“Now don’t forget to impress the message on him,” cautioned Mr. Boise, “and watch where he puts the papers you give him. Just as likely as not he’ll call on me some day, and say he never received them.” “I will,” promised Tom, and, when it came time for him to lay aside the telephone head-piece, he did so with a feeling of relief, for he welcomed the long trolley ride to the Back Bay district, even though it would bring him home rather late. Mrs. Sandow opened the door when our hero arrived at the Spidderkins’ mansion. “Here are some papers for Dr. Spidderkins,” said Tom. “I’ll give ’em to him, then you won’t have to come in and get mud all over my clean floors,” she said, scowling at Tom. “But I have a particular message to give the doctor.” “Oh, well, then you can come in, I suppose,” but Mrs. Sandow did not speak very graciously. “Ah, glad to see you,” greeted the aged physician, who, for a wonder, did not forget Tom this time. “When are you going to bring me my books? I ordered some of Mr. Townsend to-day.” “I’m not there any more.” “Oh, that’s so. I forgot. Let’s see, you told me where you were employed, but my wretched memory has made me forget it.” “I don’t believe I told you,” replied Tom, “but I’m with Boise, Keen & Cutler. I have brought you some papers from them.” “Oh, yes. I told them to send up the documents, but I had forgotten all about it. I have secured quite a rare book, an early edition of Smollett, and that drove everything else out of my mind. But come into my study.” He led the way into a room, the walls of which were lined with row after row of books. Tom gave him the papers and delivered the message, then, in obedience with the instructions of Mr. Boise, the lad watched to see where Dr. Spidderkins would put the documents. “I’ll lay them on this shelf,” the doctor said, “right under this volume of Fielding. Ah, that is a rare and valuable work. Then I’ll remember where the papers are. I picked up that book on Fielding the same day I got the first edition of Plutarch’s Lives--no, I’m wrong--it was the day I secured, in a second-hand book store, the complete edition of Dickens, with the original illustrations. Queer, how some things will slip out of my mind.” “Do you think you’ll remember where the papers are now, doctor?” asked Tom. “Oh, yes, indeed I will. I have occasion to look at the volume of Balzac every day, and----” “But I thought you said you was going to put them under a book on baseball fielding.” “Baseball fielding! Oh! Ha! Ha! I see. You thought I was going in for sport! No, no, my dear young friend; Fielding is the name of an early English novelist. But I did say Fielding, and not Balzac. There! My memory is getting more and more wretched every day!” “I guess I don’t know much about books,” admitted Tom.