A gathering of booksellers is a pleasant sanhedrim to attend.
The members of this ancient craft bear mannerisms and earmarks
just as definitely recognizable as those of the cloak and suit
business or any other trade. They are likely to be a little--
shall we say--worn at the bindings, as becomes men who have forsaken
worldly profit to pursue a noble calling ill rewarded in cash.
They are possibly a trifle embittered, which is an excellent demeanour
for mankind in the face of inscrutable heaven. Long experience
with publishers' salesmen makes them suspicious of books praised
between the courses of a heavy meal.

When a publisher's salesman takes you out to dinner, it is not
surprising if the conversation turns toward literature about the
time the last of the peas are being harried about the plate. But,
as Jerry Gladfist says (he runs a shop up on Thirty-Eighth Street)
the publishers' salesmen supply a long-felt want, for they do now
and then buy one a dinner the like of which no bookseller would
otherwise be likely to commit.

"Well, gentlemen," said Roger as his guests assembled in his
little cabinet, "it's a cold evening. Pull up toward the fire.
Make free with the cider. The cake's on the table. My wife came back
from Boston specially to make it."

"Here's Mrs. Mifflin's health!" said Mr. Chapman, a quiet
little man who had a habit of listening to what he heard.
"I hope she doesn't mind keeping the shop while we celebrate?"

"Not a bit," said Roger. "She enjoys it."