in his eyes like a Crusader embarking to join the army of Richard the Lionhearted. Gaines promptly pulled a well-thumbed copy of "Marius the Epicurean" from his pocket and buried his thin nose in it, ignoring his youthful guest. But Harold did not mind. He looked out of the window over the Ohio flats and imagined blissfully that he was actually starting out to enroll in the Freshman class at Tate.
From the smoky Cleveland station they took a trolley to the Public Library. Gaines explained that he was taking advantage of the excursion and the hour or so at his disposal before the dinner to do a little research work. Led by a mousy little assistant librarian, Harold and the savant burrowed into a musty, book-lined region of the library known as "the stacks." Gaines settled down with a heavy tome at a desk under a bad light and read diligently, stopping to scribble notes ever and anon in a dainty hand. Harold sat patiently near his guide. The boy regarded curiously the white-faced, stoop-shouldered attendants, flitting in and out among the books like wraiths, and wondered how human beings could endure in this close, hot atmosphere. Luckily he did not know that most of them were university graduates earning the munificent sum of fifteen dollars a week.
