Meantime, Mallory Tompkins, as I say, was a mighty intellectual
fellow. You could see that from the books on the bamboo bookshelves
in the sitting-room. There was, for instance, the "Encyclopaedia
Metropolitana" in forty volumes, that he bought on the instalment
plan for two dollars a month. Then when they took that away, there
was the "History of Civilization," in fifty volumes at fifty cents a
week for fifty years. Tompkins had read in it half-way through the
Stone Age before they took it from him. After that there was the
"Lives of the Painters," one volume at a time--a splendid thing in
which you could read all about Aahrens, and Aachenthal, and Aax and
men of that class.

After all, there's nothing like educating oneself. Mallory Tompkins
knew about the opening period of all sorts of things, and in regard
to people whose names began with "A" you couldn't stick him.

I don't mean that he and Mr. Pupkin lived a mere routine of studious
evenings. That would be untrue. Quite often their time was spent in
much less commendable ways than that, and there were poker parties in
their sitting-room that didn't break up till nearly midnight.
Card-playing, after all, is a slow business, unless you put money on
it, and, besides, if you are in a bank and are handling money all
day, gambling has a fascination.

I've seen Pupkin and Mallory Tompkins and Joe Milligan, the dentist,
and Mitchell the ticket agent, and the other "boys" sitting round the
table with matches enough piled up in front of them to stock a
factory. Ten matches counted for one chip and ten chips made a
cent--so you see they weren't merely playing for the fun of the
thing. Of course it's a hollow pleasure. You realize that when you