"The first thing needed is to acquire a sense of pity. The world
has been printing books for 450 years, and yet gunpowder still has
a wider circulation. Never mind! Printer's ink is the greater explosive:
it will win. Yes, I have a few of the good books here.
There are only about 30,000 really important books in the world.
I suppose about 5,000 of them were written in the English language,
and 5,000 more have been translated."

"You are open in the evenings?"

"Until ten o'clock. A great many of my best customers are those
who are at work all day and can only visit bookshops at night.
The real book-lovers, you know, are generally among the humbler classes.
A man who is impassioned with books has little time or patience to grow
rich by concocting schemes for cozening his fellows."

The little bookseller's bald pate shone in the light of the bulb
hanging over the wrapping table. His eyes were bright and earnest,
his short red beard bristled like wire. He wore a ragged brown
Norfolk jacket from which two buttons were missing.

A bit of a fanatic himself, thought the customer, but a very
entertaining one. "Well, sir," he said, "I am ever so grateful to you.
I'll come again. Good-night." And he started down the aisle
for the door.

As he neared the front of the shop, Mr. Mifflin switched on a cluster
of lights that hung high up, and the young man found himself beside
a large bulletin board covered with clippings, announcements, circulars,
and little notices written on cards in a small neat script.