spends a long time leafing through a copy of
David Copperfield
.
“What is he doing?” Becca asks.
“He totally forgot why he’s in there,” groans Leigh Ann. “Look, now he’s reading that huge book. He’ll be in that shop forever. Man, he is such a dork.”
“Relax,” Margaret assures us. “He knows what he’s doing.”
“Now I’m sure we’re in trouble,” says Becca.
My legs start to cramp as Mr. Eliot continues reading. Just as I’m starting to think Becca and Leigh Ann are right, he closes
David Copperfield
—a bit reluctantly, I think—and makes his move toward the locked glass cabinet. He unfolds the paper and checks it, looks at the books, and then back at the paper.
Klinger approaches, glancing at the paper in Mr.Eliot’s hand. We can’t hear the conversation through the glass, but everything seems to be going according to plan. Mr. Eliot shows him the paper, on which he has circled the crucial details about the other George Eliot’s masterpiece. Klinger nods enthusiastically at something Mr. Eliot says, unlocks the cabinet, and hands him
The Mill on the Floss
.
“I don’t think Klinger asked him if his hands were clean,” I whisper to Margaret.
Mr. Eliot examines the book so carefully that I start to believe he’s actually going to buy it. Klinger wanders off to help someone else for a moment and when he returns, Mr. Eliot hands him the book with a shake of his head and points at something else in the cabinet.
“Here we go,” says Margaret as Klinger reaches for the slipcased set of
Nine Worthy Men
. “Everybody ready?”
The rest of us grunt at her. “It’s about time,” Becca complains. “I can’t feel my toes. If we have to make a run for it, I’m in big trouble.”
Mr. Eliot is opening the first volume as we burst through the door, talking noisily.
“Why are we going in here again?” Becca says loudly.
“Yeah, Sophie, I thought you said you would never sell him that pen,” Leigh Ann adds.
“Maybe I’ve changed my mind,” I say. “Five hundred bucks would buy me a lot of books. We could buy that copy of
A Christmas Carol
.”
We walk past Mr. Eliot without a look and head for the farthest corner of the store, where we all start pulling books from the shelves willy-nilly.
Our little plan works perfectly. The mere sight of four street urchins with their grubby little fingers all over his precious books sends Marcus Klinger into an absolute tizzy. He rushes to the back of the store to deal with us, leaving Mr. Eliot alone with
Nine Worthy Men
.
“Young ladies!” he cries. “Please, be gentle! This is not a thrift shop! These are valuable antiques, and must be handled properly. If you want to see something, I would greatly prefer that you ask me to show it to you. Please.”
I know he’s only being nice to us because there are other customers in the shop and because he wants my dad’s fountain pen. The soupçon of hope that I may be reconsidering has worked a small miracle on his disposition.
As he’s showing Becca the proper way to turn the pages in an old book, I glide a few feet down the aisle until I can see Mr. Eliot. He glances around the shop, looking very nervous and trying to determine where Klinger is. When he’s finally satisfied that Klinger is occupied with helping us, he closes his eyes and gives the red ribbon a healthy tug. His eyes open wide as a few more inches of ribbon come out from somewhere inside the binding. He pulls again, and even more ribbon appears. The look in his eyes tells me that he’s starting to panic as he’s suddenly holding on to two feet of ribbon.
“Keep pulling!” I hiss at him.
So he pulls. And pulls. And pulls some more. I have to cover my mouth to prevent myself from laughing at the look on his face as the red ribbon simply keeps coming: he looks like a magician who has just realized he really can perform magic. As one hand keeps yanking yards and yards of ribbon from the binding, the other is busy
David Copperfield
.
“What is he doing?” Becca asks.
“He totally forgot why he’s in there,” groans Leigh Ann. “Look, now he’s reading that huge book. He’ll be in that shop forever. Man, he is such a dork.”
“Relax,” Margaret assures us. “He knows what he’s doing.”
“Now I’m sure we’re in trouble,” says Becca.
My legs start to cramp as Mr. Eliot continues reading. Just as I’m starting to think Becca and Leigh Ann are right, he closes
David Copperfield
—a bit reluctantly, I think—and makes his move toward the locked glass cabinet. He unfolds the paper and checks it, looks at the books, and then back at the paper.
Klinger approaches, glancing at the paper in Mr.Eliot’s hand. We can’t hear the conversation through the glass, but everything seems to be going according to plan. Mr. Eliot shows him the paper, on which he has circled the crucial details about the other George Eliot’s masterpiece. Klinger nods enthusiastically at something Mr. Eliot says, unlocks the cabinet, and hands him
The Mill on the Floss
.
“I don’t think Klinger asked him if his hands were clean,” I whisper to Margaret.
Mr. Eliot examines the book so carefully that I start to believe he’s actually going to buy it. Klinger wanders off to help someone else for a moment and when he returns, Mr. Eliot hands him the book with a shake of his head and points at something else in the cabinet.
“Here we go,” says Margaret as Klinger reaches for the slipcased set of
Nine Worthy Men
. “Everybody ready?”
The rest of us grunt at her. “It’s about time,” Becca complains. “I can’t feel my toes. If we have to make a run for it, I’m in big trouble.”
Mr. Eliot is opening the first volume as we burst through the door, talking noisily.
“Why are we going in here again?” Becca says loudly.
“Yeah, Sophie, I thought you said you would never sell him that pen,” Leigh Ann adds.
“Maybe I’ve changed my mind,” I say. “Five hundred bucks would buy me a lot of books. We could buy that copy of
A Christmas Carol
.”
We walk past Mr. Eliot without a look and head for the farthest corner of the store, where we all start pulling books from the shelves willy-nilly.
Our little plan works perfectly. The mere sight of four street urchins with their grubby little fingers all over his precious books sends Marcus Klinger into an absolute tizzy. He rushes to the back of the store to deal with us, leaving Mr. Eliot alone with
Nine Worthy Men
.
“Young ladies!” he cries. “Please, be gentle! This is not a thrift shop! These are valuable antiques, and must be handled properly. If you want to see something, I would greatly prefer that you ask me to show it to you. Please.”
I know he’s only being nice to us because there are other customers in the shop and because he wants my dad’s fountain pen. The soupçon of hope that I may be reconsidering has worked a small miracle on his disposition.
As he’s showing Becca the proper way to turn the pages in an old book, I glide a few feet down the aisle until I can see Mr. Eliot. He glances around the shop, looking very nervous and trying to determine where Klinger is. When he’s finally satisfied that Klinger is occupied with helping us, he closes his eyes and gives the red ribbon a healthy tug. His eyes open wide as a few more inches of ribbon come out from somewhere inside the binding. He pulls again, and even more ribbon appears. The look in his eyes tells me that he’s starting to panic as he’s suddenly holding on to two feet of ribbon.
“Keep pulling!” I hiss at him.
So he pulls. And pulls. And pulls some more. I have to cover my mouth to prevent myself from laughing at the look on his face as the red ribbon simply keeps coming: he looks like a magician who has just realized he really can perform magic. As one hand keeps yanking yards and yards of ribbon from the binding, the other is busy
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