It was Fate that prevented Elsmere’s fulfilling 177 the trust, or rather, realizing the hope, for though he did go straight to Bertha’s house, he did not find her there. The maid who opened the door proved uncommunicative on the subject of Bertha’s whereabouts, and Elsmere sauntered away, undecided what to do next. Ten feet from the gate, he stumbled upon a cat. At once a beautiful thought came to him. His own cat-pussy had gone away, tired of abuse and starvation irregularly combined with affection in the form of embraces and sugar, and Elsmere’s heart had grieved for her. Here was another, and he could find out by actual experiment whether the velvet birds in the library would deceive her. Clutching the spitting, clawing creature to his bosom, he trotted off to the library.
The door, of course, was locked. At first this fact discouraged Elsmere. Then he suddenly remembered that he alone possessed means of entrance. Putting the cat down on the pavement and stepping firmly on her tail to retain her, he fitted the key and triumphantly turned it in the lock.
Once inside, he carried kitty to the closet where the birds at present hung, but his experiment was unsatisfactory, for she dug into his cheek with a fury which rendered it necessary to abandon the attempt. When the outraged animal had fled down the street, Elsmere looked about for fresh interests. He was in a mood to recognize opportunities, and the unprotected condition of Algernon’s 178 desk was suggestive. Never was a librarian more hostile to little prying fingers than A. Swinburne of the Winsted City Library. Elsmere felt a certain constraint, even alone with opportunity.
The door opened and a very small person came in and walked over to the desk.
“What you want?” asked Elsmere gravely.
“Want a book.”
“All right.” Elsmere walked to the shelves, took down a large volume of Sheridan’s Memoirs, and handed it to the child. Plainly much impressed by the size of her booty, she wrapped her arms about it and walked out, with admiring glances at Elsmere over her shoulder. Elsmere was pleased. That was easy. He climbed into Algernon’s chair. There were plenty of things to amuse one. Rubber stamps hold infinite possibilities of entertainment. So do colored cards arranged in trays. Elsmere shifted them all about, and stamped the date on everything in sight.
Then came more Public, Mrs. Kittredge’s maid this time, returning a book and not wishing more. In fact, she laid down the book and departed with such would-be inconspicuous swiftness that if Elsmere had been more experienced, he would have known at once that the book was overdue.
Then there was a lull. Even forbidden pleasure palls in time, if no one comes to remonstrate, and Elsmere was beginning to consider going home, 179 when three boys, strolling that way, pressed their noses against the window-pane. Then they wandered in.
“What’s the kid doin’ in the liberrian’s chair?” asked one. Elsmere maintained a dignified silence, stamping the date rapidly and inkily on a pile of fresh catalog cards.