with no profit to himself, for his person was rigorously searched
and coppers confiscated as soon as he came home. But during the
three weeks' traffic on his own account he had amassed a sufficient
hoard of pennies for the purchase of several books in gaudy paper
covers exposed for sale in the little stationer's shop round the
corner. Soon he discovered that if he could batik a copper or two on
his way home his mother would be none the wiser. The stationer
became his banker, and when the amount of the deposit equaled the
price of a book, Paul withdrew his money's worth. So a goodly
library of amazing rubbish was stored by degrees under the scullery
slab, until it outgrew safe accommodation; whereupon Paul
transferred the bulk of it to a hole in a bit of waste ground, a
deserted brickfield on the ragged outskirts of the town. At last
misfortune befell him. One dreary afternoon of rain he dropped his
new bundle of papers in the mud of the roadway. To avoid death he
had to spring from the path of a thundering tramcar. A heavy cart
ran over the bundle. While he was ruefully and hastily gathering the
papers together, a band of street children swooped down and kicked
them lustily about the filth. He was battling with one urchin when a
policeman grabbed him. With an elusive twist he escaped and ran like
a terrified hare. Disaster followed, and that was the end of his
career as a newsvendor.

Greater leisure for reading, however, compensated the loss of the
occasional penny. He read dazzling tales of dukes with palaces (like
Chudley Court), and countesses with ropes of diamonds in their hair,
who all bore a resemblance to the fragrant one. And dukes and
countesses lived the most resplendent lives, and spoke such
beautiful language, and had such a way with them! He felt a curious
pride in being able to enter into all their haughty emotions. Then,