The Lucky Number. Ian Hay

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СКАЧАТЬ 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:

      “My days among the Dead are passed:

       Around me I behold

       (Where'er these casual eyes are cast)

       The mighty minds of old:

       My never-failing friends are they,

       With whom—With whom—”

      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.

      “This fortress built by Nature for herself,

       Against infection and the hand of war,

       This happy breed of men, this little world,

       This precious stone set in a silver sea,

       This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England—”

      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 СКАЧАТЬ