at the finger prints in blood on the handle. They betrayed a murderer, and he was denounced in court by Pudd'nhead Wilson."
We had finished our circuit of the room, and it was time for me to bid Mr. Gooch good-night. I started to thank him for showing me his collection, but he interrupted.
"Oh, that's all right; but," he added, laying his hand on my shoulder in a paternal fashion, "one last request: if you write it up for the 'Transcript,' don't try to be funny! I do hate to have books, and libraries, and literature treated flippantly. Now, I read your column—oh! very often—"
"No!"
"Yes, I do," he persisted, "I really do! After I have finished the Genealogical Department, of course, and all those other fellows—The Bee-Keeper, and The Bishop Afloat, and all the rest of 'em, I read The Librarian frequently."
I blushed slightly.
"And I wish," continued my host, "that you would treat my collection seriously."
"Mr. Gooch," I promised, "I will be as solemn as—as—oh, as your brother's annual reports. I can say no more than that."