The display in the immaculate cases down the center of the room had been changed once more. Black lettering on a card said simply: SCHOOL DAYS. The cases held fountain pens, typewriters, leather brief-cases, book-ends, and desk sets. Joe thought: “Dad certainly is up to the minute.” But it was toward the book department that he went at once.
Mr. Fairchild was taking some books from the shelves and placing them on the reduced-price table. “Joe,” he said, “don’t ask me if we’re selling any books. The subject is painful.”
The jackets of books made exciting, vivid splashes of color along the shelves. Titles paraded in rows, quickening, challenging, and mysterious. Books and radio again began to tumble about in Joe’s mind as they had tumbled before. Thomas Carlin Presents To-day’s Book.... But his father had said that the cost of a once-a-week would be prohibitive. And yet, if there was a way to tell people about a grand book.... But how could you tell them so that they’d want to read the book?
The door of his father’s office was closed. Shadows moved upon the glass.
“Who’s in with Dad, Mr. Fairchild?”
“We’re carrying a new typewriter. An official of the company’s down to talk advertising appropriation with your father.”
“If we advertise the typewriter, the company’ll pay part of the cost.”
“It’s their typewriter, isn’t it?”
Joe stared at the shelves. Books and radio were doing another tumble through his mind. His breath quickened.
Clerks covered the cases with dusters at the closing hour and came back to the rear.