David resumed his story. By the end of another six months it appeared that he had grown tired of his original shop, with its vast masses of school stationery and cheap new books. As might have been expected from his childish antecedents, he had been soon laid hold of by the old bookstalls, had read at them on his way from work, had spent on them all that he could persuade himself to spare from his hoard, and in a year from the time he entered Manchester, thanks to wits, reading, and chance friendships, was already a budding bibliophile. Slates and primers became suddenly odious to a person aware of the existence of Aldines and Elzevirs, and bitten with the passion, then just let loose on the book-buying world, for first editions of the famous books of the century. Whenever that sum in the savings bank should have reached a certain height, he would become a second-hand bookseller with a stall. Till then he must save more and learn his trade. So at the end of his first year he left his employers, and by the help of excellent recommendations from them got the post of assistant in Purcell's shop in Half Street, at a rise of two shillings, afterwards converted into four shillings a week. 'And I've been there three years--very near,' said David, straightening himself with a little nervous gesture peculiar to him. 'If you'd been anywhere about, sir, you'd have wondered how I could have stayed so long. But I wanted to learn the trade and I've learnt it--no thanks to old Purcell.' 'What was wrong with him?' 'Mostly brains!' said the lad, with a scornful but not unattractive conceit. 'He was a hard master to live with--that don't matter. But he is a fool! I don't mean to say he don't know a lot about some things--but he thinks he knows everything--and he don't. And he'll not let anyone tell him--not he! Once, if you'll believe it, he got the Aldine Virgil of 1501, for twenty-five shillings--came from a gentleman out Eccles way--a fellow selling his father's library and didn't know bad from good,--real fine tall copy,--binding poor,--but a _stunner_ take it altogether--worth twenty pounds to Quaritch or Ellis, any day. Well, all I could do, he let a man have it for five shillings profit next day, just to spite me, I believe, because I told him it was a good thing. Then he got sick about that, I believe, though he never let out, and the next time he found anything that looked good,--giminy!--but he put it on. Now you know, sir'--Mr. Ancrum smiled at the confidential eagerness of the expert--'you know, sir, it's not many of those Venice or Florence Dantes that are worth anything. If you get the first edition of Landino's 'Commentary,' or the other man's, Imola's, isn't it--' The minister lifted his eyebrows--the Italian came out pat, and, so far as he knew, right--