He did nothing of the sort, however, for at that moment a scuffle broke out at the bookcase between two boys. He left his table long enough to separate the boys and tell them to stop fighting or he would put them out.
He couldn't help remembering Miss Grant and her associate, Miss French, who, after eight hours in the main library during the day, came over here each Thursday evening for the mere love of it.
The chief librarian had visited the place once—a year ago, coming at half-past eight, when all was orderly and quiet. He looked blandly around for a few moments and then went away. A few weeks later he included in his annual report a perfunctory sentence about the faithful service of the two young women.
Miss Grant came at about half-past seven, and Fernald turned the desk over to her.
"I wish you would get that red-haired girl a 'sad book,'" he remarked; "she has been after me ever since I arrived for a 'sad book.' Have you anything sufficiently mournful?"
Miss Grant thought she could supply the need, but Fernald did not learn what the book was, for, as she came back from the shelves, she remarked:
"I am afraid that boy needs watching. He comes here only for mischief—never takes any books."
She indicated a tall, lank youth of unpleasant countenance, and about fifteen years old. He was sitting at the center table, moving the magazines about, and watching the librarians out of the corners of his eyes.
"Have you had trouble with him before?" asked Fernald.
"Oh, yes," said Miss Grant, "he tripped me up last Thursday night."