“I do,” said I, “but not for myself; I was sent by another person to offer something in exchange for one.”
“And who is that person?”
“A poor old woman, who has had what you call convictions,—heard voices, or thought she heard them—I forgot to ask her whether they were loud ones.”
“What has she sent to offer in exchange?” said the man, without taking any notice of the concluding part of my speech.
“A book,” said I.
“Let me see it.”
“Nay, brother,” said the precise man, “this will never do; if we once adopt the system of barter, we shall have all the holders of useless rubbish in the town applying to us.”
“I wish to see what he has brought,” said the other; “perhaps Baxter, or Jewell’s Apology, either of which would make a valuable addition to our collection. Well, young man, what’s the matter with you?”
I stood like one petrified; I had put my hand into my pocket—the book was gone.
“What’s the matter?” repeated the man with the lion countenance, in a voice very much resembling thunder.