“Excuse me,” said Bertram, who had not ceased from his pretended work. “I have to get a piece of leather.”
He stepped into the back room where Average Jones, his face alight, held up a piece of paper upon which he had hurriedly scrawled:
“Mss. bound into cover. Get it out of him. Tell him you’ve a brother who is a Latin scholar.”
Bertram nodded, caught up a strip of calf-skin and returned.
“Yes, sir,” he said, “the split cover and what’s inside?”
The other started. “You didn’t get it out?” he cried. “You didn’t tear it!”
“No, sir. It’s there safe enough. But some of it can be made out.”
“You said you didn’t read Latin.”
“No, sir; but I have a brother that went through the Academy. He reads a little.” This was thin ice, but Bertram went forward with assumed assurance. “He thinks the manuscript is quite rare. Oh, Fritz! Come in.”
“Any letter of Bacon’s is rare, of course,” returned the other impatiently. “Therefore, I purpose offering you fifty dollars reward.”