Again Richard’s habits of order increased his usefulness fourfold. He arranged all things in the neatest way, resolving to ask leave to dust the shelves, after the shop was shut; and determined to keep the windows clean; his mother’s window was the cleanest in the court, why should not his master’s be clean also?
He was finishing his morning’s work by mending an old stumpy pen—the last of three belonging to a leaden inkstand—when his master entered.
“Yes, sir, I think I can: would you be so good as to try this one?”
He good-naturedly did so, and, as it suited him, he was really pleased; and then told Richard where to find some things, and where to keep others, until it was time to carry out certain library books, and make sundry calls, to inquire after those that had not been returned.
Richard thought it no harm to peep into the books as he went along. The first novel he opened was all about great lords and ladies, and what they did and said, and how they looked and walked, and spent their time; and Richard, when he had read half a page, came to the conclusion that those grand folks must be different in every respect from any human beings he had ever seen. He had resolved to be very quick in his messages; but as he read, his pace insensibly slackened, and his master (a long, lean man, whose benevolent countenance was somewhat hardened by a firm set mouth) met him at the door.
“I just looked into the book, sir; and I am afraid I did not come as fast as I intended.”
“I sent you to carry books, not to read them; and this sort of books would not do you any good, but rather harm.”
“Please, sir, I thought I had time enough.”
“Remember what Poor Richard says, ‘that what we call time enough always proves little enough.’ Besides, I have a right to your _time_; it is all you have to give in exchange for my money, and it is as dishonest to squander the one as it would be to squander the other.”
“I will never look in a book again, sir, without your leave.”
It was perhaps strange that, though the bookseller had seen as much of what is called “the world,”—that is, of his own particular “world,” with now and then a peep into its higher and lower regions—as most men, and been—as kind-natured men invariably are—frequently deceived, yet he never doubted the integrity of his little messenger’s promise, believing he would keep it to the letter; and he turned away without a single additional word of reproof or displeasure; but Richard heard sundry murmurings and grumblings on the stairs—ascending and descending—which convinced him that Matty would not be as easily pacified as her master. The bookseller told him he might go down and have his dinner.