The Original Collector

On an afternoon a decade ago a rather unusual spectacle might have been observed on lowe Yonge Street.Two figures emerged from Britnell's old bookshop and strode northward.I say 'strode', but the word applies to only one of the two, a tall and more than substantial man of about sixty, with a full, ruddy face and bright blue eyes, who progressed with long and stately steps, verus incessu patuit deus.He carried his massive head a little on one side, and a small soft hat rode buoyantly on the waves of his white hair.His sober topcoat, re- strained by only one button, floated behind him in the breeze; and while one hand rested in the small of his back the other rhythmically brandished a furled umbrella in the manner of Mr. Stokowski.Beside him a shorter and slighter young man of twenty kept more or les! in step, by means of a stride alternated with a brief trot.The latter was saying nothing, having no breath anyhow, but he was listening ecstatically, for from the heights above him rolled a continuous stream of thunderous music.The older man, whose imagination was far away, and whose waving umbrella caused an occasional astonished pedestrian to leap off the curb, was chanting Kipling with royal gusto.On they went, the St. Bernard and the terrier, through Queen's Park, up to Avenue Road, and the glorious recital -from Kip- Hng to Heine, Lucretius to Gautier -never ceased until the pair reached the old scholar's home.That home had become a familiar place to the young man, a Zion where one could be happily at ease, and he knew how to thread his way dexterously over floors almost cov- ered with tall piles of books which frequently tottered, but by a miracle never fell

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