Old Mr. Bennett himself, the son of
the famous man who had known Scott and Byron, was now a prodigious age (in
the town his nickname was Methusalem), but he still liked to sit in the
shop in a high chair, his white beard in bright contrast with the chaste
selection of the newest works arranged in front of him. He might himself
have been the Spirit of Select Literature summoned out of the vasty deep
by the Cultured Spirits of Polchester.
Into this splendid temple of letters the Archdeacon came, halted,
breathless, bewildered, tumbled. He saw at first only dimly. He was aware
that old Mr. Bennett, with an exclamation of surprise, rose in his chair.
Then he perceived that two others were in the shop; finally, that these
two were the Dean and Ronder, the men of all others in Polchester whom he
least wished to find there.
"Archdeacon!" cried the Dean.
"Yes--om--ah--an extraordinary thing has occurred--I really--oh, thank
you, Mr. Wilton...."
Mr. Frank Wilton, the young assistant, had offered a chair.
"You'll scarcely believe me--really, I can hardly believe myself.
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