Perrysburg journal. (Perrysburg, Wood Co., O. [Ohio]) 186?-1965, 1888-06-22

nOtnlnE snould nnppon 10 III during Jno
progress of the feast.
With the recurrence of spring, om-
broidorod with the usual New York nc
cossorios of'snow storms and May morn
ings, the bookseller started on his ian
nual trip 10 Europe" MS his circulars
put II. At tho bottom of his trunk,
trcbly wrapped in paper and oiled silk,
woro book and some prints done up
in one package On this package,
which had originally cost the owner
two dollars and twenty-five cents, there
was nn insurance of two hundred and
fifty dollars.
Deep in the slums Of Bolloyillc, n
haggnrd, unkempt man worlc in
dirty little room, with dirty bed in
ono corner, Mt II bookbindor's bench.
There were tools of The bookbindor's
trado on rickoty table. There was
also an nb,inthc bott and tumblcr
half full of grocn-gray compound
that bore n strange resemblance to the
complexion of tho man himself, or
which his complexion strangely re-
scmbled. As ho worked, the man sang,
in n croaking voice, one of those foul
songs common in tho low concert halls
of Paris.
Sacred namo of blue hog" said
the bookbindcr, breaking off in his
chant "Why don't you como in,
IDIOT"
Tho door opened, and tho person
who had knocked entered The book
binder looked nt him, and growled:
"Wcll. you arc back, as usual, chp
You come, like the cholera at Marsoil-
les. with summer. What is it nowP"
His visitor was the New York book
seller, and he had package under his
arm. lie looked calmly around him,
with the expression of man not quito
a stranger to tho place, and sat down
on the only stool.
80 you haven't drunk yourself
crazy yet" he remarked, pleasantly.
Upon my soul, Lurat, you must be
made of gutta-percha.
"Ilavo you come nll tho way from
Now York to tell mo thatP" demanded
the book-bindor sourly.
mo such fool, replied tho book
seller "Arc you busyP"
cam not always, when ] choose to
bop"
"Truo enough Wcll, do you choose
TO he little busiero"
Tho bookseller had united his pack
age, and now spread out n book and
some prints upon his knee.
"lIcrc is book" said he, "that
would bo really fine in iifty-iranc
binding by Tout"
The book binder, who had laid by his
work. took the prints and the volumes
up, and examined them with profess
sional interest even his sottishness
could not overcome.
at would look bottcr,'. said he, 'in
n hundrcd-franc binding"
"Sovcnty-iivc, you mean," corrected
the bookseller.
mo; mean hundred"
81 think you mean eighty"
al will mean hundred and fifty
next time" replied the book binder,
holding the package out TO him.
The bookseller motioncd him to keep
1T. and got up.
'.Do your best with il, Lurat," he
said, "and when shall come for it?'
Lurat named date and the book
seller departed. The book-binder
watched him out with scornful flash
in his observation-disclosures eye, and NUT
tered to his back, vanishing down the
uncIenn stairs:
"What n swindler! l wonder if
there are any people in America but
swindlers and fools. AMI it is for such
scum that am II rascal, who might be
an honest man."
He drowned tho reflection with n
gulp of absinthe, and set to work nurs-
ing another tumbler full.
Ten days later, tho bookseller was
writing letters in his room in the
Hotel dcs Deux Mondes, when fat
man, with fiat, solid-looking package
in his hand, was ushercd in by SER
want of tho house. The bookseller
greeted hm with curt nod, motioncd
the servant out, and bade his caller
open the package. 1t contained box
of polished wood, with brass mount
ings and in the center of the lid an
elaborate coat-of-arms in brass.
"You are sure the arms are correctP"
asked the bookseller, pushing the satin
lining with his forefnger, and work
ing the hinges to test them.
The fat man pulled little book from
his pocket, turned. few leaves, and
pointed to an engraving entitled "Arms
of Baron Rothschild, amateur and col
lector." The bookseller nodded,
glanced at the slip of paper incloscd in
the box, and counted out some small
silver and gold piece on the table,
Tho fat man counted the money care
fully for himself, made his adieux and
departed. Tho bookseller took from
the drawer of tho tabla book wrapped
in silk handkerchief, deposited 1t in
tho box. and wrapped the box itself up
in the handkerchief, and afterward in
paper
"There," he said, with satisfied
mir. to his reflection in the mirror.
Now when that fellow brings the cer-
titicate we shall be o. X.
Eleven months had passed since the
poor Bohemian had sold his "Pucelle"
TO get him II morning cocktail when
the New York press announced the sale
at Lcvite IL Co. IS of the celebrated Dry
bunkio collection. No one had heard
of tho Drybunkio collection before,
among all the photographers, biblio-
maniacs, bibliophilcs, bibliocrank',
and the rest interested in matters
photographed in New York. But it
was certainly n big lot of books, enum-
Grated in fat catalogue stuffed with
the trite quotations and bad English
common to book-auction catalogues in
the metropolis. And the catalogue