 | I Knowledge is Power |  |
1. I
NO we don't want no more books!" cried Mr. Caleb Coppins in a tone of belligerent finality.
At the same time he attempted to slam the front door in the enthusiastic face of the young man who stood outside. But the young man, who was no chicken at canvassing, had taken due precautions in expectation of just such an event. He had neatly inserted his foot between the door-casing and the jamb.
"Just a minute, Mr. Coppins," he pleaded.
"Take your foot out of there, or I'll bust it for you!" replied the head of the household.
The young man regarded his victim with something of pity, mingled with subdued joy. He had tamed many a householder like Mr. Coppins, and his thin nose quivered with the excitement of approaching combat.
"You may slam the door, Mr. Coppins," he said earnestly. "You may amputate my foot; but my severed foot will remain inside with you to extol the glory of the eighth wonder of the world — the `Pan-Continental Encyclopedic Dictionary,' the steam-engine of intellect, the book that will make your name a byword for wisdom and your home the rendezvous of the intellectual elite."
The canvasser's eloquence was not without effect. Mr. Caleb Coppins's set jaw relaxed. He ceased to push against the inserted foot.
"You've got nerve, young feller," he admitted. "Come in! But you can't sell it to me, no matter what it is. We've got books cluttering up the whole house. I can't turn around now without knocking against a book, and I haven't read half of 'em, nor a quarter. And I get the `Agricultural Year-Book' every year from our Congressman."
The canvasser for the "Pan-Continental" followed silently into the musty-smelling parlor, and, at the bidding of the owner, sat down. As Mr. Coppins threw open the door of the seldom-used room the odor of decaying heirlooms nearly gagged the book-agent. With a quick glance he surveyed the chamber of horrors, from the horsehair-covered chairs to the tall bookcase of black walnut, stuffed with dusty volumes that dated from the period when "Vanity Fair" was thought to be a little off color.
I am not surprised to see so many books," said the canvasser, with a subtle feigning of rapture. "I find it worth while to visit only the true lovers of good literature. Ah, Mr. Coppins, how little the average man knows the rare pleasure that we bibliophiles get from our printed treasures!"
The fact was, as the canvasser very well understood, that Mr. Coppins had led him
Mr. Coppins, however, hearing himself described as a bibliophile, and surmising that a bibliophile must be a person of some importance, permitted himself the luxury of remarking that he was a bibliophile — a forty-third-degree bibliophile. In fact, though he was firm in his resolve not to buy any more books just then, he pastured himself on these green and luscious fields of flattery like a half-starved cow from a rocky hillside.
"It's a pleasure to visit a man like you, Mr. Coppins," resumed the canvasser. "Believe me, I appreciate it. My eye sparkled when I saw that bookcase. Maybe you saw it sparkle? Exactly! `Here is a man of parts,' I said to myself. `Here is a man who knows. I would rather talk with a man like this man, and not sell my books, than sell a cart-load of books to the vulgar crowd who cannot appreciate them.'"
The canvasser paused, and Mr. Coppins nodded appreciatively.
"Don't try to tell me that you don't read these books," continued the canvasser. "I admire your modesty, but I know you gorge yourself on them in the long winter evenings. I'll bet you could recite half of them from memory!"
Mr. Coppins, who spent most of the long winter evenings shooting Kelly pool in a stuffy room at the rear of the barber-shop, assented to this indictment with dreamy self-approval.
Suddenly the manner of the canvasser changed. He became violently agitated, for no apparent reason. His eyes took on a gleam of high exultation. He began to pace up and down excitedly in the open space between the what-not and the table full of artificial flowers in glass. Then he stopped and pointed a long finger at Mr. Coppins so suddenly that that gentleman winced.
"You are a man of parts, Mr. Coppins!" he repeated furiously. "Your name was sent to me from the home office in New York — in New York, understand? You know what books are worth. You know that knowledge is power! You know that a man can rule the world, if he knows enough. Well, then, let me tell you something. You have made one mistake. You have dabbled. Your information has been sound, but spread too thin. I can prove it to you. Shall I?"
Mr. Coppins was fascinated. He nodded feeble assent.
The canvasser's voice became more shrill and cutting. He launched another finger in the direction of the householder's half-scared face.
"Can you tell me," he demanded with emphasis that cut like a Damascene blade, "what was the population of the city of Joliet, Illinois, in 1900? Can you tell me the name of the heaviest element in nature? How much does the earth weigh, down to the fraction of an ounce? Can you go right out into company and tell the names of the opposing generals in the first Punic War? Or what makes sugar crystallize? Or why the sky is blue? Do you know these things?"
"No, I don't," replied Caleb Coppins hoarsely.
"I know!" shouted the canvasser victoriously. "I can tell you the colors of the solar spectrum, backward and forward. I can tell you what the interest on one dollar, compounded semiannually at six per cent for a thousand years, would amount to. I can tell you the name of the right-hand man of the Egyptian monarch Rameses II, and the inscription on the tomb of Numa the Lawgiver. What was the first message ever sent over the electric telegraph? Can you tell me that, Mr. Coppins?"
"No, I can't," replied the abashed bibliophile. And then he added, with a ray of wicked hope flickering in his eyes: "Can you?"
"You can bet your best hat I can! The telegraph was invented by Samuel F. B. Morse, and the first message that was flashed over the wire was: `What hath God wrought!'"
Mr. Coppins shrank back from this prodigy of learning, and his hands trembled nervously.
Again the accusing finger shot forth toward the head of the householder.
"What," cried the canvasser, "is telekinesis? What is arteriosclerosis? Who discovered the X-ray? What is the present price of radium per milligram? What is a milligram? What is the coldest place in the United States? Where is Omsk? Who owns the most expensive dog in the world?"
"Calkins the grocer has a darned expensive dog," ventured Mr. Coppins. "He bit a lawyer last week!"
"That is not worthy of you," challenged the canvasser, flushing deeply. "That is trivial. We are dealing in all seriousness with the greater truths. Is there a single book in your excellent library that can tell you the precise nutritive value of the Lima bean?"
"No," admitted Mr. Coppins.
"There you are!" the canvasser shot back swiftly. "You've got lots of books, but if you wanted to find any of these important things in them it would be like hunting for a needle in a haystack. Suppose any one should ask you to give the origin and uses of caoutchouc? Could you do it? No. Could you spell it? No. There is an old Latin proverb, `Scire ubi aliquid invenias magna pars eruditionis est.' You recall it?"
"Perfectly," responded Mr. Coppins, trying to look as much as possible like an ancient Roman.
"Of course you do. You know that it means, `To know where to lay hands on a fact is a great part of learning.' Well, Mr. Coppins, here you are! The `Pan-Continental Encyclopedic Dictionary' — the greatest book ever issued from the printing-press — the book that cost two hundred thousand dollars before a single page was printed — the book that called for the brains of one thousand of the world's greatest savants. Will you have it in cloth, in buckram, or in limp leather? Don't choose cloth, Mr. Coppins. I beg you won't give way to your first mercenary impulse and choose cloth."
"Why not choose cloth, if it comes cheaper?" asked Mr. Coppins, in one last defensive effort.
"Because," concluded the canvasser, you look, act, and talk like a limp leather man! Sign here — on this line, please. That's right!"
"How much?" queried Mr. Coppins, after he had committed himself. Already he was breathing more freely, like a man emerging from a trance.
"Ninety-six dollars and fifty cents," was the soothing reply. "The books are worth a thousand dollars to you. One-half the amount down and the rest in monthly instalments{sic}. With these books you can become a walking fund of learning. You can override the village like a Roman conqueror in his triumphal chariot. You can be an oracle, a magnate. Knowledge is power!"
"Ninety-six fifty!" groaned the bibliophile. "I don't know whether to be glad or sorry I didn't shut the door and amputate your foot."
The day will come when you will remember me with a heart full of gratitude, Mr. Coppins. We prepay freight charges. Your check is just as good as your money. Thank you!"
"Durn his hide!" said Caleb Coppins, when the nimble figure had flattened itself against the expanse of distance. "Ninety-six fifty! I feel like I had been mesmerized and robbed. But them books may be wuth it!"
| I Knowledge is Power | |