He tumbled out of his clothes and his last impression was of Mr. Zanti standing in front of him, looking vast and very solemn in a blue cotton night-shirt.

"Peter," Mr. Zanti seemed to be saying, "you see in me, one, two, a hundred men.... All my life I seek adventure--fun--and I find it--but there 'as not been room for ze affections. Then I find you--I love you as my son and I say 'Come to my bookshop'--But only ze bookshop mind you--you are there for ze books and because I care for you--I care for you ver' much, Peter, and zere 'as not been room in my life for ze affections ... but I will be a ver' good friend to you--and you shall only be in ze shop--with ze books--I will be a good friend--"

Then it seemed that Mr. Zanti kissed Peter on both cheeks, blew out the candle, and climbed into his huge bed; soon he was snoring.

But Peter could not be sure of these things because he was so very tired that he did not know whether he were standing on his head or his heels and he was asleep on his sofa and dreaming about the strangest and most confused events in less than no time at all.

III

And then how wonderful to discover, on waking up the next morning, that it was a beautiful day, as beautiful a day as any that Cornwall could give him. It was indeed odd, after the great darkness of the afternoon before to find now a burning blue sky, bright shining pavements and the pieces of iron and metal on the cabs glittering as they rolled along.

The streets were doubtless delightful but Peter was not, on this day at any rate, to see very much of them; he was handed over to the care of Herr Gottfried Hanz, who had obviously not brushed his hair when he got up in the morning; he also wore large blue slippers that were too big for his feet and clattered behind him as he walked. Whatever light there might be in the street outside only chinks of it found their way into the shop and the gas-jet hissed and flared as it had done on the day before. The books seemed mistier and dustier than ever and Peter wondered, in a kind of despair, how in the world if any one did come in and ask for anything he was going to tell them whether it were there or not.

But here Herr Gottfried came to the rescue. "See you," he said with an air of pride, "it is thus that they are arranged. Here you have the Novel--Bronte, Bulwer, Bunyan ("The Pilgrim's Progress," that is not a novel but it is near enough). Here you have History, and here the Poets, and here Philosophy and here Travel--it will all be simple in time--"

Peter's eyes spun dizzily to the heights.

"There is a little ladder," said Herr Gottfried.

"And," at last said Peter timidly, "May I--read--when there is no one here?"

Herr Gottfried looked at him with a new interest. "You like reading?"

"Like!" Peter's voice was an ecstasy.

"Why of course, often." Herr Gottfried smiled. "And then see! (he opened the shop door) there is a small boy, James, who is supposed to look after these (these were the 1_d_., 2_d_. and 3_d_. boxes outside the window, on the pavement) but he is an idle boy and often enough he is not there and then we must have the door open and you must watch them.

Often enough (this seemed a favourite phrase of his) these gentlemen (this with great scorn) will turn the books over and over and they will look up the street once and they will look down the street once, and then into the pocket a book will go--often enough," he added, looking beyond the door savagely at a very tired and tattered lady who was turning the 1_d_. lot over and over.

Then, this introductory lesson concluded, Herr Gottfried suddenly withdrew into the tangles of his hair and retreated behind his counter.

Through the open door there came the most entrancing sound and the bustle of the street was loud and startling--bells ringing, boys shouting, wheels rattling, and beyond these immediate notes a steady hum like the murmur of an orchestra heard through closed doors. All this was wonderful enough but it was nothing at all to the superlative fascination of that multitude of books. Peter found a hard little chair in a dark corner and sat down upon it. Here he was in the very heart of his kingdom! He could never read all the books in this place if he lived for two hundred years... and so he had better not try. He made a blind dash at the volumes nearest him (quietly lest he should disturb Herr Gottfried who seemed very busy at his counter) and secured something and read it as well as he could, for the light was very bad. It was called "The True and Faithful Experiences of the Reverend James Scott in the Other World Being a Veracious History of his Experiences of the Life after Death"--the dust rose from its pages in little clouds and tempted him to sneeze but he bit his lip and counted forty and saved the situation.

Herr Gottfried dealt with the customers that morning and Peter stood nervously watching him. The customers were not very many--an old lady who "wanted something to read" caused many volumes to be laid before her, and finally left the shop without buying anything--a young man with spectacles purchased some tattered science and a clergyman some Sermons.

A thin and very hungry looking man entered, clutching a badly-tied paper parcel. These were books he wanted to sell. They were obviously treasured possessions because he touched them, when they were laid upon the counter, with a loving hand.

"They are very good books," he said plaintively.

"Three shillings," said Herr Gottfried.

The hungry man sighed.

"Five shillings," he said, "they are worth more."

"Three shillings for the lot," said Herr Gottfried.

"It is very little," said the hungry man, but he took the money and went out sadly.

Once their came a magnificent gentleman--that is, he looked magnificent in the distance away from the gas jet. He was tall with a high hat, a fine moustache and a tailcoat; he had melancholy eyes and a languid air. Peter was sorry to observe on a closer view that his tail-coat was frayed and his collar not very clean.

He gave Herr Gottfried a languid bow and passed through the shop into the room beyond.

"Guten Tag, Herr Signer," said Herr Gottfried with deference, but the gentleman had already disappeared.

Then, after a time, one o'clock struck and Peter understood that if he would place himself under Herr Gottfried's protection he should be led to an establishment where for a small sum meat-pies were to be had...

all this very novel and delightful, and Peter laid down "The Experiences of the Reverend James Scott," which were not at present very thrilling and followed his guide into the street. Peter was still wondering where Herr Gottfried had put his blue slippers and whence had come the large flat boots and the brown and faded squash hat when he was suddenly in a little dark street with the houses hanging forward as though they were listening and any number of clothes dangling from the window sills and waving about as though their owners were still inside them and kicking vigorously. Although the street was dark it was full of noise, and a blaze of light at the other end of it proclaimed more civilised quarters (Trafalgar Square in fact) at no great distance.

"Gerade aus," said Herr Gottfried and pushed open a swinging door. Peter followed him into the most amazing babel of voices, a confusion and a roaring, an atmosphere thick with smoke and steam and a scent in the air as though ten thousand meat-pies were cooking there before his eyes.

By the door a neat stout little woman, hung all over with lockets and medallions as though she were wearing all the prizes that the famous meat-pies had ever won, was sitting in a little box with a glass front to it.

"Bon jour, Monsieur Hanz."

"Tag, Meine Gnadige Frau."

All down the room, by the wall, ran long tables black with age and grime. Men of every age and nationality were eating, drinking, smoking and talking. Some of them knew Herr Gottfried, some did not.

"Wie gehts, Gottfried?"

And Herr Gottfried, planting his flat feet like dead weights in front of him, taking off his hat and running his fingers through his hair, smiled at some, spoke to others, and at last found a little corner at the end of the room, a corner comparatively quiet but most astoundingly smelly.

Peter sat down and recovered his breath. How far away now was Treliss with its cobbled street, and the Grey Hill with the Giant's Finger pointing solemnly to the sky.

"I have no money," he said.

"The Master has given me this for you," Herr Gottfried said, handing him two sovereigns, "he says it is in advance for the week."

The meat-pies, beer and bread were ordered and then for a time they sat in silence. Peter was turning in his mind a thousand questions that he would like to ask but he was still afraid of his strange companion and he felt a little as though he were some human volcano that might at any moment burst forth and cover him with furious disaster.

Then Herr Gottfried said:

"And so you care for reading?"

"Yes."

"What do you read?"

What had Peter read? He mentioned timidly "David Copperfield," "Don Quixote," and "Henry Lessingham."

"Ah, that's the way--novels, novels, novels--always sugar ... Greek, Latin?"

"No, just a little at school."

"Ah, yes, your schools. I know them. Homer?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Ah, well you shall read Homer. He is the greatest, he is the Master.

There is Pope for a beginning. I will teach you Greek.... Goethe?"

"I--beg your pardon."