One morning a few years back, before the library expanded for the second time and the Co-op closed forever, old Doggo Collins steered his rusty Ford pick-up through a sea of mud in behind the Terrace Centennial Library, and nosed it up against the dumpster. A moment later his Great Dane Dinah exploded out of the cab. She gave a bark of delight at the aroma of mushy bologna sandwiches and empty potato chip packets discarded by Mrs. Mooseman's Grade 3 class during their combined library visit and lunch the day before.

"Come on girl. We got work to do," said Doggo. She followed his beloved pungency to the front of the building where the librarian, Connie Perkins, stood in the open doorway. Overhead there was a roar and a flash of silver as the morning plane banked and circled over the Skeena River. Connie gave Dinah a distracted pat but her mind was preoccupied with the day ahead.

It was the first day of National Book Festival Week. In less than one hour Hamlet Q. Jones, author of the obscure text, High Flyers: Logic Wars of the 20th Century, would be at the library. By 3:30 pm she had to have him back on the plane and on his way to Smithers. As long as the weather held.

What would he say when he realized that not a single person in the audience had so much as laid eyes on his book, which had never arrived from the publisher? And how would Mr. Boodle's 35 Grade 10 students react when they learned that High Flyers was not a memoir of World War I, nor a blow-by-blow action thriller, but an abstract discussion of philosophical principles?

Connie sighed. And now, on top of everything else, here was Doggo, unkempt as ever, and eager to set up for the library's weekend book sale.

Connie never turned away a volunteer, even one as aromatic as Doggo, who was willing to carry endless boxes of discarded books down the backstairs to the basement. And, when the sale was over, he would haul away any books that hadn't sold. What he did with them Connie had no idea, and as long as he didn't try to donate them all back to the library, she didn't care. She reminded him about the upcoming morning reading, climbed into her Volkswagen van, and headed for the airport.

An hour later she ushered a heavy-set man wearing stout leather overshoes with old-fashioned metal clasps into the library. The author of High Flyers was dark-haired, pale-skinned, and slightly tilted to one side by the weight of an enormous suitcase. A hush fell over Mr. Boodle's Grade 10's as they considered the cut of his fleece-lined leather aviator's jacket with zippered pockets no less. A flying ace was the collective conclusion - from World War 1. No doubt about it.

The class watched intently as Hamlet Q. Jones set down his suitcase, kicked off his boots and began to unpack small thick books with dull black covers. Dinah, who understood that dogs were officially barred from the library, lay under the table with her paws over her eyes and sniffed his lower extremities. She gave a low growl of approval and licked something divinely sticky on the toe of his boot.

At that moment Mr. Boodle stood up and announced that the class should pay particular attention during Mr. Jones' lecture because there would be a quiz the next day. They could find their own way back to school, he added, as he sidled out the door.

Taking advantage of the momentary hush, Connie stood up and introduced her guest: Dr. Hamlet Q. Jones, winner of the Governor General's Medal for non-fiction: philosopher and logician extraordinaire. She thought the word extraordinaire had a nice ring to it but the audience looked confused and Hamlet glanced behind him, evidently thinking she was referring to someone else.

When no one else appeared, he walked to the front, pulled up an empty chair and placed a scuffed shoe upon the seat. There was a sprinkling of icing sugar down the front of his jacket and a glob of jelly on his pants. In the three minutes it had taken to drive over from the Co-op, he had managed to devour a cinnamon twist, a chocolate Long John and two jelly doughnuts. She would take him somewhere cheap for lunch, Connie decided.

Hamlet began to read in a dull monotone. Muted groans and disillusioned sighs rose across the room, and Connie remained at the door where she could discourage anyone who tried to follow Mr. Boodle. Her eyes soon glazed over.

A shout from the back of the room recalled her to the present.
"Hey, you related to Shakespeare, man?"
An hour had passed. Hamlet was fielding questions.
"Yeah, how much do you make from writing all that, man?"

A thin boy in black rose from the middle row and walked to the front. His name, Barton Burton-Smith or possibly Burton Barton-Smith, Connie couldn't remember. It was a while since she had seen him. He still owed the library $101.02 for three lost books.

"You buy those boots in Vancouver? They're vintage man, vintage."

Hamlet looked sheepish. It was his first trip to the northwest. Unsure of what temperature to expect, he had dug the boots and jacket out of a trunk in his grandfather's attic. Before he could admit to such ignorance, he was rescued by a girl with blue hair.

"You got white stuff all over your jacket? I could clean that off for you," she offered. "I'm good with leather."

Hamlet looked relieved and handed her the jacket.

A few minutes later the room was empty. Connie eyed the doughnut box in dismay; not one left. Hamlet stared morosely at the neat stacks of untouched books.

"Could take a few for the book sale if you don't want to lug them along with you." Doggo offered. "Put 'em on the bargain table. Might unload a few." He sounded doubtful. "Get more for your jacket though."

"My jacket!"

They looked everywhere but the jacket and boots and the girl with blue hair had vanished.

"Lend you mine if you like." Doggo held out his threadbare thrift store parka. Over the winter it had absorbed his unique personal bouquet. Hamlet stepped back abruptly.

"Up to you." Doggo shrugged philosophically. They left him sorting books and went to the Co-op for lunch.

On the second floor cafeteria they sat overlooking the main foyer where two stock boys were setting up tables and temporary cash registers in preparation for the spring membership sale that evening. By the main entrance a naked mannequin awaited a suitable outfit.

"What did that kid mean about my boots being vintage?" demanded Hamlet through a mouthful of deluxe burger. "Do you think that girl took my jacket to the dry cleaners or something? Do they even have the one-hour service up here? What am I going to do if it snows in Smithers? It could you know." He stared at Connie in an accusing way and then reached over and helped himself to one of her fries.

"We'll check out the men's department right after we eat," she assured him. She supposed the library would have to spring for it. She wondered if a jacket could be considered a capital expense.

"Nobody even bought a single book?" said Hamlet helping himself to a second fry. "I wouldn't be surprised if none of them had even read it." He chewed thoughtfully. "But the teacher would make them read it, right?"

Just then, there was a familiar bark from the foyer. Looking down, Connie saw Dinah sniffing at the mannequin which was dressed now, in jeans and a black leather jacket with a sprinkling of something white down the front. On its feet were Hamlet's over boots and neatly circling the base was a display of old-fashioned rubber galoshes, most definitely leftover from another era. Vintage was the word that sprang to mind. And there was Doggo with Hamlet's suitcase open at his feet, carefully placing a copy of High Flyers in each left boot. At one of the cash registers stood Barton Burton-Smith and beside him was the girl with blue hair.

"Hey, that's my jacket! What's the big idea?" Hamlet jumped up.

At that moment there was a whoosh of fresh spring air as the new automatic doors opened and Mr. Boodle's Grade 10s surged in. Connie grabbed the back of Hamlet's belt. "Look's like we might have a bestseller on our hands," she hissed in his ear.

"A best seller!" Hamlet righted himself slowly. "A best seller, "They'll be wanting me to sign!" He raced for the stairs. Connie followed at a sensible pace.

Dr. Jones is leaving on the plane in an hour, she told Burton-Smith when she had elbowed her way to the head of the line.

"But we're not finished." His eyes flicked to the mannequin and then up to the second floor where the General Accounts Manager was leaning on the railing, calculating optimistic profit margins. "Some of the kids had to go home for money but they're coming back later. I've got tons of boots left. And books," he added slyly.

"They're selling like hotcakes!" said Hamlet who was signing his opus for the girl with blue hair.

"We have to get going," Connie told him. "What about your jacket?"

"It's hardly going to snow now," he abswered.

An hour later the afternoon plane lifted off the runway, circled the river and disappeared along with the sun into an ominous bank of grey cloud. Connie, who had dropped her guest at the airport, heard the roar and breathed a sigh of relief. Returning to the van, she discovered that the temperature had dropped alarmingly.

Back at the Co-op she found the General Accounts Manager and his apprentice buyer admiring the scattered remains of the boot display. She presented them with an invoice for 35 copies of High Flyers at $29.95 each and helped herself to the last two copies.

"I'll take the cost of these out of your fine," she told Burton-Smith as she passed through to the bakery.

Twenty minutes later she pulled up in front of the library with a dozen assorted doughnuts in an open box beside her on the seat. A single snowflake drifted onto her windshield, followed by another and then another. She was startled by a loud honk.

Doggo waved from the cab of his mud-spattered pick-up. He was wearing a new jacket, she noticed, leather with a sprinkling of something white down the front. Dinah thrust her head out his window and caught a large snowflake on her tongue. She barked joyfully. Connie waved back. It was four o'clock, she saw, glancing at her watch, but somehow it felt more like five. She helped herself to a chocolate cherry custard and headed home.