Each thief has his own special _modus operandi_, which he varies according to circumstances. There are those who do it without any adventitious aid, and those who cover their sin with various accessories. First, the ordinary book-thief, who watches his opportunity when the shopkeeper is not looking, and simply slips the book quickly under his coat and departs. This method is plain and simple in execution, but sometimes dangerous in practice. Then there is the man who wears an overcoat, the lining of the pocket of which he has previously removed, so that he can pass his hand right through while apparently only standing still looking on, with his hands quietly in his pocket, possibly with one hand openly touching something, whilst the other is earning his dinner. [Illustration: '_Earning his Dinner._'] An amusing incident was once the experience of a London bookseller. While sitting behind his counter inside the shop, he was amazed one day at seeing a man running at a tremendous rate, and, momentarily slackening his speed to seize a book off the stall, he had disappeared before the astounded bookseller was able to get to the door. And it is remarkable that, though many people were about, no one seems to have noticed the thief take the book, though they saw him running. Another favourite device is to carry a newspaper in the hand, and when no one is looking deposit the paper on a carefully-selected book within the folds; or having an overcoat carried on the arm to quickly hide something under cover of it. This latter method requires, of course, a well-to-do-looking man, and obviously is chiefly confined to the stealers of the higher class of valuable books. It also requires, like every well-managed business, a certain amount of capital, for it is absolutely necessary--in order to lull suspicion--that small purchases should be made from time to time in the hunting-ground that has been chosen for the season. [Illustration: _The King's Library, British Museum._] Then there is the mean man who, having money, is yet lacking in the will to spend it. Such individuals in these days of disguising bad deeds under grand names are euphemistically designated kleptomaniacs. Most London booksellers have had experience of this class. It is a known fact that a literary man whose name is familiar to many readers was expelled from the reading-room of the British Museum for this sort of conduct, stealing small trifling things that could easily have been bought, and mutilating other books by cutting out passages which he was too lazy to transcribe, and too mean, although a well-to-do man, to employ an amanuensis.