He led the way to the back of the store, where his bachelor apartments were situated—a bedroom and a library—a most curious library, for Tommy was an omnivorous reader and particularly given to romances.
In one corner of the room was a small bookcase with perhaps fifty books carefully arranged; a little desk and an arm-chair. "That's his corner," said Tommy abruptly; "look at the books."
Whimple looked over the titles rapidly, then more closely. "Plays," he murmured, "the lives of actors, more plays, The Comedian, Garrick, Nell Gwynn," then turning to Tommy and raising his voice, "he wants to be an actor?"
"Yep."
"But many boys think that—almost every boy thinks that."
"But not the way this boy does."
"Yes, but can he read these, Tommy? I never heard any one murder English like William does. Yet he does it so winningly—that's the word, I think—that any jury would acquit him. And his slang—uh!" He shrugged his shoulders.
"Fierce, ain't it?" said Tommy smilingly.
"But can he really read these books?" Whimple reiterated.
"You should hear him and see him tackling the dictionary when he's stuck. Besides—I'm telling you everything mind in confidence—'Chuck' Epstein reads with him."