“I beg your pardon,” he said, in a peculiar drawling accent, “but would you kindly get me a volume of Browning! I can’t seem to locate it amid all the maze of books here, and all the clerks seem to be engaged. I presume I am right in assuming that you are employed here?” [Illustration: “Browning, the ball player!” exclaimed the young man. _Page 25._] “Oh, yes, I work here,” answered Tom, who paid little attention to accent. “But I’ve only been here two days, and I don’t know much about the books yet.” “Then perhaps you can’t find for me a volume of Browning?” “I guess I can,” said Tom confidently. “I’ll look in my special catalogue,” and he produced the one Mr. Townsend had arranged for him. “Browning, the baseball player, you mean, don’t you?” he asked, for there was an athlete of that name, who had made quite a reputation for himself in the New England circuit that fall. “Browning, the ball player!” exclaimed the young man, as if horrified. “Yes, the one that played short. He’s got the highest batting average----” “Don’t! Don’t, my dear young man; don’t I beg of you,” spoke the customer, waving his hands. “Baseball is such--such----” “It’s a bully game!” exclaimed Tom, enthusiastically. “I used to be captain of a team, when I went to school. Tim Browning----” “No, no! I mean Browning, the poet,” said the young man hastily. “I want a volume of his verses to send to a young lady. She is very fond of him. So am I.” “Oh!” said Tom suddenly, much enlightened. “I thought you meant the other Browning. I was looking for the book among the sports. I’ll turn to poetry. Yes, here it is,” he added a moment later, as he found it in the catalogue. “I’ll get it for you.” He got several different styles of the poet’s work and handed them to the young man. “Ah, that is what I want!” he exclaimed. “Don’t you think his poetry is simply perfect?” “I--I don’t care much for poetry,” replied Tom, who, since he worked in a book store, did not want to confess that he had never read a line of Browning. “Not care for poetry! Not an admirer of Browning! You have missed much, my young friend,” murmured the customer. “I will take this copy,” he went on, selecting an expensive one and handing Tom the money. “I don’t much care whether he buys poetry or books on sport as long as I sell ’em,” thought the lad as he wrapped up the book. “Five dollars for a book! Whew! I work a week for that. But I’m glad I sold it to him.” The young man went out, fondly holding the volume of verse to his side. Tom went on arranging the booklets, but presently he had to stop to wait on a lady who wanted a fairy story for her little girl. Here Tom was more at home, and he found the lady quite ready to defer to his judgment as to what sort of a book was best. Presently a young lady appealed to Tom to find for her a book on philosophy, and though the boy could hardly pronounce the title of it, he managed to locate it.