"We have very little of that sort of matter," the lady librarian assured him frigidly. "There is no such name in our catalogue of authors."
"Is there a bookstore where they make a specialty of such writings?" asked Jack.
The librarian admitted with strong distaste that there was, and gave him the address.
It was a little basement shop far on the East side. It was presided over by a lanky-haired, spectacled youth, who sneered at Jack's good clothes, and was prepared to hate him on the spot.
"Have you anything by Barbarossa?" Jack asked at a venture.
"Barbarossa's never written any books that I know of," was the surly reply.
Jack thought with satisfaction: "Then there is a Barbarossa!" Aloud he said: "I mean anything he's written."
The youth looked at him suspiciously.
"I heard him speak," said Jack glibly. "I'm crazy to learn more about his ideas."
"Barbarossa writes for the Future Age magazine," said the snaky-haired one. "He's one of the editors. How is it you don't know that if you know him?"