for the moment, ashamed to show myself to "the perfesser,"
because of the raggedness that I had fallen into.

While I was hesitating, a voice at my elbow--

"Any books I can show you?--any special book you're looking for?"

The voice was the voice of the tradesman, warning off the man unlikely
to buy--but it was the familiar voice of my friend, "the perfesser,"
just the same. I turned and smiled into his face, happy in greeting him,
losing the trepidation my rags gave me.

"Why, Johnnie Gregory!" he shook my hand warmly as if I were a prince. I
was enchanted.

"I want to exchange two books if I can--for others!"

"Come right into the back. Breasted, the boss, is out for the day....
I'm having my lunch sent in, won't you have some with me?"

He acted just as if he hadn't noticed my dilapidation.

I said I'd gladly share his lunch.

He drew my story out of me,--the story of my life, in fact, before the
afternoon wore to dusk.

* * * * *

"Do you think I'm crazy?" I asked him.

"No ... far from it ... " adding gently, with a smile, "sometimes an
awful fool, though, Johnnie--if I may say it."

* * * * *

"Won't you stay overnight?"

"No, thanks just the same, 'Perfesser.'"

"I have room enough ... better hang around a few days and look for a job
here."

"It's too near Haberford."

"But I know you'd take a couple of fresh books, if I gave them to you,
now wouldn't you?"

My eyes lit up as with hunger.

"This Milton and Sterne are too used-up to be worth a nickel a-piece.
Maybe, if I'd keep them, they might be worth something, some day, when
you're famous," he joked.

"If you want to give me a couple of books ... how about this Keats and
this Ossian? I want the Keats for myself. It will renew my courage.
And--the Ossian--will you mail that book on for me, to Eos, to old
Pfeiler?"

I had told him, in the course of my talking, about them both.

Pfeiler used often to talk of the greatness of Ossian's poetry ... and
how he'd like to possess a volume of it again ... that is, before he
grew to hate me.

Maybe if I sent him the book, with a letter, he would think less harshly
of me.

* * * * *

I tramped through New England. My whole life had settled back into
tramping ... only my Keats remained. I read and re-read his poems, not
caring to write a line myself.

* * * * *