"Very much indeed."
"Do you think you could make anything out of it? Make it the business of your life, so that you would stand some show of advancement on the strength of the interest you took in it?"
"I think I could," replied Richard slowly, somehow deeply moved by Mr. Joyce's earnestness. "I always liked books—not only to read them, but to handle and to arrange them as well. At home I was the librarian of our Sunday-school, and I got out the catalogue and all that. Of course it was not a great work, but I enjoyed it, and often wished I might have charge of a big library or something like that."
Mr. Joyce eyed the boy thoughtfully.
"Reckon I was right. Thought you'd take to books. Persons with your kind of a forehead always do. Well, come along. I'll see what I can do toward getting you a place with a friend of mine."
Locking up his desk, Mr. Joyce put on his hat and led the way out on the street.
"We'll have to hurry," he said, "or we'll find my friend has gone home."
Richard needed no urging. With a strangely light heart he kept close behind the leather merchant.
They passed along several blocks, and at length turned into Beekman
Street.
"Here we are," said Mr. Joyce, finally. "This is my friend's place of business."