his real name was Betterly.)

The result of this epistle was a long and disagreeable bicycle ride in
wet autumn weather, and a visit to the shop of Mr. Potts. Tom, alias
Betterly, who was trying to sell some mysterious undergarments to a fat
old woman, caught sight of me, the Editor aforesaid, and winked. In a
shadowed corner of the shop sat Mr. Potts himself upon a high stool, a
wizened little old man with a bent back, a bald head, and a hooked
nose upon which were set a pair of enormous horn-rimmed spectacles that
accentuated his general resemblance to an owl perched upon the edge of
its nest-hole. He was busily engaged in doing nothing, and in staring
into nothingness as, according to Tom, was his habit when communing with
what he, Tom, called his "dratted speerits."

"Customer!" said Tom in a harsh voice. "Sorry to disturb you at your
prayers, Guv'nor, but not having two pair of hands I can't serve a
crowd," meaning the old woman of the undergarments and myself.

Mr. Potts slid off his stool and prepared for action. When he saw,
however, who the customer was he bristled--that is the only word for it.
The truth is that although between us there was an inward and spiritual
sympathy, there was also an outward and visible hostility. Twice I
had outbid Mr. Potts at a local auction for articles which he desired.
Moreover, after the fashion of every good collector he felt it to be
his duty to hate me as another collector. Lastly, several times I
had offered him smaller sums for antiques upon which he set a certain
monetary value. It is true that long ago I had given up this bargaining
for the reason that Mr. Potts would never take less than he asked.
Indeed he followed the example of the vendor of the Sibylline books in
ancient Rome. He did not destroy the goods indeed after the fashion