It was not soothing to the imaginations of book-lovers when it became known that the two gems from Welford's library had gone into the rapacious hands of Doctor Morton, to be turned into an old mahogany sofa or a colonial high-boy.

It was criminal, and must be prevented at all costs. And Robert Hooker, smarting under the recollection of the loss of the "Anatomy"

thought he would like to add wicked "Penn" and "Poor Richard" to his household. They would prove a considerable addition to his "museum of the imagination."

How to secure them was a problem! Ordinary methods could not be applied to the extraordinary Doctor Morton! The wisdom of the serpent was as nothing to the vivid intellectuality of the Connecticut Sage!

It must be confessed that only New England could have produced him; only the rarified bookish atmosphere of three hundred years could have engendered a creature of such genius!

Hooker never despaired. A remedy was close at hand.

He was walking one day, on Thirty-ninth Street, and just off Broadway, he noticed a very handsome mahogany secretary in an antique store. He entered the establishment, and asked its price.

"A hundred dollars!" said the proprietor. "This piece is believed to have been once the property of Thomas Jefferson. I purchased it from one of his heirs."

"I'll take it," said Hooker simply.

Three weeks later Doctor Morton entered a little shop on Fourth Avenue.

He had received a letter from the head partner, asking him to call the next time he came to New York, and inspect a piece of colonial furniture of the greatest historical interest.

The doctor was almost carried away when he beheld the beautiful relic of revolutionary days. This would grace his home with rare charm! He asked the price.

"Forty-five hundred dollars!"

"I don't understand. Why is it so valuable?"

"That's Thomas Jefferson's desk. It comes from his heirs; the Declaration of Independence was written on it!"

"That's a pretty story. Where's your proof? Without doc.u.mentary evidence, it's not worth more than a hundred dollars."

"I have the proof, Doctor. Look here."

The proprietor then rolled back the top. He put his finger upon a secret drawer. He took out a letter and handed it in silence to Doctor Morton.

He read as follows:

Monticello, June 12, 1821.

This secretary which is five feet four inches high and three feet wide, made of Santa Domingo mahogany, was purchased by me in Philadelphia in November, 1775, of Robert Aitken, the printer. Upon this desk, I wrote in my home on High Street near Seventh, the celebrated instrument known as the Declaration of Independence. Thinking that my heirs and others would value this article for its a.s.sociation with the sacred cause of liberty, I make this statement.

Witness my hand and seal, this twelfth day of June, 1821, and the year of American Independence, the forty-fifth.

THO. JEFFERSON.

Doctor Morton looked carefully at the letter. He examined the red wafer with "T. J." in faded letters upon it.

Accompanying the letter was another from one of the heirs of the celebrated statesman.

"The desk is cheap at any--" Doctor Morton blurted. He caught himself in time.

"I'd like to own it. I'd give your price, but haven't the cash. I have some old books worth lots of money. Perhaps we can arrange a trade."

For two hours the two worked over this momentous transaction. At the end of that time, and in consideration of a rare pamphlet containing scurrilous remarks on William Penn, an old ephemeris printed by Benjamin Franklin and seven hundred and fifty dollars in cash, the mahogany colonial secretary was transferred to Doctor Willis Morton--to have and hold forever.

One evening, about a month later, the eccentric collector of the little Connecticut town sat down in his chair to gloat over and hold communion with his "literary" treasures, for he did not call them articles of virtu or specimens of bric-a-brac, or furniture of the Jacobean period, but gave each piece that was dear to him a name that smacked of books and learning. His mind turned to the evil early life of William Penn, and the wisdom of Poor Richard, while at the same time his eyes were riveted upon a beautiful eighteenth century desk. A bell interrupted his agreeable visions. A telegram had arrived. He opened it hurriedly, and read:

Please look under red wax wafer on Jefferson's letter. Important Information. R. H.

Doctor Morton went to the secretary, and taking the letter in his trembling hands, gingerly lifted the seal of the third President of the United States.

"d.a.m.n!" he cried, as he read in minute letters:

"A forgery,--in pleasant memory of my lost 'Anatomy.'

"Robert Hooker, _fecit_."

IN DEFENCE OF HIS NAME

He was again talking of his ancestors. He was always talking of his ancestors....

It was in the library of a Fifth Avenue club, but the gentlemen seated at a window overlooking the famous thoroughfare were not discussing books. They were examining with care the beautiful ladies that always decorated this brilliant highway.

"_That_--with the blue bonnet and the short blue sleeves, is Mrs.

Wilberforce Andre," said John Stuyvesant DePuyster. "Her husband is a descendant of Varick who served as aide-de-camp to General Arnold."

"That doesn't make her more attractive," said Robert Hooker.

DePuyster ignored the remark. "My great grandfather--"

"We know all about him," chorused the others. "Let-up, please. Have mercy on us, it's a hot day."

"My great grandmother, on my father's side--" persisted DePuyster.

"We know all about _her_!" the others answered, wearily.

"But Mrs. Andre reminds me of an interesting story. And you are always looking for stories. In January, 1779, my great grandfather was serving on the staff of Benedict Arnold. As you know, it was he, John Stuyvesant DePuyster, my namesake, who rescued the colors so gallantly at Saratoga--who fought at Germantown--who almost starved at Valley Forge--who rescued General Greene at the risk of his life--who was wounded with two bullets in his flank at the battle of Trenton--who served so brilliantly under Mad Anthony Wayne--who--"

The others looked at each other furtively, with misery indicated on every feature.

One of them, the great autograph collector, Robert Hooker, nervously twitched his fingers. He seemed in agony, and looked around, evidently for signs of relief.