James Turner's idea of bliss was different; but it was his. He would go
directly to his boarding-house when his day's work was done. After his
supper of small steak, Bessemer potatoes, stooed (not stewed) apples and
infusion of chicory, he would ascend to his fifth-floor-back hall room.
Then he would take off his shoes and socks, place the soles of his
burning feet against the cold bars of his iron bed, and read Clark
Russell's sea yarns. The delicious relief of the cool metal applied to
his smarting soles was his nightly joy. His favorite novels never palled
upon him; the sea and the adventures of its navigators were his sole
intellectual passion. No millionaire was ever happier than James Turner
taking his ease.
When James left the hat-cleaning shop he walked three blocks out of
his way home to look over the goods of a second-hand bookstall. On the
sidewalk stands he had more than once picked up a paper-covered volume
of Clark Russell at half price.
While he was bending with a scholarly stoop over the marked-down
miscellany of cast-off literature, old Tom the caliph sauntered by. His
discerning eye, made keen by twenty years' experience in the manufacture
of laundry soap (save the wrappers!) recognized instantly the poor
and discerning scholar, a worthy object of his caliphanous mood.
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