the haunted bookshop(闹鬼的书店)-第19节
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morning to sweep out the shop and clean the floors for the day's traffic。
Roger； in his old dressing gown of vermilion flannel； would scuffle down
to let her in； picking up the milk bottles and the paper bag of baker's rolls
at the same time。 As Becky propped the front door wide； opened window
transoms； and set about buffeting dust and tobacco smoke； Roger would
take the milk and rolls back to the kitchen and give Bock a morning
greeting。 Bock would emerge from his literary kennel； and thrust out his
forelegs in a genial obeisance。 This was partly politeness； and partly to
straighten out his spine after its all…night curvature。 Then Roger would let
him out into the back yard for a run； himself standing on the kitchen steps
to inhale the bright freshness of the morning air。
This Saturday morning was clear and crisp。 The plain backs of the
homes along Whittier Street； irregular in profile as the margins of a free
verse poem； offered Roger an agreeable human panorama。 Thin strands of
smoke were rising from chimneys； a belated baker's wagon was joggling
down the alley； in bedroom bay…windows sheets and pillows were already
set to sun and air。 Brooklyn； admirable borough of homes and hearty
breakfasts； attacks the morning hours in cheery； smiling spirit。 Bock
sniffed and rooted about the small back yard as though the earth （every
cubic inch of which he already knew by rote） held some new entrancing
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flavour。 Roger watched him with the amused and tender condescension
one always feels toward a happy dog perhaps the same mood of tolerant
paternalism that Gott is said to have felt in watching his boisterous
Hohenzollerns。
The nipping air began to infiltrate his dressing gown； and Roger
returned to the kitchen； his small； lively face alight with zest。 He opened
the draughts in the range； set a kettle on to boil； and went down to
resuscitate the furnace。 As he came upstairs for his bath； Mrs。 Mifflin
was descending； fresh and hearty in a starchy morning apron。 Roger
hummed a tune as he picked up the hairpins on the bedroom floor； and
wondered to himself why women are always supposed to be more tidy
than men。
Titania was awake early。 She smiled at the enigmatic portrait of
Samuel Butler； glanced at the row of books over her bed； and dressed
rapidly。 She ran downstairs； eager to begin her experience as a
bookseller。 The first impression the Haunted Bookshop had made on her
was one of superfluous dinginess； and as Mrs。 Mifflin refused to let her
help get breakfastexcept set out the salt cellars she ran down Gissing
Street to a little florist's shop she had noticed the previous afternoon。
Here she spent at least a week's salary in buying chrysanthemums and a
large pot of white heather。 She was distributing these about the shop when
Roger found her。
〃Bless my soul！〃 he said。 〃How are you going to live on your wages
if you do that sort of thing？ Pay…day doesn't come until next Friday！〃
〃Just one blow…out；〃 she said cheerfully。 〃I thought it would be fun
to brighten the place up a bit。 Think how pleased your floorwalker will
be when he comes in！〃
〃Dear me；〃 said Roger。 〃I hope you don't really think we have
floorwalkers in the second…hand book business。〃
After breakfast he set about initiating his new employee into the
routine of the shop。 As he moved about； explaining the arrangement of
his shelves； he kept up a running commentary。
〃Of course all the miscellaneous information that a bookseller has to
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THE HAUNTED BOOKSHOP
have will only come to you gradually；〃 he said。 〃Such tags of bookshop
lore as the difference between Philo Gubb and Philip Gibbs； Mrs。 Wilson
Woodrow and Mrs。 Woodrow Wilson； and all that sort of thing。 Don't be
frightened by all the ads you see for a book called 〃Bell and Wing；〃
because no one was ever heard to ask for a copy。 That's one of the
reasons why I tell Mr。 Gilbert I don't believe in advertising。 Someone may
ask you who wrote The Winning of the Best； and you'll have to know it
wasn't Colonel Roosevelt but Mr。 Ralph Waldo Trine。 The beauty of being
a bookseller is that you don't have to be a literary critic： all you have to
do to books is enjoy them。 A literary critic is the kind of fellow who will
tell you that Wordsworth's Happy Warrior is a poem of 85 lines composed
entirely of two sentences； one of 26 lines and one of 59。 What does it
matter if Wordsworth wrote sentences almost as long as those of Walt
Whitman or Mr。 Will H。 Hays； if only he wrote a great poem？ Literary
critics are queer birds。 There's Professor Phelps of Yale； for instance。
He publishes a book in 1918 and calls it The Advance of English Poetry in
the Twentieth Century。 To my way of thinking a book of that title
oughtn't to be published until 2018。 Then somebody will come along and
ask you for a book of poems about a typewriter； and by and by you'll learn
that what they want is Stevenson's Underwoods。 Yes； it's a complicated
life。 Never argue with customers。 Just give them the book they ought to
have even if they don't know they want it。〃 They went outside the front
door； and Roger lit his pipe。 In the little area in front of the shop windows
stood large empty boxes supported on trestles。 〃The first thing I always
do；〃 he said。
〃The first thing you'll both do is catch your death of cold；〃 said Helen
over his shoulder。 〃Titania； you run and get your fur。 Roger； go and find
your cap。 With your bald head； you ought to know better！〃
When they returned to the front door； Titania's blue eyes were
sparkling above her soft tippet。
〃I applaud your taste in furs；〃 said Roger。 〃That is just the colour of
tobacco smoke。〃 He blew a whiff against it to prove the likeness。 He felt
very talkative； as most older men do when a young girl looks as
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delightfully listenable as Titania。
〃What an adorable little place；〃 said Titania； looking round at the
bookshop's space of private pavement； which was sunk below the street
level。 〃You could put tables out here and serve tea in summer time。〃
〃The first thing every morning；〃 continued Roger； 〃I set out the ten…
cent stuff in these boxes。 I take it in at night and stow it in these bins。
When it rains； I shove out an awning； which is mighty good business。
Someone is sure to take shelter； and spend the time in looking over the
books。 A really heavy shower is often worth fifty or sixty cents。 Once a
week I change my pavement stock。 This week I've got mostly fiction out
here。 That's the sort of thing that comes in in unlimited numbers。 A good
deal of it's tripe； but it serves its purpose。〃
〃Aren't they rather dirty？〃 said Titania doubtfully； looking at some
little blue Rollo books； on which the siftings of generations had
accumulated。 〃Would you mind if I dusted them off a bit？〃
〃It's almost unheard of in the second…hand trade；〃 said Roger； 〃but it
might make them look better。〃
Titania ran inside； borrowed a duster from Helen； and began
housecleaning the grimy boxes； while Roger chatted away in high spirits。
Bock already noticing the new order of things； squatted on the doorstep
with an air of being a party to the conversation。 Morning pedestrians on
Gissing Street passed by； wondering who the bookseller's engaging
assistant might be。 〃I wish _I_ could find a maid like that；〃 thought a
prosperous Brooklyn housewife on her way to market。 〃I must ring her up
some day and find out how much she ge
