THE BARROW MAN.

Otago Witness, Issue 3996, 14 October 1930, Page 63

THE BARROW MAN.

“ Good evening,” I said, pausing before the old barrow with its litter of battered books.

The quaint figure, seated on a threelegged stool behind his wares, looked up and peered over his spectacles at me. The kindly face broke into a many wrinkled smile of welcome as he recognised me, for I always stopped to have a chat with old Jacobs on my way home each evening. “Any of the ‘family’ gone?” I inquired, referring to his stock of volumes. “ Well, sir, I nearly lost Bunyan at mid-day. A labourer, it was, and the way he handled the book fairly gave me the creeps, but he didn’t take it—he seemed to think sixpence was too much merely to be shown the progress of a pilgrim. I was glad in a way.” It was this peculiarity of the harrow man that had first attracted me. He had a fondness for books that overruled his business of selling them. From his seat behind the barrow he watched the hands of prospective purchasers keenly, and if they opened a book carelessly, causing the binding to creak, he winced as though he himself had been injured. He was very reluctant to part with any of his beloved family to buyers who handled them so thoughtlessly. “ Gait’s ‘ The Entail ’ —one of my oldest —found a good home this morning,” went on Jacobs brightly. “A young man bought it. His eye alighted on it quickly, and the way he turned it over in his hands did my heart good. He fairly snapped it up for a shilling. Only real booklovers appreciate Galt nowadays.” Old Jacobs’s appearance was of a negative order, his clothes hung loosely on him and were of an indefinite shade. He wore no collar, but had a faded muffler wound several times round his throat. A dilapidated bowler

hat, set well back on his white head, and a short clay-pipe completed a picture at once interesting and sad. He had bright blue eyes that sparkled with intelligence and a rich fund of book lore that had surprised me. He had his own views on many subjects, and I delighted tq “ draw ” him into a discourse. “I see you’ve still got your Shaker speare.”

He nodded his head knowingly and lowered his voice.

“ Between you and me, sir, I don’t mind saying that I find Shakespeare a bit difficult myself. It’s a good job that Lamb wrote the ‘ Tales.’ ”

“But the plays are all right on the stage,” I protested. “Aye,” he admitted, “I’ve seen one; but—they altered some of the lines.’* This last was whispered as though he were relating a crime of the greatest magnitude.

“ The alterations must have been very slight,” I persisted. “ Does a great man’s work need aL teration ? ” he demanded. “Do ymi know 7,” he went on, “ I always suspect people who take an interest ‘in Shaker speare.”

“ I didn’t know 7 you went in for paper? backed .stuff,” I said, hastily changing the subject.

“ That’s a trade secret,” he murmured, nodding and smiling. “ Really ? ” I remarked encouragingly.

“Yes; you see, my own children don’t always bring in enough to keep us all, so I sell a few novels of a—well, racy sort. I have an arrangement with ths new-book barrow across the road.” “ But why do purchasers of that rubbish come to you instead of going over the way? He looked at me with a twinkle in his blue eyes, and a smile wrinkled his face, “ Sensitive people don’t like to be seen looking at my friend’s gaudy display, sir. Whereas among my respectable family, well —” and he shrugged his shoulders significantly. I wished him “ Good-night ” and went home, marvelling at his knowledge of hunfan nature. —Glasgow Weekly Herald,