The Lucky Number

Front matter

THE LUCKY NUMBER Short Stories

BY IAN HAY AUTHOR OF “HAPPY-Go-LUCKY,” “A MAN'S MAN" “THE WILLING HORSE,” ETC.

BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 1923

"The Liberry"

“THE LIBERRY”

I

I first met Mr. Baxter at the fourpenny box outside Mr. Timpenny's second-hand bookshop in High Street, and was attracted at once by the loving care with which he handled its contents. Dirty and dog's-eared as most of them were, he never snatched one up or threw it down, after the common fashion of patrons of inexpensive literature, but would gently extract a more than usually disreputable volume from its heap, blow the dust off, straighten the warped cover, and smooth out the wrinkled pages before dipping into the subject-matter. In fact, the last operation struck me as interesting him least of all.

Becoming aware of my presence, he moved aside with a courtly little bow. He was a dusty old gentleman, in a very shabby frock-coat. He looked as if he lived in the fourpenny box himself.

“Am I preventing you from selecting a volume, sir?” he inquired.

I hastened to reassure him. I had no special designs on the fourpenny box, or indeed on any. I was merely idling.

“I am waiting for the druggist to make up a prescription,” I said.

“Then you don’t do your own dispensing, sir?”

“As a rule, yes. I have run out of this particular drug, though. But you know me?”

“Yes, sir; by sight. We do not take long in Broxborough to get to know every one by sight. You succeeded to Dr. Wiseman's practice, I think?”

“Yes.”

“A good old man, sir, and a lover of books, like myself.”

“You’re right about yourself,” I said. “You handle a book as I would a delicate patient.”

“A very apt comparison, sir. To me, in a manner of speaking, a book is a human thing. A dilapidated book is a patient; I like to repair its broken back and gum in its loose pages. In fact, the late Archdeacon used to rally me upon the subject, sir. He insisted that I cared more for a book, as a book, than for what was inside it.”

I ventured, with immediate success, to draw him out upon the subject of the late Archdeacon.

“Archdeacon Belford, sir. He died many years ago, and few remember him now. A great scholar and gentleman. I was associated with him almost continuously in my younger days. It was he who assisted me to found my library.”

“Your library?”

“Yes, sir.” The old gentleman's mild blue eyes suddenly glowed with pride. “Nothing very pretentious, of course; but I take my little pleasure in it. And it grows—it grows.” He picked a small tattered volume out of the box—it looked like an ancient school prize—and turned down a few dog's-ears with a distressed expression.

“A sweet little edition,” he said, examining the text, “but small print. I have left my glasses at home. Would you very kindly indicate to me the nature of its contents, sir?”

I read a few lines aloud to him—poetry.

“I don't know it,” I confessed. “Poetry is not much in my line. Let me look at the title-page. Ah—Robert Southey.”

“I rather thought it was Southey,” said Mr. Baxter immediately.

“I fancy you are more widely read than I am,” I remarked.

“I make a point of reading aloud a passage out of one of my books every day, sir. I acquired the habit under the late Archdeacon. We read together constantly. He had very definite views on the value of reading. ‘A man with books about him,’ he used to say, ‘is a man surrounded by friends far more interesting and distinguished than any he is likely to meet when he dines with the Bishop. A man with a library of his own, however small, is at once a capitalist who can never go bankrupt and an aristocrat who moves in circles to which the common herd cannot penetrate. In other words, a man with a library is a man respected!’ That was why I founded my own, sir. The Archdeacon himself contributed the first few volumes.”

“Is it a large library?” I asked, glancing furtively at my wrist-watch.

“No, sir; of very modest dimensions. But it is sufficiently large to be utilized by nearly all my friends.

“You lend them books, then?”

“Oh, no, sir. I would not do that. My books are everything to me—and you know what book borrowers are! My friends are welcome to tap my literary resources, but it must be through me as medium.”

“I don’t quite understand,” I said, noting out of the corner of my eye that Mr. Pettigrew, the druggist next door, had emerged from behind the carved wooden screen which masks the mysteries of his dispensing department from the layman's eye, and was now visible through the shop window, busy with white paper and sealing-wax.

“When a seeker after knowledge calls upon me,” explained the indefatigable Mr. Baxter, “I select from my library the appropriate volume and read, or recite, to him such passages as appear to me most applicable to his case. In this way I ensure the safety and cleanliness of my literary property—”

“So here you are! I thought so. Have you been buying another of those dirty things?”

A small, alert, slightly shrewish girl of about fifteen had suddenly appeared from nowhere, and was now transfixing my flinching companion with the eye of the Ancient Mariner.

“Only fourpence, my dear,” replied Mr. Baxter, deferentially.

“That's right. Throw money about!” said the young lady. “Have you got fourpence?” she added, with a slight softening of manner.

“Well, to be exact, I rather think all I have at the moment is threepence.

The Ancient Mariner produced a penny.

“Here you are,” she said, handing him the coin with a not altogether successful attempt at an indulgent smile. “You have n’t bought anything for a fortnight. Go in and pay for it, and then come home to dinner, do!”

“Good morning, Mr. Baxter! How's the library this morning?”

The druggist was standing in his doorway, with a facetious twinkle in his eye. Evidently Mr. Baxter's library was an accepted target for local humour.

Mr. Baxter took no notice, but disappeared into the bookshop. Mr. Pettigrew handed me my bottle.

“One of our characters, that old fellow,” he said, with that little air of civic pride which marks the country-townsman booming local stock. “Quite a poor man, but possesses an extensive library—quite extensive. His learning is at the service of his fellow citizens. He likes to be called The Oracle. Supposing you want to know something about Shakespeare, or Julius Cæsar, or Wireless Telegraphy, or Patagonia, you go to Baxter. You press the button and he does the rest! Lives a bit in the clouds, of course; and I would n’t go so far as to say that his information is always infallible. In fact”—Mr. Pettigrew tapped his forehead significantly—“his upper storey—”

“Who made up a wrong prescription, and poisoned a baby?” demanded an acid voice immediately under the humourist's left elbow. He swung round. The small girl, crimson with wrath, but with her emotions well under control, stood gazing dispassionately before her, apparently talking to herself.

“Whose wife gave a party,” she continued—“and nobody came? Whose daughter wants to marry the curate—and he won’t? Who—”

“That’ll do,” announced Mr. Pettigrew, shortly, and retired in disorder into his shop. Simultaneously The Oracle emerged from the bookshop with Robert Southey under his arm, and with a stately inclination in my direction departed down the street, under the grim and defiant escort of his infant guardian.

II

One morning about three months later, my butler, footman, valet-de-chambre, chauffeur, and general supervisor, McAndrew, thrust his head round the dining-room door as I sat at breakfast and announced:

“There’s a wee body in the hall.”

I have known McAndrew for seven years now, and I understand his vernacular. We met in that great rendezvous of all time, the Western Front, on a day when I took command of a Field Ambulance in which McAndrew was functioning as a stretcher bearer. When our unit was demobilized in Nineteen Nineteen, McAndrew came before me and announced that he had relinquished all intention of resuming his former profession of “jiner” in his native Dumbarton, and desired henceforth to serve me in the capacity mentioned above for the joint term of our natural lives. I took him on, and he does very well. He has his own ideas about how to wait at table, and his methods with unauthenticated callers are apt to be arbitrary; but he is clean and honest, and—well, he wears a vertical gold stripe on his left sleeve and three ribbons just above his watch-pocket. That is enough for me.

As I say, his vernacular now contains no mysteries for me. So when he made the alarming announcement just mentioned I realized at once that no case of infant mortality had occurred on my premises, but that a person of small stature desired an interview.

“Man or woman?” I asked.

“A lassie.”

“A patient?”

“I couldna say: she wouldna tell me,” replied McAndrew, not without bitterness.

“Bring her in,” I said. Forthwith the Ancient Mariner was ushered into my presence.

“Grampa’s in bed with one of his legs again,” she announced.

I forbore to ask an obvious and fatuous question, and nodded.

“Dr. Wiseman used to attend him,” continued my visitor; “but he did n’t charge him very much–next to nothink, almost,” she added, with a shade of anxiety.

“Is your grandfather insured, or on any club?” I asked. “If so, the panel doctor—”

“No, he is n’t insured, or anything. He's a gentleman. He has a liberry.”

Toujours the Liberry! “Where does he live?” I inquired.

“Twenty-One, The Common. When can you come?”

“Eleven o’clock.

“All right. Don't be earlier than that: I have the room to straighten.”

The Home of The Oracle proved to be one of a row—something between a villa and a cottage. The door was opened by my sharp-featured little friend.

“Walk in,” she said—“and wipe your boots.”

Mr. Baxter was in bed in the front parlour. As I had suspected, he had both legs with him—but one of these was inflamed and swollen.

“I always bring him in here when he's poorly,” explained the granddaughter (whose name I discovered later to be Ada Weeks), “because he likes to be with his old books.” She favoured her patient with an affectionate glare. “He’s half silly about them.”

I attended to the invalid's immediate wants, and then overhauled him generally. He was not what an insurance agent would have termed “a good life.” After that, I was introduced to the library, which occupied the wall opposite to the bed. It consisted of a couple of mahogany bookcases, of solid Victorian workmanship, with locked glass doors lined with faded green silk. Ada Weeks produced a key from under her grandfather's pillow and unlocked one of the doors, revealing the books. They were all neatly covered in brown paper. There were no titles on the backs, but each book bore a number, in sprawling, irregular figures.

“There, sir!” announced my patient, with simple pride. “There you behold the accumulated wealth of a man who is just as wealthy as he wishes to be!”

“Rats!” remarked a sharp voice from the recesses of the library; but the old gentleman appeared not to hear.

“It dates from the lamented death of the late Archdeacon. There are a hundred and seventy-nine volumes in all. The little Southey is the last arrival. Show it to us, Ada.”

Miss Weeks extracted Volume One Hundred and Seventy-Nine from the lowest shelf, and handed it to the old man. He turned over the pages lovingly.

“Here is the passage which made us acquainted, sir,” he said. “A delightful thing.” He produced spectacles from somewhere in the bed, adjusted them, and read:

He faltered.

“‘With whom I converse day by day,’” said Ada Weeks in a matter-of-fact voice. “Don’t strain your eyes.”

“You are right, my dear,” admitted Mr. Baxter, laying down the book. “The type is somewhat small. But this little poem is strangely suggestive of my own condition. It is called ‘The Scholar’—just about an old man living in the past among his books. I have read it to myself many a time since last I saw you, sir. Put it back, Ada; and show the Doctor an older friend. Something out of the late Archdeacon's library—say Number Fourteen.”

Miss Ada pulled down the volume indicated, blew viciously upon the top edges, and handed it to me. It proved to be part of an almost obsolete Encyclopaedia.

“A useful little compendium of knowledge,” was Mr. Baxter's comment. “Unfortunately, I have not the set complete—only eight volumes. They go as far as Pocahontas. There are four more, really.”

“Prairie Oyster to Zymotic,” confirmed the ever-ready Miss Weeks.

“Precisely. You would be surprised at the number of my callers who desire information on matters that come between Prairie Oyster and Zymotic!” The old gentleman sighed. “But where their requirements are limited to the earlier letters of the alphabet, I can usually find a passage which both interests and enlightens them.” He glanced at the number on the back of the book. “This is the first volume of the set—A—Byzantium. Many a hungry soul have I fed from it.” He turned over the pages. “Addison—Algebra—Archæology—Adenoids—That reminds me, a neighbour is coming in to consult me about adenoids this afternoon. A mother—a woman in quite humble circumstances. I must look up adenoids.”

“Isn't that rather trespassing on my department?” I asked.

“Oh, dear! no, sir. All I shall do will be to find the passage relating to adenoids, and read it aloud to Mrs. Caddick.”

“Mrs. Caddick? I am treating a child of hers for adenoids at present.”

“Quite so, sir. And Mrs. Caddick naturally wishes to know what they are. I shall read aloud to her the scientific definition of the ailment. It is surprising what a comfort that will be to her. Poor soul, she's almost illiterate; and the printed word is a sacred mystery to such!”

“You are an authority on human nature, Mr. Baxter, I perceive.”

“You are kind to say so, sir. But I was a mere disciple of the late Archdeacon. It’s a strange thing, human nature,” he continued pensively. “I have studied it all my life. My recreation is to help it—and it needs all the help it can get. I am at home every evening, and folk look in quite regularly to ask for my guidance on some literary, historical, or scientific point of interest. ‘Consulting The Oracle,’” they are kind enough to call it. Such visits enable me to gratify at once my hobby and my vanity!” He smiled.

“You have one or two bulky-looking volumes up there,” I said, approaching the bookcase and inspecting the top shelf. “Who is this big fellow—Number Eighty-Seven?”

I half raised my hand; but in a flash Ada Weeks was before me.

“It’s Shakespeare,” she announced, snatching the volume down and holding it to her flat little bosom. “Presentation!”

“Ada is always a little jealous about letting the presentation volumes out of her hands,” explained Mr. Baxter, from the bed. “That book was conferred upon me as a small token of esteem by a certain literary circle in London in which I was interested before I came here, many years ago. Bring it to me, my dear.”

Ada Weeks, with a sidelong and defiant glance in my direction, handed the great book to the old man. He opened it at random, and began to read aloud.

He broke off, and smiled.

“You see I do not need glasses,” he said, “for such a passage as that! I almost know it by heart, although I never possessed the Archdeacon's astonishing facility in that direction. He was accustomed to commit a passage to memory every day. Put it back, Ada, dear.”

Miss Weeks restored the volume to the case, closed the door, turned the key, and faced me with the air of a small but determined hen which has safely shut her chickens into the coop in the very face of an ill-disposed but inexperienced young fox. I took up my hat.

“Good-bye, Mr. Baxter,” I said. “I shall come and see you to-morrow. Don’t let your disciples overtire you.”

The old man flushed. “I thank you for that flattering word, sir,” he said.

Halfway down the street I realized that I had forgotten my stethoscope. Accordingly, I retraced my steps.

I found the front door open. I might have walked in without ceremony; but, inspired by a very proper fear of Miss Ada Weeks, I tapped respectfully and waited. There was no response. Presently I became aware of voices proceeding from the front parlour, the door of which stood wide open just inside the passage. This is what I heard.

“Adenitis, and Adenoid Growths—that’s the nearest I can find. Which do you want?”

“I think Adenoid Growths, my dear. Read it through once, as usual; then again line by line.”

“All right. Pay attention, mind!” said Miss Weeks sharply, and began:

“Adenoid Growths of the lym—lymphatic tissues of the upper throat occur chiefly in children from four to fourteen. Yes, that's right: Johnny Caddick is eight. The child breathes through the mouth—Where do they expect him to breathe through? His ear?—suffers from Nasal Cat–cat something; we’ll call it cater—from Nasal Cater. I wonder how people can write such words, let alone read them!”

“To me,” said the gentle voice of the old man, “it seems wonderful that they should be able to do either.”

“Listen again,” commanded Miss Weeks, oblivious of a resounding knock from me.

“—Nasal Cater, and slight deafness; and is stupid and sluggish—This book takes off Johnny Caddick to the life, and no mistake! I wonder what his mother will say—with a cha-rac-ter-is-tic—oh, crumbs!—facial expression. Cure is effected by a simple operation of removal. Does that mean his face? A good job if it does! That's all. Now I’ll learn you it. Adenoid Growths—”

“Adenoid Growths; Adenoid Growths; Adenoid Growths—”

“Of the lymphatic tissues—”

“Of the lymphatic tissues—”

I recollected that I had a spare stethoscope at home, and tiptoed down the steps.

III

I learned a good deal about the Baxter ménage during the next few weeks, from various sources.

First the Rector, whom I encountered one day paying a parochial call at Twenty-One, The Common. We walked home together.

“He’s a strange old fellow,” said my companion, “and most of his characteristics are derived from imitation, conscious or unconscious, of a stranger old fellow still.”

“The late lamented?”

“Exactly. Old Belford was a bachelor, and lived alone among his books in his house in the Close for nearly forty years. His only companions were an aged cook-housekeeper and Adam Baxter. He died fifteen or twenty years ago, before I came here. He was nearly ninety, I fancy.”

“What was Baxter's exact status in the household?”

“By his own account, he was the old man's confidential secretary, amanuensis, and librarian. My own belief is that he cleaned the Archidiaconal boots. Of course he may have been allowed to dust the books in the library too. Anyhow, during his period of service in that household he contrived to amass an enormous quantity of more or less useless book-learning. He is regarded hereabouts as quite a savant. His erudition makes him respected by those who have none, and his library of miscellaneous rubbish gives him the status of a man of property.”

“It’s not all rubbish. He has a Shakespeare and a Southey, at least. He has Jowett's Thucydides too, he tells me.”

“You’re right: I retract that part. But his library is rubbish, in the sense that it's an unclassified rag bag of odds and ends. Still, he's an enlightened old chap in his way. When he settled down in that little house after old Belford's death and began to set up as a sort of provincial Socrates, his conversation and library were mainly classical, as you might expect, considering their origin. He would pull down, a Homer, or a Herodotus, or a Vergil, and spout to his audience some favourite passage of his late employer.”

“You mean to say he translated from the original Latin and Greek?”

“Ah! That’s what nobody knows. The peculiar thing about Baxter is that, though he will read or quote from any book in his library for your delectation, he practically never permits any one to take the book out of his hands. No human eye, for instance, has ever fallen upon the printed pages of Baxter's Homer. If it did, I suspect it would find that page printed in good plain English. Pope's translation, probably.”

“You think he is a fraud, then?”

“Oh, bless you, no! I think he is a genuine book-lover, and values—in fact lives on—the respect which his literary eminence earns for him in this extremely unliterary township. But candidly I think most of his classical works are common cribs. I have known less pardonable forms of hypocrisy. But I was saying just now he was enlightened. Of late years he has supplemented his Latin and Greek and his Poets and Historians by scientific and technical literature. People go and consult him about all sorts of modern developments and tendencies now.”

“Adenoids, for instance?”

“Precisely. Well, I turn off here. I am going to pay a call upon a gentleman who made a large fortune out of Civilian War Work of National Importance. He has acquired a library, too—quite recently and all at once—beautifully bound in morocco and tree calf. But I doubt if he could quote a single line from a single volume therein. Baxter for me, every time! Good-afternoon.”

Secondly, from McAndrew.

“Yon auld felly, Baxter,” he suddenly remarked to me one day while driving me home from a professional round, and passing the door of Number Twenty-One; “he’s real respeckit in the toon. In Scotland, of course, he would be naebody, for every one's educatit there. But here there's men making as much as seeven pound a week at the Phœnix Linoleum Works, on the south side, that has read naething since they passed through school but the Sabbath newspapers. They look on Baxter as a kin’ o' Cyclopedy. But—I was in there the other nicht for a bit crack, and I asked him what he thought of Rabbie Burns. He’d never heard tell of him! There's your Oracle!”

“Mr. Baxter is a self-made man of letters,” I said. “He got most of his learning second-hand from the Archdeacon. Perhaps the Archdeacon was not a student of Burns, either.”

The enormity of this suggestion quite paralyzed McAndrew for a while. Presently he recovered sufficiently to resume:

“Yon Archdeacon was a doited sort of body. He lived all alone in yon dreich-lookin' house in the Cathedral Close nigh fufty year. He had naething aboot him but books, and naebody aboot him but an auld wife, Mistress Corby, and Baxter. She's deid now, but her dochter married on the ironmonger in High Street. It was her was telling me. Mistress Corby did the beds and the cooking, and Baxter did everything else. He redd up the library, and dusted the books. He carried the coals and sorted the garden as weel. And where do you think the Archdeacon got him?”

“Baxter?”

“Aye, Baxter. Singin' in the street! There's few fowk in this toon ken that, or mind it. But Baxter just drufted into the place one wet day, with the toes stickin' oot of his boots, and the Archdeacon found him standin’ in the rain and took him intil the hoose and kept him. Twenty-five shillin' a week he got, with two suits of clothes a year and a bit present at Christmas. He bided there thirty years, and the Archdeacon never repented of his bargain. Good servants is scarce.”

McAndrew paused impressively, to allow this last truth to sink in, and continued.

“I jalouse the way Baxter got an so weel with the Archdeacon was the interest he took in the library. He was never oot of it, unless he was pitten oot. It wasna so much that he would read the books as worship them. He would take them oot and hold them in his hands by the hour, or sit back on a chair and glower at their backs on the shelves. So Mistress Corby's dochter that married on the ironmonger tellt me.”

“By the way, when did Mr. Baxter's grand daughter appear on the scene?” I inquired.

“That was long after the old man died. He left Baxter an annuity, with two bookcases and a wheen books to start a library of his ain. Mistress Corby's dochter says he left him fufty, and Baxter pinched other twenty-five. That was the nucleus, you’ll understand. The rest he has been collecting for him self for many a year.”

“And the granddaughter?” I inquired gently.

“Oh, aye; I was coming to her. She came along aboot five years ago, long after the old man had settled into yon wee hoose where he stays now. She just appeared. Naebody could ever find oot where from, although Mistress Corby's dochter asked Baxter to tea in her own hoose twice and called on him herself three times. Baxter is as close as an oyster, and as for the lassie”—McAndrew shuddered slightly—“she has an ill tongue tae provoke.”

Thirdly, chez Baxter.

As already indicated, it was the old gentleman's custom of an evening to receive visitors in the front room and discourse to them on literature, poetry, history, and science. Light refreshments—very light refreshments—were handed round by Miss Weeks; but these were a mere appendage to the literary provender supplied. I formed the habit of joining this symposium upon one evening every week—at first out of idle curiosity (and perhaps with the pardonable desire of indulging in one of the few forms of advertisement open to a struggling physician), but subsequently through sheer interest in the academy itself and the amazingly sure touch with which the master handled his disciples.

They were a motley crew. There were socially ambitious young shop-assistants, anxious to acquire a literary polish likely to impress the opposite sex. There were artisans who wished to advance them selves in the technique of their profession. There were heavy-handed, heavy-shouldered, rather wistful men, with muscles made lusty by hard physical labour, conscious of minds grown puny and attenuated for lack of intellectual nourishment. There were humble folk with genuine literary leanings, who came to consult Mr. Baxter's poems and essays, and sometimes shyly proffered compositions of their own for perusal and comment. There were men—uneducated men—dimly conscious of the fact that they possessed immortal souls, who had waded into the deep waters of theological speculation, and got out of their depth. For each and all Mr. Baxter had a word of welcome and counsel.

“I am very happy to see you, Mr. Wright. And your friend, Mr.—? Mr. Dennis. Thank you. We are going to read and discuss a passage from ‘The Tempest’ presently. Shakespeare, you know. Be seated, and my granddaughter will offer you a little refreshment. … I have been consulting various authorities on statical electricity for you, Mr. Armitage. I have marked a few passages in my Encyclopædia, Volume Twenty in my library, which seem to me to treat the subject most lucidly. You might also derive some information from the life of Mr. Faraday–Volume Eighteen. My grand daughter will look up the passage for you presently. … Ah, Mr. Jobson! How are they down at the factory to-day? You are just in time. We are about to read and discuss a passage from ‘The Tempest.’ Shakespeare, of course. Be seated, pray. … For me to read, Mr. Penton? Thank you: that indeed will be an intellectual treat. I will peruse your manuscript at leisure, and comment upon it at our next meeting. … The Agnostics still bothering you, Mr. Clamworthy? Well, I am no theologian; but for sheer old fashioned common sense I don’t think you can beat Paley's ‘Evidences of Christianity.’ The late Archdeacon used to say that he always came back to Paley in the end. Ada, my dear, that passage I marked in Volume Forty-Seven! Now friends, “The Tempest’”

After that the Presentation Shakespeare would be opened, and Mr. Baxter would declaim selected passages. His voice was mellow, and his manner ecclesiastical; plainly his whole deportment was moulded, to the last gesture and inflexion, on one unvarying model. A discussion would follow—a quite naïve and rather pathetic discussion, sometimes. Ultimately Mr. Baxter would sum up, generally with extracts from other Shakespearian passages, which he turned up with great readiness and dexterity, rolling them from off his tongue with obvious relish. Occasionally he would ask Ada for some other volume, and read from that. There were great moments when he would actually call for Homer or Horace and, with apologies for rusty scholarship, offer to our respectful ears a quite coherent rendering of some famous passage.

Finally, at a moment selected by herself, the vigilant Ada Weeks would terminate the proceedings with the curt announcement that her grandfather was tired. The precious volumes were locked in the library again, and we were bidden, without ceremony, to say good-night to our host and not to bang the street door. Both of which commands we obeyed promptly and reverently, and departed homeward.

IV

Possibly it may have occurred to the reader to wonder whether in a community at once so erudite and progressive as Broxborough—it possesses both a Cathedral Close and a Linoleum Factory, you will remember—there can have been no official alternative to Twenty-One, The Common—no Public Library, no Public Lecture Courses, no Municipal Oracle, as it were.

In truth Broxborough once had all these things. Before the War there existed an institution known as Broxborough Pantheon. Here was an excellent library of reference; lectures and classes, too, were constantly in operation throughout the winter months. In its lighter moments the Pantheon lent itself to whist drives. But the entire building had been destroyed by fire in Nineteen Fifteen, and had never been rebuilt, for the good and sufficient reason that during those days there were other things to do. After the Armistice money was scarce and rates were high. Moreover, that shrinking sensitive-plant, the British bricklayer, had been instructed by his Union to limit his professional activities to a tale of bricks so tenuous that his labours for the day were completed, without undue strain, by the time that he knocked off for breakfast. The months passed; such constructive energy as the district could compass was devoted to Government housing schemes, and still the Pantheon lay in ruins.