know. I get home about nine o'clock, and I most
always read a bit before I go to bed."

How I yearned to know what books they were, but it seemed rude to
question him.

He dipped into Kenko again, and I wondered whether courtesy demanded
that I should order another pot of tea.

"Say, would you like to do me a favor?"

"Sure thing," I said.

"When you get through with that book, pass it over, will you? That's the
kind of thing I've been wanting. Just some little thoughts, you know,
something short. I've got a lot of books at home."

His big florid face gleamed with friendly earnestness.

"Sure thing," I said. "Just as soon as I've finished it you shall have
it." I wanted to ask whether he would reciprocate by lending me one of
his own books, which would give me some clue to his tastes; but again I
felt obscurely that he would not understand my curiosity.

As I went out he called to me again from where he stood by the shining
coffee boiler. "Don't forget, will you?" he said. "When you're through,
just pass it over."

I promised faithfully, and tomorrow evening I shall take the book in to
him. I honestly hope he'll enjoy it. I walked up the bright wintry
street, and wondered what Kenko would have said to the endless flow of
taxicabs, the elevators and subways, the telephones, and telegraph
offices, the newsstands and especially the plate-glass windows of
florists. He would have had some urbane, cynical and delightfully
disillusioning remarks to offer. And, as Mr. Weaver so shrewdly says,
how he would enjoy "The Way of All Flesh!"

I came back to Hallbedroom street, and set down these few meditations.
There is much more I would like to say, but the partitions in hall
bedrooms are thin, and the lady in the next room thumps on the wall if I
keep the typewriter going after ten o'clock.

TWO DAYS WE CELEBRATE

[Illustration]

If we were asked (we have not been asked) to name a day the world ought
to celebrate and does not, we would name the 16th of May. For on that
day, in the year 1763, James Boswell first met Dr. Samuel Johnson.

This great event, which enriched the world with one of the most vivid
panoramas of human nature known to man, happened in Tom Davies's
bookshop in Covent Garden. Mr. and Mrs. Davies were friends of the
Doctor, who frequently visited their shop. Of them Boswell remarks
quaintly that though they had been on the stage for many years, they
"maintained an uniform decency of char