"The life of a bookseller is very demoralizing to the intellect,"
he went on after a pause. "He is surrounded by innumerable books;
he cannot possibly read them all; he dips into one and picks
up a scrap from another. His mind gradually fills itself with
miscellaneous flotsam, with superficial opinions, with a thousand
half-knowledges. Almost unconsciously he begins to rate literature
according to what people ask for. He begins to wonder whether
Ralph Waldo Trine isn't really greater than Ralph Waldo Emerson,
whether J. M. Chapple isn't as big a man as J. M. Barrie.
That way lies intellectual suicide.

"One thing, however, you must grant the good bookseller. He is tolerant.
He is patient of all ideas and theories. Surrounded, engulfed by
the torrent of men's words, he is willing to listen to them all.
Even to the publisher's salesman he turns an indulgent ear.
He is willing to be humbugged for the weal of humanity. He hopes
unceasingly for good books to be born.

"My business, you see, is different from most. I only deal in
second-hand books; I only buy books that I consider have some honest
reason for existence. In so far as human judgment can discern,
I try to keep trash out of my shelves. A doctor doesn't traffic
in quack remedies. I don't traffic in bogus books.

"A comical thing happened the other day. There is a certain
wealthy man, a Mr. Chapman, who has long frequented this shop----"

"I wonder if that could be Mr. Chapman of the Chapman Daintybits Company?"
said Gilbert, feeling his feet touch familiar soil.