“Say, kid, where’s the liberrian?”
“I’m liberrian.”
“O, come off. Where’s the real one? The feller that knows it all, and walks like a seesaw.”
“That’s Algy,” said Elsmere, with fraternal recognition. “Algy’s sick. I’m liberrian.”
His questioner looked at him keenly.
“I say, kids, let’s us be liberrians. You put the little feller out.”
The obedient henchmen put the howling Elsmere down from his seat, and exalted their chief.
“I’m it,” said that worthy. “You pick out books you want, and I’ll fix ’em up.”
The others, nothing loath, picked out certain extra-illustrated volumes which Algernon did not allow to circulate, and presented them at the desk, where they helped the presiding official to “fix ’em up” according to methods suggested by intuition combined with a little observation.
“Say, now it’s my turn,” said one of the subordinates. “You git down and let me. Does that chair screw ’round?”