"We haven’t the book in the library and I believe it is out of print, so I don’t think you will be able to buy it anywhere; but it’s a singularly perfect exposition of the subject and I strongly advise you all to read it." They say he knows more about fen-drainage in the thirteenth century than any other living person except one dreadfully old man in Germany who ’s beginning to forget about it. We were instructed to make ourselves familiar with another work that is in the library, and told that without a knowledge of it we could not expect to accomplish much in the examination. "I don’t suppose many of you will read every word of it," the old man said, "although it will do you a vast amount of good if you do." I privately made up my mind to plough through the whole thing—even if it were in two volumes; I thought it would please him. So, the other day as it was raining and there was n’t anything in particular going on, Berrisford suggested that we run over to the library and glance through the book. We’d never been in the library before and had to ask one of the pages at the delivery desk where the history alcove was. He couldn’t attend to us at first, as there was an angry old gentleman with a very red face prancing up and down in front of the desk exclaiming: "It’s an outrage—an outrage! I shall certainly speak to the President about this before the sun goes down upon my wrath!" Several other pages were cowering behind the desk, and a terrified librarian was murmuring: "I can have it here the first thing in the morning, sir—the first thing; can you wait that long?" "But I want it _now_!" the old gentleman declared; "I shall _not_ wait until the first thing in the morning. You ’re preposterous. It’s an outrage!" He was so emphatic and peevish that some of the students in the big reading-room pushed open the swinging doors and stuck their heads in to see what the trouble was. Well, Berrisford and I found out from the page that he is the greatest philosopher of modern times. He had come in to get a book that hadn’t been asked for in fourteen years, and had just learned that it had been carted away to the crypt of Appleton Chapel to make room for something that seemed to be rather more universal in its appeal. The page took us to the alcove we were looking for, and Berrisford found our book almost immediately. My back was toward him when he discovered it, and I turned around only because of his unusual and prolonged silence. He was standing petrified in front of eighteen fat, dog-eared volumes, with his big eyes blinking like an owl confronted by a dazzling light. "Is that it?" I inquired after a moment in a cold, hushed voice. By way of answer he merely rolled his eyes and swallowed as if his throat were dry.