Martin Eden by Jack London Page B

the beauty of the printed words he had read. Then he stumbled upon Gayley’s “Classic Myths” and Bulfinch’s “Age of Fable,” side by side on a library shelf. It was illumination, a great light in the darkness of his ignorance, and he read poetry more avidly than ever.
    The man at the desk in the library had seen Martin there so often that he had become quite cordial, always greeting him with a smile and a nod when he entered. It was because of this that Martin did a daring thing. Drawing out some books at the desk, and while the man was stamping the cards, Martin blurted out:—
    â€œSay, there’s something I’d like to ask you.”
    The man smiled and paid attention.
    â€œWhen you meet a young lady an’ she asks you to call, how soon can you call?”
    Martin felt his shirt press and cling to his shoulders, what with the sweat of the effort.
    â€œWhy I’d say any time,” the man answered.
    â€œYes, but this is different,” Martin objected. “She —I—well, you see, it’s this way: maybe she won’t be there. She goes to the university.”
    â€œThen call again.”
    â€œWhat I said ain’t what I meant,” Martin confessed falteringly, while he made up his mind to throw himself wholly upon the other’s mercy. “I’m just a rough sort of a fellow, an’ I ain’t never seen anything of society. This girl is all that I ain’t, an’ I ain’t anything that she is. You don’t think I’m playin’ the fool, do you?” he demanded abruptly.
    â€œNo, no; not at all, I assure you,” the other protested. “Your request is not exactly in the scope of the reference department, but I shall be only too pleased to assist you.”
    Martin looked at him admiringly.
    â€œIf I could tear it off that way, I’d be all right,” he said.
    â€œI beg pardon?”
    â€œI mean if I could talk easy that way, an’ polite, an’ all the rest.”
    â€œOh,” said the other, with comprehension.
    â€œWhat is the best time to call? The afternoon?—not too close to meal-time? Or the evening? Or Sunday?”
    â€œI’ll tell you,” the librarian said with a brightening face. “You call her up on the telephone and find out.”
    â€œI’ll do it,” he said, picking up his books and starting away.
    He turned back and asked:—
    â€œWhen you’re speakin’ to a young lady—say, for instance, Miss Lizzie Smith—do you say ‘Miss Lizzie’? or ‘Miss Smith’?”
    â€œSay ‘Miss Smith,’ ” the librarian stated authoritatively. “Say ‘Miss Smith’ always—until you come to know her better.”
    So it was that Martin Eden solved the problem.
    â€œCome down any time; I’ll be at home all afternoon,” was Ruth’s reply over the telephone to his stammered request as to when he could return the borrowed books.
    She met him at the door herself, and her woman’s eyes took in immediately the creased trousers and the certain slight but indefinable change in him for the better. Also, she was struck by his face. It was almost violent, this health of his, and it seemed to rush out of him and at her in waves of force. She felt the urge again of the desire to lean toward him for warmth, and marveled again at the effect his presence produced upon her. And he, in turn, knew again the swimming sensation of bliss when he felt the contact of her hand in greeting. The difference between them lay in that she was cool and self-possessed while his face flushed to the roots of the hair. He stumbled with his old awkwardness after her, and his shoulders swung and lurched perilously.
    Once they were seated in the living room, he began to get on easily—more easily by far than he had expected. She made it easy for him; and the gracious spirit with which she did it made him love her more