Uncomfortably twisted into a supposedly professional posture, Bertram wrought with hammer and last, while putting off, with lame, blind and halting, excuses, such as came to call for their promised footgear. By a triumph of tact he had just disposed of a rancid-tongued female who demanded her husband’s boots, a satisfactory explanation, or the arbitrament of the lists, when the bell tinkled and the two watchers in the back room heard a nervous, cultivated voice say: “Is Mr. Fichtel here?” “That’s me,” said Bertram, landing an agonizing blow on his thumb-nail. “You advertised that you had found an old book.” “Yes, sir. Somebody left it in the post-office.” “Ah; that must have been when I went to mail some letters to New York,” said the other glibly. “From the advertised description, the book is without doubt mine. Now as to the reward—” “Excuse me, but you wouldn’t expect me to give it up without any identification, sir?” “Certainly not. It was the _De Meritis Libror_—” “I can’t read Latin, sir.” “But you could make that much out,” said the visitor with rising exasperation. “Come; if it’s a matter of the reward—how much?” “I wouldn’t mind having a good reward; say ten dollars. But I want to be sure it’s your book. There’s something about it that you could easily tell me sir, for any one could see it.” “A very observing shoemaker,” commented the other with a slight sneer. “You mean the—the half split cover?” “Swish-swish; whish-swish,” sounded from the rear room. “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.” He looked up as Average Jones entered. The young man’s sleeves were rolled up, his face was generously smudged, and a strip of cobbler’s wax beneath the upper lip, puffed and distorted the firm line of his mouth. Further, his head was louting low on his neck, so that the visitor got no view sufficient for recognition. “Lord Bacon’s letter—er—must be pretty rare, Mister,” he drawled thickly. “But a letter—er—from Lord Bacon—er—about Shakespeare—_that_ ought to be worth a lot of money.”