 8 Port Vigor is a fascinating old town. It is built on a point jutting out into the sound. Dimly in the distance one can see the end of Long Island which Mifflin viewed with sparkling eyes. It seemed to bring him closer to Brooklyn. All schooners were beating along the estuary and the fresh wind, and there was a delicious tang of brine in the air. We drove direct to the station where the Professor alighted. We took his portment to and shut Bach inside the van to prevent the dog from following him. Then there was an awkward pause as he stood by the wheel with his cap off. "'Well, Miss McGill,' he said, "'there's an express train at five o'clock, so would luck I shall be in Brooklyn to-night. My brother's address is six hundred Abington Avenue, and I hope when you're sending a card to the sage you'll let me have one, too. I shall be very homesick for Parnassus, but I'd rather leave her with you than with anyone I know.' He bowed very low, and before I could say a word he blew his nose violently and hurried away. I saw him carrying his feliz into the station, and then he disappeared. I suppose that living alone with Andrew for all these years has unused me to the eccentricities of other people, but surely this little red beard was one of the strangest beings one would be likely to meet. Bach yowled dismally inside, and I did not feel in any mood to sell books in Port Vigor. I drove back into the town and stopped at a tea-shop for a pot of tea and some toast. When I came out I found that quite a little crowd I'd collected, partly owing to the strange appearance of the Parnassus, and partly because of Bach's plaintive cries from within. Most of the onlookers seemed to suspect the outfit as being part of a travelling menagerie, so almost against my will I put up the flaps, tied Bach to the tail of the wagon, and began to answer the humorous questions of the crowd. Two or three bought books without any urging, and it was some time before I could get away. Finally I shut up the van and pulled off, as I was afraid of seeing some when I knew. As I turned into the Woodbridge Road I heard the whistle of the five o'clock train to New York. The twenty miles of road between Sabine Farm and Port Vigor was all familiar to me, but now to my relief I struck into the region that I had never visited. On my occasional trips to Boston I had always taken the train at Port Vigor, so the country roads were unknown. But I had set out on the Woodbridge way because Mifflin had spoke of a farmer, Mr. Pratt, who lived about four miles out of Port Vigor, on the Woodbridge Road. Apparently Mr. Pratt had several times bought books from the professor, and the latter had promised to visit him again, so I felt duty bound to oblige a good customer. After the varied adventures of the last two days it was almost a relief to be alone to think things over. Here was I, Helen McGill, in a queer case indeed. Instead of being home at Sabine Farm getting supper I was trundling along a strange road the sole owner of a Parnassus, probably the only one in existence, a horse and a dog and a cartload of books on my hands. Since the morning of the day before my whole life had twisted out of its accustomed orbit, I had spent four hundred dollars of my savings, I had sold about thirteen dollars worth of books, I had precipitated a fight and met a philosopher. Not only that I was dimly beginning to evolve a new philosophy of my own. And all this in order to prevent Andrew from buying a lot more books. At any rate I had been successful in that. When he had seen Parnassus at last he hardly looked at her except in tones of scorn. I caught myself wondering whether the professor would allude to the incident in his book and hoping that he would send me a copy. But after all why should he mention it? To him it was only one of a thousand adventures. As he had said angrily to Andrew he was nothing to me, nor I to him. How could he realize that this was the first adventure I had had in fifteen years I had been, what was he calling it, compiling my anthology? Well the funny little ginger snap. I kept Bok tied to the back of the van as I was afraid he might take an ocean to go in search of his master. As we jogged on and the falling sun cast a level light across the way I got a bit lonely. This solitary vagabonding business was a bit sudden after fifteen years of home life. The road lay close to the water and I watched the sound grow deeper blue and then a dull purple. I could hear the surf pounding and on the end of Long Island a far away lighthouse showed a ruby spark. I thought of the little ginger snap roaring toward New York on the express and wondered whether he was travelling in a Pullman or a day coach. A Pullman chair would feel easy after that hard Parnassus seat. By and by we neared a farmhouse which I took to be Mr. Pratt. It stood close to the road with a big red barn behind and a gilt weather vein representing a galloping horse. Curiously enough Pegs seemed to recognize the place for she turned in at the gate and knade vigorously. It must have been a favourite stopping place for the Professor. Through a lighted window I could see people sitting around a table. Evidently the Prats were at supper. I drew up in the yard. Someone looked out the window and I heard a girl's voice. Why Pa, here's Parnassus. Ginger snap must have been a welcome visitor at that farm for in an instant the whole family turned out with a great scraping of chairs and clattering of dishes. A tall sunburnt man in a clean shirt with no collar led the group, then came a stout woman about my own build and a hired man and three children. Good evening, I said, is this Mr. Pratt? Sure thing, he said, where's the Professor? On his way to Birkeland I said, I've got Parnassus. He told me to be sure to call on you, so here we are. While I want to know, ejaculated Mrs. Pratt, think of Parnassus turning suffrage. Ben, you put up the critters and I'll take Mrs. Mifflin into supper. Hold on there, I said. My name is McGill, Miss McGill. See, it's painted on the wagon. I bought the outfit from Mr. Mifflin, a business proposition entirely. Well, well, said Mr. Pratt, we're glad to see any friend of the Professor. Sorry he's not here, too. Come right in and have a bite with us. They certainly were good-hearted folk, Mr. and Mrs. Ben Pratt. He put Peg and Bach away in the barn and gave them their supper, while Mrs. Pratt took me up to her spare bedroom and brought me a jug of hot water. Then they all trooped back into the dining room and the meal began again. I am a connoisseur of farm cooking, I guess, and I've got to hand it to Bula Pratt that she was an A-1 housewife. Her hot biscuit was perfect, the coffee was real mocha simmered not boiled, the cold sausage and potato salad was as good as any Andrew ever got. And she had a smoking-hot omelette sent in for me and opened a pot of her own strawberry preserve. The children, two boys and a girl, sat open mouth nudging one another and Mr. Pratt got out his pipe while I finished up on stewed pears and cream and chocolate cake. It was a regular meal. I wondered what Andrew was eating and whether he had found the nest behind the wood-pile where the red hen always drops her eggs. Well, well, said Mr. Pratt, tell us about the Professor. We was expecting him here sometime this fall. He generally gets here around cider-time. I guess there isn't so much to tell, I said. He stopped up at our place the other day and said he wanted to sell his outfit. So I bought him out. He was pining to get back to Brooklyn and write a book. That book of his, said Mrs. Pratt. He was always talking on it, but I don't believe he ever started it yet. Whereabouts do you come from, Ms. McGill? said Pratt. I could see he was mightily puzzled at a woman driving a vanload of books around the country alone. Over toward Redfield, I said. You any kin to that writer that lives up that way? You mean Andrew McGill, I said? Yes, he's my brother. You tell, exclaimed Mrs. Pratt, why the Professor thought a terrible lot of him. He read us all to sleep with one of his books one night. Said he was the best literature in the state, I do believe. I smiled to myself as I thought of the set, too, on the road from Shelby. Well, said Pratt, if the Professor's got any better friends than us in these parts, I'm glad to meet him. He come here first time about four years ago. I was up working in the hayfield that afternoon, and I heard a shout down by the mill-pond. I looked over that way and saw a couple of kids waving their arms and screaming. I ran down the hill, and there was the Professor just a pulling my boy Dick out of the water. Dick's that one over there. Dick was a small boy of thirteen or so. He grew red under his freckles. The kids had been fooling around on a raft there, and the first thing you know Dick fell in, right into the deep water over by the dam. Couldn't swim a stroke, neither. And the Professor, who just happened to be coming along in that bus of his, heard the boy's yell. Didn't he hop out of the wagon as spry as a chimpanzee, skid over the fence and jump into the pond, swim out there and tow the boy in? Yes, ma'am, he saved that boy's life then and no mistake. That man can read me to sleep with poetry any night he has a mind to. He's a plumb, fine little firecracker, the Professor. Farmer Pratt pulled hard on his pipe. Evidently his friendship for the wandering bookseller was one of the realities of his life. Yes, ma'am, he went on. That Professor has been a good friend to me sure enough. We brought him and the boy back to the house. The boy had conned down three times and the Professor had to dive to find him. They were both pretty well all in and I tell you I was scared. But we got Dick round somehow rolling him on the sugar barrel and poured whiskey in him and worked his arms and put him in hot blankets. By and by he come to. And then I found that the Professor getting over the barboyer fence so quick, when he lit for the pond, had torn a hole in his leg you could put four fingers in. There was his trouser all stiff with blood and he not sayin' a thing. Pluckiest little runt in three states by Judas. Well, we put him to bed, too, and then the messes keeled over and we put her to bed. Three of them by the time Doc got here. Great old summer afternoon that was. But bless your heart, we couldn't keep the Professor a bed long. Next day he was out lookin' for his poetry books and first thing you know he had us all rounded up and was preaching good literature at us like any evangelist. I guess we all fell asleep over his poetry, so then he started on readin' that Treasure Island story to us, wasn't it, Mother? By hickory we none of us fell asleep over that one. He started the kids readin' so they been at it ever since, and dicks top boy at school now. Teacher says she never saw such a boy for readin'. That's what the Professor done for us. Well, tell us about yourself, Miss McGill. Is there any good books we ought to read? I used to pine for some of that fellow Shakespeare my father used to talk about so much. But the Professor always load it was over my head. It gave me quite a thrill to hear all this about Mifflin. I could readily imagine the masterful little man captivating the simple hearted prats with his eloquence and earnestness, and the story of the mill pond had its meaning too. Little Redbeard was no mere wandering crank. He was a real man, cool and steady of brain, with the earmarks of a hero. I felt a sudden gush of warmth as I recalled his comical ways. Mrs. Pratt lit a fire in her Franklin stove, and I racked my head wondering how I could tread worthily in the Professor's footsteps. Finally I fetched the Jungle Book from Parnassus and read them the story of Ricky Tickey Tavi. There was a long pause when I had finished. Say Pa, said Dick Shiley, that mongoose was rather like the Professor, wasn't he? Plainly the Professor was the traditional hero of this family, and I began to feel rather like an imposter. I suppose it was foolish of me, but I had already made up my mind to push on to Woodbridge that night. It could not be more than four miles, and the time was not much after eight. I felt a little twinge of quite unworthy annoyance, because I was still treading in the glamour of the Professor's influence. The Prats would talk of nothing else, and I wanted to get somewhere where I would be estimated at my own value, not merely as his disciple. During the red beard I said to myself, I think he has bewitched these people. And in spite of their protests and invitations to stay the night, I insisted on having Peg hitched up. I gave them the copy of the Jungle Book as a small return for their hospitality, and finally sold Mr. Prat a little copy of Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare, which I thought he could read without brain fever. Then I lit my lantern, and after a chorus of goodbyes, Parnassus rolled away. Well, I said to myself, as I turned into the High Road once more, drat the ginger snap, he seems to hypnotize everybody. He must be nearly to Brooklyn by this time. It was very quiet along the road, also very dark, for the sky had clouded over, and I could see neither moon nor stars. As it was a direct road, I should have had no difficulty, and I suppose I must have fallen into a doze during which Peg took a wrong turning. At any rate, I realized about half past nine that Parnassus was on a much rougher road than the highway had any right to be, and there were no telephone poles to be seen. I knew that they stretched all along the main road, so plainly I had made a mistake. I was reluctant for a moment to admit that I could be wrong, and just then Peg stumbled heavily and stood still. She paid no heed to my exhortations, and when I got out and carried my lantern to see whether anything was in the way, I found that she had cast a shoe and her foot was bleeding. The shoe must have dropped off some way back, and she had picked up a nail or something in the quick. I saw no alternative but to stay where I was for the night. This was not very pleasant, but the adventures of the day had put me into a stoical frame of mind, and I saw no good in re-pining. I unhitched Peg, sponged her foot and tied her to a tree. I would have made more careful explorations to determine just where I was, but a sharp patter of rain began to fall, so I climbed into my Parnassus, took Bach in with me, and lit the swinging lamp. By this time it was nearly ten o'clock, there was nothing to do but to turn in, so I took off my boots and lay down in the bunk. Bach lay quite comfortably on the floor of the van. I meant to read for a while, and so did not turn out the light, but I fell asleep almost immediately. I woke up at half past eleven and turned out the lamp, which had made the van very warm. I opened the little windows front and back and would have opened the door, but I feared Bach might slip away. It was still raining a little. To my annoyance I felt very wakeful. I lay for some time listening to the patter of raindrops on the roof and skylight, a very snug sound when one is warm and safe. Every now and then I could hear Peg stamping in the underbrush. I was almost dozing off again when Bach gave a low growl. No woman of my bulk has a right to be nervous I guess, but instantly my security vanished. The patter of the rain seemed menacing, and I imagined a hundred horrors. I was totally alone and unarmed, and Bach was not a large dog. He growled again, and I felt worse than before. I imagined that I heard stealthy sounds in the bushes, and once Peg snorted as though frightened. I put my hand down to Pat Bach and found that his neck was all bristly, like a fighting cock. He uttered a queer half-growl, half-wine which gave me a chill. Someone must be prowling about the van, but in the falling rain I could hear nothing. I felt I must do something. I was afraid to call out lest that I betray the fact that there was only a woman in the van. My expedient was absurd enough, but at any rate it satisfied my desire to act. I seized one of my boots and banged vigorously on the floor, at the same time growling in as deep and masculine a voice as I could muster. What the hell's the matter? What the hell's the matter? This sounded silly enough, I dare say, but it afforded me some relief. And, as Bach shortly ceased growling, it apparently served some purpose. I lay awake for a long time tingling all over with nervousness. Then I began to grow calmer, and was getting drowsy almost in spite of myself, when I was aroused by the unmistakable sound of Bach's tail thumping on the floor, a sure sign of pleasure. This puzzled me quite as much as his growls did. I did not darestrike a light, but I could hear him sniffing at the door of the van and whining with eagerness. This seemed very uncanny, and again I crept stealthily out of the bunk and pounded on the floor lustily, this time with a frying pan which made an unearthly din. Peg nayed and snorted, and Bach began to bark. Even in my anxiety I almost laughed. It sounds like an insane asylum, I thought, and reflected that probably the disturbance was only caused by some small animal. Perhaps a rabbit or a skunk which Bach's had winded and wanted to chase. I padded him and crawled into my bunk once more. My real excitement was still to come. About half an hour later I heard unmistakable footsteps alongside the van. Bach growled furiously and I lay in panic. Something jarred one of the wheels, then broke out a most extraordinary racket. I heard quick steps, Peg winnied, and something fell heavily against the back of the wagon. There was a violent scuffle on the ground, the sound of blows and rapid breathing. With my heart jumping I peered out of one of the back windows. There was barely any light, but dimly I could see a tumbling mass which squirmed and writhed on the ground. Something struck one of the rear wheels of the Parnassus, so that it trembled. I heard horse swearing, and then the whole body, whatever it was, rolled off into the underbrush. There was a terrific crashing and snapping of twigs. Bach whined, growled, and pawed madly at the door, and then complete silence. My nerves were quite shattered by this time. I don't think I had ever been so frightened since childhood days when I awakened from a nightmare. Little trickles of fear crept up and down my spine and my scalp prickled. I pulled Bach onto the bunk and lay with one hand on his collar. He too seemed agitated and sniffed gingerly now and then. Finally, however, he gave a sigh and fell asleep. I judged it might have been two o'clock, but I did not like to strike a light to see. And at last I fell into a doze. When I woke the sun was shining brilliantly and the air was full of chirping birds. I felt stiff and uneasy from sleeping in my clothes, and my foot was numb from Bach's weight. I got up and looked out of the window. Parnassus was standing in a narrow lane by a grove of birch trees. The ground was muddy and smeared with footprints behind the van. I opened the door and looked around. The first thing I saw on the ground by one of the wheels was a battered tweed cap. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 of Parnassus on Wheels This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Parnassus on Wheels by Christopher Morley Chapter 9 My feelings were as mixed as a crushed nut Sunday, so the Professor hadn't gone to Brooklyn after all. What did he mean by prowling after me like a sleuth? Was it just homesickness for Parnassus? Not likely. And then the horrible noises I had heard in the night. Had some tramp been hanging about the van in hope of robbing me? Had the tramp attacked Mifflin? Or had Mifflin attacked the tramp? Who had got the better of it? I picked up the muddy cap and threw it into the van. Anyway, I had problems of my own to tackle and those of the Professor could wait. Peg winnied when she saw me. I examined her foot. Seeing it by daylight the trouble was not hard to diagnose. A long jagged piece of slate was wedged in the frog of the foot. I easily wrenched it out, heated some water, and gave the hoof another sponging. It would be all right when she was shot once more. But where was this shoe? I gave the horse some oats, cooked an egg and a cup of coffee for myself at the little kerosene stove, and broke up a dog biscuit for Bach. I marveled once more at the completeness of Parnassus furnishings. Bach helped me discover the pan. He sniffed eagerly at the cap when I showed it to him and wagged his tail. It seemed to me that the only thing I could do was leave Parnassus and the animals where they were and retrace my steps as far as the Pratt farm. Undoubtedly Mr. Pratt would be glad to sell me a horse shoe and send his hired man to do the job for me. I could not drive Peg as she was with the sore foot and without a shoe. I judged Parnassus would be quite safe. The lane seemed to be a lonely one leading to a deserted quarry. I tied Bach to the steps to act as a guard, took my purse and the professor's cap with me, locked the door of the van, and set off along the back track. Bach whined and tugged violently when he saw me disappearing, but I could see no other course. The lane rejoined the main road about half a mile back. I must have been asleep or I could never have made the mistake of turning off. I don't see why Peg should have made the turn unless her foot hurt and she judged the side track should be a good place to rest. She must have been well used to stopping overnight in the open. I strode along pondering over my adventures and resolved to buy a pistol when I got to Woodbridge. I remembered thinking that I could write quite a book now myself. Already I began to feel quite a hardened pioneer. It doesn't take an adaptable person long to accustom one's self to a new way of life, and the humdrum routine of the farm certainly looked prosy compared to voyaging with Parnassus. When I had got beyond Woodbridge and had crossed the river I would begin to sell books in earnest. Also I would buy a notebook and jot down my experiences. I had heard of book selling as a profession for women, but I thought that my taste of it was probably unique. I might even write a book that would rival Andrew's. Yes, and Mifflin's. And that brought my thoughts to Barbarossa again. Of all extraordinary people I thought he certainly takes the cake. And then rounding a bend I saw him sitting on a rail fence with his head shining in the sunlight. My heart gave a sort of jump. I do believe I was getting fond of the professor. He was examining something which he held in his hand. You'll get sunstroke, I said. Here's your cap. And I pulled it out of my pocket and tossed it to him. Thanks, he said, as cool as you please. And here's your horseshoe. Fair exchange. I burst out laughing and he looked disconcerted as I hoped he would. I thought you'd be in Brooklyn by now, I said, at Six Hundred Abingdon Avenue, laying out Chapter One. What do you mean by following me this way? You nearly frightened me to death last night. I felt like one of Fenimore Cooper's heroines shut up in the blockhouse, while the Redskins prowled about. He flushed and looked very uncomfortable. I owe you an apology, he said. I certainly never intended that you should see me. I bought a ticket for New York and checked my bag through, and then, while I was waiting for the train, it came over me that your brother was right, and that it was a darn risky thing for you to go jaunting about alone in Parnassus. I was afraid something might happen. I followed along the road behind you, keeping well out of sight. Where were you while I was at Pratt's? Sitting that far down the road, eating bread and cheese, he said. Also I wrote a poem, a thing I very rarely do. Well, I hope your ears burned, I said, for those Pratt's have certainly raised you to the peerage. He got more uncomfortable than ever. Well, he said, I dare say it was all an error, but anyway, I did follow you. When you turned off into that lane, I kept pretty close behind you. As it happens, I know this bit of country, and there are very often some hobos hanging around that old quarry up that lane. They have a cave there where they go into winter quarters. I was afraid some of them might bother you. You could hardly have chosen a worse place to camp out. By the bones of George Elliott, Pratt ought to have warned you. I can't conceive why you didn't stop at his house overnight, anyway. If you must know I got weary of hearing them sing your praises. I could see that he was beginning to get netled. I regret having alarmed you, he said. I see that Peg has dropped a shoe. If you'll let me fix it for you after that, I won't bother you. We turned back again, along the road, and I noticed the right side of his face for the first time. Under the ear was a large, livid bruise. That hobo or whoever he was, I said, must have been a better fighter than Andrew. I see he landed on your cheek. Are you always fighting? His annoyance disappeared. Apparently the Professor enjoyed a fight almost as much as he did a good book. Please don't regard the last twenty-four hours as typical of me, he said, with a chuckle. I am so unused to be in a squire of dams that perhaps I take the responsibilities too seriously. Did you sleep at all last night, I asked? I think I began to realize for the first time that the gallant little creature had been out all night in a drizzling rain simply to guard me from possible annoyance, and I had been unforgivably churlish about it. I found a very fine haystack in a field overlooking the quarry. I crawled into the middle of it. A haystack is sometimes more comfortable than a boarding-house. Well, I said penitently, I can never forgive myself for the trouble I have caused you. It was awfully good of you to do what you did. Please put your cap on and don't catch cold. We walked for several minutes in silence. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. I was afraid he might have caught his death of cold being out all night in the wet, to say nothing of the scuffle he had had with the tramp, but he really looked chipper as ever. How do you like the wild life of a bookseller, he said? You must read George Barrow. He would have enjoyed Parnassus. I was just thinking when I met you that I could write a book about my adventures. Good, he said, we might collaborate. There's another thing we might collaborate on, I said, and that's breakfast. I'm sure you haven't had any. No, he said, I don't think I have. I never lie when I know I shan't be believed. I haven't had any either, I said. I thought that to tell an untruth would be the least thing I could do to reward the little man for his unselfishness. Well, he said, I really thought that by this time, he broke off. Was that buck barking, he asked sharply? We had been walking slowly and had not yet reached the spot where the lean branch from the main road. We were still about three quarters of a mile from the place where I had camped overnight. We both listened carefully, but I could hear nothing but the singing of the telephone wires along the road. No matter, he said, I thought I heard a dog. But I noticed that he quickened his pace. I was saying, he continued, that I had really thought to have lost Parnassus for good by this morning, but I'm tickled to death to have a chance to see her again. I hope she'll be as good a friend to you as she has been to me. I suppose you'll sell her when you return to the sage. I don't know I'm sure, I said. I must confess I'm still a little at sea. My desire for an adventure seems to have let me in deeper than I expected. I began to see that there's more in this book-selling game than I thought. Honestly, it's getting into my blood. Well, that's fine, he said hardly. I couldn't have left Parnassus in better hands. You must let me know what you'd do with her, and then perhaps when I've finished my book I can buy her back. We struck off into the lane, the ground was slippery under the trees, and we went single file, mifflin in front. I looked at my watch. It was nine o'clock, just an hour since I had left the van. As we neared the spot, mifflin kept looking ahead through the birch trees in a queer way. What's the matter, I said? We're almost there, aren't we? We are there, he said. Here's the place. Parnassus was gone. CHAPTER X We stood in complete dismay. I did at any rate for about as long as it takes to peel a potato. There could be no doubt in which direction the van had moved, for the track of the wheels was plain. It had gone farther up the lane toward the quarry, in the earth, which was still soggy, were a number of footprints. By the bones of polycarp, exclaimed the Professor, those hobos have still in the van. I guess they think it'll make a fine Pullman sleeper for them. If I'd realized there were more than one of them I'd have hung around closer. They need a lesson. Good Lord, I thought, here's Don Coyote about to wade into another fight. Hadn't we better go back and get Mr. Pratt, I asked? This was obviously the wrong thing to say. It put the fiery little man all the more on his metal. His beard bristled. Nothing of the sort, he said. Those fellows are cowards and vagabonds anyway. They can't be far off. You haven't been away more than an hour, have you? If they've done anything to balk by the bones of Chaucer I'll harry them. I thought I heard him bark. He hurried up the lane and I followed in a panicky frame of mind. The track wound along a hillside between a high bank and a forest of birch trees. I think the distance can't have been more than a quarter of a mile. Anyway, in a very few minutes the road made a sharp twist to the right, and we found ourselves looking down into the quarry over a sheer rocky drop of about a hundred feet. Below, drawn over one side of the wall of rock, stood Parnassus. Peg was between the shafts. Bok was nowhere to be seen. Sitting by the van there were three disreputable-looking men. The smoke of a cooking-fire rose into the air, evidently they were making free with my larder. Keep back, said the Professor softly. Don't let them see us. He flattened himself in the grass and crawled to the edge of the cliff. I did the same, and we lay there invisible from below, but quite able to see everything in the quarry. The three tramps were excitedly enjoying an excellent breakfast. This place is a regular hangout for these fellows, Mifflin whispered. I've seen hobos here about every year. They go into winter quarters about the end of October, usually. There's an old blasted-out section of this quarry that makes a sheltered dormitory for them. And, as the place isn't working any more, they're not disturbed here, so long as they don't make mischief in the neighborhood. We'll give them— Hands up! said a rogue voice behind us. I looked around. There was a fat, red-faced, villainous-looking creature covering us with a shiny revolver. It was an awkward situation. Both the Professor and I were lying full length on the ground. We were quite helpless. Get up! said the tramp in a husky, nasty voice. I guess you thought we wasn't covering our trail. Well, we'll have to tie you up, I reckon, whilst we get away with this crystal palace of yorn. I scrambled to my feet, but to my surprise the Professor continued to lie at full length. Get up, Deacon! said the tramp again. Get up on them graceful limbs, if you please. I guess he thought himself safe from attack by a woman. At any rate he bent over as if to grab Mifflin by the neck. I saw my chance and jumped on him from behind. I am heavy as I have said, and he sprawled on the ground. My doubt says to the pistol being loaded were promptly dissolved, for it went off like a cannon. Nobody was in front of it, however, and Mifflin was on his feet like a flash. He had the ruffian by the throat and kicked the weapon out of his hand. I ran to seize it. You son of Satan, said the valiant redbeard, thought you could bully us, did you? Miss McGill, you were as quick as Joan of Arc. Hand me the pistol, please. I gave it to him and he shoved it under the hobo's nose. Now, he said, take off that rag around your neck. The rag was an old red handkerchief inconceivably soiled. The tramp removed it, grumbling and whining. Mifflin gave me the pistol to hold, while he tied our prisoner's wrists together. In the meantime we heard a shout from the quarry. The three vagabonds were gazing up in great excitement. You tell those fashion-plates down there, said Mifflin, as he knotted the tramp's hands together. That if they make any fight I'll shoot them like crows. His voice was cold and savage, and he seemed quite master of the situation. But I must confess, I wondered how we would handle four of them. The greasy ruffian shouted down to his pals in the quarry. But I did not hear what he said, as just then the professor asked me to keep our captive covered while he got a stick. I stood with the pistol pointed at his head, while Mifflin ran back into the birchwood to cut a cudgel. The tramp's face became the color of the underside of a fried egg, as he looked into the muzzle of his own gun. Say, lady, he pleaded, that gun goes off awful easy, point her somewhere else so you'll croak me by a mistake. I thought a good scare wouldn't do him any harm, and kept the barrel stiddly on him. The rascals down below seemed debating what to do. I don't know whether they were armed or not, but probably they imagined that there were more of us than just two. At all events, by the time Mifflin came back with the stout birch staff, they were hustling out of the quarry on the lower side. The professor swore and looked as if he would gladly give chase, but he refrained. Here, you, he said, in crisp tones to the tramp, march on ahead of us down to the quarry. The fat ruffian shambled awkwardly down the trail. We had to make quite a detour to get into the quarry, and by the time we reached there the other tramps had gotten clean away. I was not sorry to tell the truth. I thought the professor had enough scraping for one twenty-four hours. Peg whinnied loudly as she saw us coming, but Bach was nowhere in sight. What have you done with the dog you swine? said Mifflin. If you've hurt him I'll make you pay with your own hide. Our prisoner was completely cowed. No boss, we ain't hurt the dog, he fawned. We tied him up so he couldn't bark. That's all. He's in the bus. And sure enough by this time we could hear smothered yelping and whining from Parnassus. I hurried to open the door, and there was Bach, his jaws tied together with a rope end. He bounded out and made a super canine effort to express his joy at seeing the professor again. He paid very little attention to me. Well, said Mifflin, after freeing the dog's muzzle, and with difficulty restraining him from burying his teeth in the tramp's shin, what shall we do with this heroic specimen of manhood? Shall we cart him over to the jail in Port Vigor, or shall we let him go? The tramp burst into a whining appeal that was almost funny it was so abject. The professor cut it short. I ought to pack you into quad, he said. Are you the Phoebus Apollo I scuffled with down the lane last night? Was it you skulking around the wagon then? No, boss, that was Splitlip Sam, honest to God it was. He come back, boss, said he'd been fighting with a catamounten. Say, boss, you sure hit him hard. One of his lamps is a pudding. Boss, I swear I ain't had nothing to do with it. I don't like your society, said the professor, and I'm going to turn you loose. I'm going to count ten, and if you're not out of the quarry by that time, I'll shoot. And if I see you again I'll skin you alive. Now get out. He cut the knotted handkerchief in two. The hobo needed no urging. He spun on his heel and fled like a rabbit. The professor watched him go, and as the fat ungainly figure burst through a hedge and disappeared, he fired the revolver into the air to frighten him still more. Then he tossed the weapon into the pool nearby. Well, Miss McGill, he said with a chuckle, if you like to undertake breakfast, I'll fix up Peg. And he drew the horseshoe from his pocket once more. A brief inspection of Parnassus satisfied me that the thieves had not had time to do any real damage. They had got out most of the eatables and spread them on a flat rock, in preparation for a feast. And they had tracked a good deal of mud into the van, but otherwise I could see nothing amiss. So, while Mifflin busied himself with Peg's foot, it was easy for me to get a meal under way. I found a gush of clean water trickling down the face of the rock. There were still some eggs and bread and cheese in the little cupboard, and an unopened tin of condensed milk. I gave Peg her nosebag of oats and fed Bach, who was frisking about in high spirits. By that time the shooing was done, and the Professor and I sat down to an improvised meal. I was beginning to feel as if this gypsy existence were the normal course of my life. Well Professor, I said, as I handed him a cup of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs and cheese. For a man who slept in a wet haystack, you acquit yourself with excellent valor. Old Parnassus is quite a stormy petrol, he said. I used to think the chief difficulty in writing a book would be to invent things to happen. But, if I were to sit down and write the adventures I've had with her, it'd be a regular odyssey. How about Peg's foot, I asked. Can she travel on it? It'll be all right if you go easy. I've scraped out the injured part and put the shoe back. I keep a little kit of tools under the van for emergencies of all sorts. It was chilly and we didn't dawdle over our meal. I only made a faint of eating as I had had a little breakfast before, and also as the events of the last few hours had left me rather restless. I wanted to get Parnassus out on the highway again to jog along in the sun and think things over. The quarry was a desolate forbidding place anyway. But before we left we explored the cave where the tramps had been preparing to make themselves comfortable for the winter. It was not really a cave, but only a shaft into the granite cliff. A screen of evergreen bows protected the opening against the weather, and inside were piles of sacking that had evidently been used as beds, and many old grocery boxes for tables and chairs. It amused me to notice a cracked fragment of mirror balanced on a corner of rock. Even these ragamuffins apparently were not totally unconscious of personal appearance. I seized the opportunity while the professor was giving Pegg's foot a final look to rearrange my hair, which was emphatically a sight. I hardly think Andrew would have recognized me that morning. We led Pegg up the steep incline back into the lane where I had strayed, and at length we reached the main road again. Here I began to lay down the law to Redbeard. Now look here, professor, I said. I'm not going to have you tramp all the way back to Port Vigor after the night you've had you need a rest. You just climb into that Parnassus and lie down for a good snooze. I'll drive you into Woodbridge and you can take your train from there. Now you get right into that bunk. I'll sit out here and drive. He demurred but without much emphasis. I think the little fool was just about fagged out and no wonder I was a trifle groggy myself. In the end he was quite docile. He climbed into the van, took off his boots, and lay down under a blanket. Bach followed him and I think they both fell asleep on the instant. I got on the front seat and took the reins. I didn't let Pegg go more quickly than a walk, as I wanted to spare her sore foot. My, what a morning that was after the rain. The road ran pretty close to the shore, and every now and then I could catch a glimpse of the water. The air was keen, not just the ordinary unnoticed air that we breathe in and out and don't think about, but a sharp and tingling essence, as strong in the nostrils as camphor or ammonia. The sun seemed focused upon Parnassus, and we moved along the white road in a flush of golden light. The flat fronds of the cedars swayed gently in the salty air, and for the first time in ten years I should think, I began amusing myself by selecting words to describe the goodness of the morning. I even imagined myself writing a description of it as if I were Andrew or Thoreau. The crazy little professor had inoculated me with his literary bug, I guess. And then I did a dishonorable thing. Just by chance I put my hand into the little pocket beside the seat, where Mifflin kept a few odds and ends. I meant to have another look at that card of his with the poem on it. And there I found a funny, battered little notebook evidently forgotten. On the cover was written in ink, thoughts on the present discontents. That title seemed vaguely familiar. I seemed to recall something of the kind from my school days more than twenty years ago, goodness me! Of course if I had been honourable I wouldn't have looked into it, but in a kind of quibbling self-justification I recalled that I had bought Parnassus and all it contained, lock, stock, barrel and bung, as Andrew used to say. And so... The little notebook was full of little jottings, writings in pencil, in the professor's small, precise hand. The words were rubbed and soiled, but plainly legible. I read this. I don't suppose peg or bach get lonely, but by the bones of Ben Gunn I do. Seems silly when Henrick and Hans Anderson and Tennyson and Thoreau and a whole wagon load of other good fellows are riding at my back. I can hear them all talking as we trundle along. But books aren't a substantial world, after all. And every now and then we get hungry for some closer, more human relationships. I've been totally alone for eight years now, except for Runt, and he might be dead and never say so. This wandering about is fine in its way, but it must come to an end some day. A man needs to put down a root somewhere to be really happy. What absurd victims of contrary desires we are. If a man is settled in one place he yearns to wander, when he wanders he yearns to have a home. And yet how bestial its content all the great things in life are done by discontented people. There are three ingredients in a good life. Learning, earning, and yearning. A man should be learning as he goes, and he should be earning bread for himself and others, and he should be yearning, too, yearning to know the unknowable. What a fine old poem is The Pulley by George Herbert. Those Elizabethan fellows knew how to write. They were marred, perhaps, by their ideas that poems must be witty. Remember how Bacon said that reading poems makes one witty? There he gave a clue as to the literature of his time. Their fantastic puns and conceits are rather out of our fashion nowadays. But, Lord, the root of the matter was in them. How gallantly, how reverently they tackled the problems of life. When God at first made man, says George Herbert, he had a glass of blessings standing by. So he pours on man all the blessings in his reservoir. Strength, beauty, wisdom, honor, pleasure. And then he refrains from giving him the last of them, which is rest, i.e. God sees that if a man is content he will never win his way to him. Let man be restless so that, if goodness lead him not, yet weariness may toss him to my breast. Some day I shall write a novel on that theme and call it The Pulley. In this tragic, restless world there must be some place where at last we can lay our heads and be at rest. Some people call it death, some call it God. My ideal of a man is not the Omar who wants to shatter into bits this sorry scheme of things, and then remold it nearer to the heart's desire. Old Omar was a coward with his silk pajamas and his glass of wine. The real man is George Herbert's seasoned timber, the fellow who does handily and well whatever comes to him. Even if it's only shoveling coal into a furnace he can balance the shovel neatly, swing the coal square on the fire and not spill it on the floor. If it's only splitting kindling or running a trolley car he can make a good artistic job of it. If it's only writing a book or peeling potatoes he can put into it the best he has. Even if it's only a bald-headed old fool over forty selling books on a country road he can make an idea love it. Good old Parnassus, it's a great game. I think I'll have to give her up soon, though. I must get that book of mine written. But Parnassus has been a true glass of blessings for me. There was much more in the notebook, indeed it was half full of jotted paragraphs, memoranda and scraps of writing, poems I believe some of them were, but I had seen enough. It seemed as if I had stumbled unawares on the pathetic, brave and lonely heart of the little man. I'm a commonplace creature, I'm afraid, insensible to many of the deeper things in life, but every now and then like all of us I come face to face with something that thrills me. I saw how this little red-bearded peddler was like a cake of yeast in the big, heavy dough of humanity. How he traveled about trying to fulfill in his own way his ideals of beauty. I felt almost motherly toward him. I wanted to tell him that I understood him. And in a way I felt ashamed of having run away from my own homely tasks, my kitchen and my hand-yard, and dear old, hot- tempered, absent-minded Andrew. I fell into a sober mood, as soon as I was alone I thought I would sell Parnassus and hurry back to the farm. That was my job. That was my glass of blessings. What was I doing? A fat, middle-aged woman traipsing along the roads with a cartload of books I didn't understand? I slipped the little notebook back into its hiding-place. I would rather have died than let the Professor know I had seen it. CHAPTER XI We were coming into Woodbridge, and I was just wondering whether to wake the Professor when the little window behind me slid back and he stuck his head out. Hello, he said. I think I must have been asleep. Well I should hope so, I said. You needed it. Indeed he looked much better, and I was relieved to see it. I had really been afraid he would be ill after sleeping out all night, but I guess he was tougher than I thought. He joined me on the seat and we drove into town. While he went to the station to ask about the trains I had a fine time selling books. I was away from the locality where I was known, and had no shyness in attempting to imitate Mifflin's methods. I even went him one better by going into a hardware store where I bought a large dinner-bell. This I rang lustily until the crowd gathered, and then I put up the flaps and displayed my books. As a matter of fact I sold only one, but I enjoyed myself nonetheless. By and by Mifflin reappeared. I think he had been to a barber. At any rate he looked very spry. He had bought a clean collar and a flowing tie of a bright electric blue which really suited him rather well. Well, he said, the sage is going to get back at me for that punch on the nose. I've been to the bank to cash your check. They telephoned over to Redfield and apparently your brother has stopped payment on it. It's rather awkward. They seem to think I'm a crook. I was furious. What right had Andrew to do that? The brute, I said. What on earth shall I do? I suggest that you telephone to Redfield Bank, he said, and countermand your brother's instructions. That is, unless you think you've made a mistake. I don't want to take advantage of you. Nonsense, I said. I'm not going to let Andrew spoil my holiday. That's always his way. If he gets an idea into his head, he's like a mule. I'll telephone to Redfield and then we'll go to see the bank here. We put Parnassus up at the hotel and I went to the telephone. I was thoroughly angry at Andrew and tried to get him on the wire first. But Sabine Farm didn't answer. Then I telephoned to the bank in Redfield and got Mr. Shirley. He's the cashier and I know him well. I guess he recognized my voice, for he made no objection when I told him what I wanted. Now you telephoned to the bank in Woodbridge, I said, and tell them to let Mr. Mifflin have the money. I'll go there with him to identify him. Will that be all right? Perfectly he said, that a seatful little snail, if I had only known what he was concocting. Mifflin said there was a train at three o'clock which he could take. We stopped at a little lunchroom for a bite to eat, then he went again to the bank and I went with him. We asked the cashier whether they had had a message from Redfield. Yes, he said, we've just heard. And he looked at me rather clearly. Are you Miss McGill? He asked. I am, I said. Were you just stepped this way a moment? He asked politely. He led me into a little sitting-room and asked me to sit down. I suppose that he was going to get some paper for me to sign, so I waited quite patiently for several minutes. I had left the professor at the cashier's window where they would give him his money. I waited some time and I finally got tired of looking at the life-insurance calendars. Then I happened to glance out of the window. Surely that was the professor just disappearing round the corner with another man. I returned to the cashier's desk. What's the matter, I said? Your mahogany furniture is charming, but I'm tired of it. Do I have to sit here any longer? And where's Mr. Mifflin? Did he get his money? The cashier was a horrid little creature with side-whiskers. I'm sorry you had to wait, madam, he said. The transaction is just concluded. We gave Mr. Mifflin what was due him. There is no need for you to stay longer. I thought this was very extraordinary. Surely the professor would not leave without saying goodbye. However, I noticed that the clock did say three minutes to three, so I thought that perhaps he had had to run to catch his train. He was such a strange little man, anyway. Well, I went back to the hotel, quite a little upset by this sudden parting. At least I was glad the little man had got his money all right. Probably he would write from Brooklyn, but of course I wouldn't get the letter till I returned to the farm, as that was the only address he would have. Perhaps that wouldn't be so long after all, but I did not feel like going back now when Andrew had been so horrid. I drove Parnassus on the ferry and we crossed the river. I felt lost and disagreeable. Even the fresh movement through the air gave me no pleasure. It didn't take me long to discover that Parnassus-ing, all alone, had lost some of its charms. I missed the professor, missed his abrupt, direct way of saying things, and his whimsical wit. And I was annoyed by his skipping off without a word of good-bye. It didn't seem natural. I partially appeased my irritation by stopping at a farmhouse on the other side of the river and selling a cookbook. Then I started along the road for Bath, about five miles further on. Peg's foot didn't seem to bother her, so I thought it would be safe to travel that far before stopping for the night. Moving up the days, with some difficulty it seems as though I had been away from home a month, I remembered that this was Saturday night. I thought it would stay over in Bath Sunday and get a good rest. We jogged sedately along the road and I got out a copy of Vanity Fair. I was so absorbed in Becky Sharp that I wouldn't even interrupt myself to sell books at the houses we passed. I think reading a good book makes one modest. When you see the marvelous insight into human nature, which a truly great book shows, it is bound to make you feel small, like looking at the dipper on a clear night, or seeing the winter sunrise when you go out to collect the morning eggs. And anything that makes you feel small is mighty good for you. What do you mean by a great book, said the Professor? I mean I imagined him saying it. It seemed to me as if I could see him sitting there with his corn cub pipe in his hand and that quizzical little face of his looking sharply at me. Somehow talking with the Professor had made me think. He was as good as one of those scranton correspondence courses I do believe, and no money to pay for postage. Well, I said to the Professor, to myself I mean, let's see. What is a good book? I don't mean books like Henry James. He's Andrew's great idol. It always seemed to me that he had a kind of rush of words to the head and never stopped to sort them out properly. A good book ought to have something simple about it, and, like Eve, it ought to come from somewhere near the third rib. There ought to be a heart beating in it. A story that's all forehead doesn't amount to much. Anyway, it'll never get over at a Dorcas meeting. That was the trouble with Henry James. Andrew talked so much about him that I took one of his books to read aloud at our sewing circle over at Redfield. Well, after one try, we had to fall back on Pollyanna. I haven't been doing chores and running a farmhouse for fifteen years without getting some ideas about life, and even about books. I wouldn't set my literary views against yours, Professor. I was still talking to Mifflin in my mind. No, nor even against Andrew's. But as I say, I've got some ideas of my own. I've learned that honest work counts in writing books just as much as it does in washing dishes. I guess Andrew's books must be some good after all because he surely does mull over them without end. I can forgive his being a shiftless farmer so long as he really does his literary chores up to the hilt. A man can be slack in everything else if he does one thing as well as he possibly can. And I guess it won't matter my being an ignoramus in literature so long as I'm rated A1 in the kitchen. That's what I used to think as I polished and scoured and scrubbed and dusted and swept and then set about getting dinner. If I ever sat down to read for ten minutes, the cat would get into the custard. No woman in the country sits down for fifteen consecutive minutes between sunrise and sunset anyway, unless she has half a dozen servants. And nobody knows anything about literature unless he spends most of his life sitting down. So there you are. The cultivation of philosophic reflection was a new experience for me. Peg ammeled along contentedly, and the dog trailed under Parnassus where I had tied him. I read Vanity Fair and thought about all sorts of things. Once I got out to pick up some scarlet maple leaves that attracted me. The motors passing annoyed me with their dust and noise, but by and by one of them stopped looking at my outfit curiously and then asked to see some books. I put up the flaps for them and we pulled off on one side of the road and had a good talk. They bought two or three books, too. By the time I neared Bath the hands of my watch pointed to supper I was still a bit shy of Mifflin's scheme of stopping overnight at farmhouses, so I thought I'd go right into town and look for a hotel. The next day was Sunday, so it seemed reasonable to give the horse a good rest and stay in Bath two nights. The hominy house looked clean and old-fashioned and the name amused me, so in I went. It was a kind of high-class boarding house with mostly old women around. It looked to me almost literary and Albert Hubbardish compared to the Grand Central in Shelby. The folks there stared at me somewhat suspiciously, and I half thought they were going to say they didn't take peddlers. But when I flashed a new five-dollar bill at the desk I got good service. A five-dollar bill is a patent of nobility in New England. My how I enjoyed the cream chicken on toast and buckwheat cakes with syrup. After you get used to cooking all your own grub, a meal off someone else's stove is the finest kind of treat. After supper I was all prepared to sit out on the porch with my sweater and give a rocking chair a hot box. But then I remembered that it was up to me to carry on the traditions of Parnassus. I was there to spread the gospel of good books. I got to thinking how the professor never shirked carrying on his campaign, and I determined that I would be worthy of the cause. When I think back about the experience it seems pretty crazy, but at the time I was filled with a kind of evangelistic zeal. I thought if I was going to try to sell books I might as well have some fun out of it. Most of the old ladies were squatting about in the parlor, knitting or reading or playing cards. In the smoking room I could see two dried up men. Mrs. Hommany, the manager of the place, was sitting at her desk behind a brass railing, going over accounts with a quill pen. I thought that the house probably hadn't had a shock since Walt Whitman wrote, Leaves of Grass. In a kind of do or die spirit I determined to give them a rouse. In the dining room I had noticed a huge dinner-bell that stood behind the door. I stepped in there and got it. Standing in the big hall I began ringing it as hard as I could shake my arm. You might have thought it was a fire alarm. Mrs. Hommany dropped her pen in horror. The colonial dames in the parlor came to life and ran into the hall like cockroaches. In a minute I had gathered quite a respectable audience. It was up to me to do the spellbinding. Friends, I said, unconsciously imitating the professor's tricks of the trade, I guess. This spell which generally summons you to the groaning board now calls you to a literary repast. With the permission of the management and with apologies for disturbing your tranquility I will deliver a few remarks on the value of good books. I see that several of you are fond of reading, so perhaps the topic will be congenial. They gazed at me about as warmly as a round of walnut Sundays. Ladies and gentlemen, I continued. Of course you remember the story of A. Blinken when he said, If you call a leg a tail, how many tails has a dog? Five, you answer. Wrong, because, as Mr. Blinken said, calling a leg a tail, I still think it was a good beginning, but that was as far as I got. Mrs. Hommany came out of her trance, hastened from the cage, and grabbed my arm. She was quite red with anger. Really, she said, Well really, I must ask you to continue this in some other place. We do not allow commercial travelers in this house. And within fifteen minutes they had hitched up Peg and asked me to move on. Indeed I was so taken aback by my own zeal that I could hardly protest. In a kind of days I found myself at the Moose Hotel where they assured me that they catered to mercantile people. I went straight to my room and fell asleep as soon as I reached the straw mattress. That was my first and only public speech. CHAPTER XII The next day was Sunday, October 6th. I well remember the date. I woke up as chipper as any Robert W. Chambers heroine. All my doubts and depressions of the evening before had fled, and I was single-heartedly delighted with the world and everything in it. The hotel was a poor place, but it would have taken more than that to mar my composure. I had a bitterly cold bath in a real country-tinned tub, and then eggs and pancakes for breakfast. At the table was a drummer who sold lightning rods and several other traveling salesmen. I'm afraid my conversation was consciously modelled along the line of what the professor would have said if he had been there, but at any rate I got along swimmingly. The traveling men after a moment or two of embarrassed diffidence treated me quite as one of themselves and asked me about my line with interest. I described what I was doing and they all said that they envied me my freedom to come and go independently of trains. We talked cheerfully for a long time, and almost without intending to, I started preaching about books. In the end they insisted on my showing them Parnassus. We all went out to the stable where the van was quartered, and they browsed over the shelves. Before I knew it I had sold five dollars worth, although I had decided not to do any business at all on Sunday. But I couldn't refuse to sell them the stuff, as they all seemed so keen on getting something really good to read. One man kept on talking about Harold Bell Wright, but I had to admit that I hadn't heard of him. Evidently the professor hadn't stocked any of his works. I was tickled to see that after all the little red-beer didn't know everything about literature. After that I debated whether to go to church or to write letters. Finally I decided in favour of letters. First I tackled Andrew. I wrote, The Moose Hotel, Bath, Sunday Morning. Dear Andrew, it seems absurd to think that it's only three days since I left Sabine Farm. Honestly more has happened to me in three days than in three years at home. I'm sorry that you and Mr. Mifflin disagree, but I quite understood your feelings. But I'm very angry that you should have tried to stop that check I gave him. It was none of your business, Andrew. I telephoned Mr. Shirley and made him send word to the bank and woodbridge to give Mr. Mifflin his money. Mr. Mifflin did not swindle me into buying Parnassus. I did it of my own free will. If you want to know the truth, it was your fault. I bought it because I was scared you would if I didn't. And I didn't want to be left all alone on the farm from now till Thanksgiving while you went off on another trip. So I decided to do the thing myself. I thought I'd see how you would like being left all alone to run the house. I thought it'd be pretty nice for me to get things off my mind awhile and have an adventure of my own. Now, Andrew, here are some directions for you. One, don't forget to feed the chickens twice a day and collect all the eggs. There's a nest behind the woodpile and some of the wine dots have been laying under the ice-house. Two, don't let Rosie touch grandmother's blue china because she'll break it as sure as fate if she lays her big, thick Swedish fingers on it. Three, don't forget your warmer underwear. The nights are getting chilly. Four, I forgot to put the cover on the sewing machine. Please do that for me or it'll get all dusty. Five, don't let the cat run in the house at night. He'll always break something. Six, send your socks and anything else that needs darning over to Mrs. McNally. She can do it for you. Seven, don't forget to feed the pigs. Eight, don't forget to mend the weather vane on the barn. Nine, don't forget to send that barrel of apples over to the cider mill or you won't have any cider to drink when Mr. Decameron comes up to see us in the fall. Ten, just to make ten commandments I'll add one more. You might want to phone Mrs. Collins that the Dorcas will have to meet at someone else's house next week because I don't know just when I'll be back. I may be away a fortnight or more. This is my first holiday in a long time and I'm going to chew it before I swallow it. The Professor, Mr. Mifflin, I mean, has gone back to Brooklyn to work on his book. I'm sorry you and he had to mix it up on the high road like a couple of hooligans. He's a nice little man and you'd like him if you got to know him. I'm spending Sunday in Bath. Tomorrow I'm going on toward Hastings. I've sold five dollars worth of books this morning even if it is a Sunday. Your aft sister, Helen McGill. P.S., don't forget to clean the separator after using it or it'll get in a fearful state. After writing to Andrew I thought I would send a message to the Professor. I had already written him a long letter in my mind but somehow when I began putting it on paper a sort of awkwardness came over me. I didn't know just how to begin. I thought how much more fun it would be if he were there himself and I could listen to him talk. And then while I was writing the first few sentences some of the drummers came back into the room. Thought you'd like to see a Sunday paper, said one of them. I picked up the newspaper with a word of thanks and ran an eye over the headlines. The ugly black letters stood up before me and my heart gave a great contraction. I felt my fingertips turn cold. Dangerous wreck on the shoreline express runs into open switch. Ten lives lost and more than a score injured. Failure of block signals. The letters seemed to stand up before me as large as a malted milk signboard. With a shuddering apprehension I read the details. Apparently the express, that left Providence at four o'clock on Saturday afternoon, had crashed into an open siding near Wilden about six o'clock and collided with a string of freight empties. The baggage car had been demolished and the smoker had turned over and gone down an embankment. There were ten men killed. My head swam. Was that the train the professor had taken? Let me see. He left Woodbridge on the local train at three. He had said the day before that the express left Port Vigor at five if he had changed to the express. In a kind of fascinated horror my eye caught the list of the dead I ran down the names. Thank God no Mifflin was not among them. Then I saw the last entry. Unidentified man, middle aged. What if that should be the professor? And suddenly I felt dizzy and for the first time in my life I fainted. Thank goodness no one else was in the room. The drummers had gone outside again and no one heard me flop off the chair. I came to in a moment my heart whirling like a spinning top. At first I did not realize what was wrong. Then my eye fell on the newspaper again. Feverishly I reread the account and the names of the injured, too, which I had missed before. No where on there a name I knew. But the tragic words, unidentified man, danced before my eyes. Oh, if it were the professor! In a way of the truth burst upon me, I loved that little man. I loved him. I loved him. He had brought something new into my life and his brave, quaint ways had warmed my fat old heart. For the first time in an intolerable gush of pain I seemed to know that my life could never again be endurable without him. And now what was I to do? How could I learn the truth? Certainly if he had been on the train and had escaped from the wreck unhurt he would have sent a message to Sabine Farm to let me know. At any rate, that was a possibility. I rushed to the telephone to call up Andrew. Oh, the agonizing slowness of telephone connections when urgent hurry is needed. My voice shook, as I said, Redfield 158J to the operator. Throbbing with nervousness I waited to hear the familiar click of the receiver at the other end. I could hear the Redfield switchboard receive the call and put in the plug to connect with our wire. In imagination I could see the telephone against the wall in the old hallway at Sabine Farm. I could see the soiled patch of plaster where Andrew rests his elbow when he talks into the phone, and the place where he jots numbers down in pencil and I rub them off with breadcrumbs. I could see Andrew coming out of the sitting-room to answer the bell. And then the operator said carelessly, doesn't answer. My forehead was wet as I came out of the booth. I hope I may never have to relive the horrors of the next hour. In spite of my bluff and hardy ways, in times of trouble I am as reticent as a clam. I was determined to hide my agony and anxiety from the well-meaning people of the Moose Hotel. I hurried to the railway station to send a telegram to the professor's address in Brooklyn, but found the place closed. A boy told me it would not be open until the afternoon. From the drug store I called information in Willden and finally got connected with some undertaker to whom the Willden operator referred me. A horrible, condoling voice, have you ever talked to an undertaker over the telephone? Answered me that no one by the name of Mifflin had been among the dead, but admitted that there was one body still unidentified. He used one ghastly word that made me shudder. Unrecognizable. I rang off. I knew then for the first time the horror of loneliness. I thought of the poor little man's notebook that I had seen. I thought of his fearless and lovable ways, of his pathetic little tweed cap, of the missing button on his jacket, of the bungling darns on his frayed sleeve. It seemed to me that heaven could mean nothing more than to roll creaking along the country roads in Parnassus with the professor beside me on the seat. What if I had known him only? How long was it? He had brought the splendor of an ideal into my humdrum life, and now had I lost it forever? You and the farm seemed faint and far away. I was a homely old woman, mortally lonely and helpless. In my perplexity I walked to the outskirts of the village and burst into tears. Finally I got a grip on myself again. I am not ashamed to say that I now admitted frankly what I had been hiding from myself. I was in love. In love with a little red-bearded bookseller who seemed to me more splendid than Sir Galahad. And I vowed that if he would have me I would follow him to the other end of nowhere. I walked back to the hotel. I thought I would make one more try to get Andrew on the telephone. My whole soul quivered when at last I heard the receiver click. Hello? said Andrew's voice. Oh, Andrew, I said, this is Helen. Where are you? His voice sounded cross. Andrew, is there any message from Mr. Mifflin? That wreck yesterday. He might have been on that train. I've been so frightened. Do you think he was hurt? Stuff and nonsense, said Andrew. If you want to know about Mifflin he's in jail in Port Vigor. And then I think Andrew must have been surprised. I begin to laugh and cry simultaneously, and in my agitation I sit down the receiver. CHAPTER XIII My first impulse was to hide myself in some obscure corner where I could vent my feelings without fear or favour. I composed my face as well as I could before leaving the phone booth. Then I sidled across the lobby and slipped out of the side door. I found my way into the stable where a good old peg was munching in her stall. The fine, homely smell of horse-flesh and long-worn harness leather went right to my heart. And while bach frisked at my knees I laid my head on peg's neck and cried. I think that fat old mare understood me. She was as tubby and prosaic and middle-aged as I was, but she loved the Professor. Suddenly Andrew's words echoed again in my mind. I had barely heated them before in the great joy of my relief, but now their significance had come to me. IN JAIL The Professor was in jail. That was the meaning of his strange disappearance at Woodbridge. That little brute of a man surely must have telephoned from Redfield, and when the Professor came to the Woodbridge bank to cash that check they had arrested him. That was why they had shoved me into that mahogany's sitting-room. Andrew must be behind this, that besotted old fool. My face burned with anger and humiliation. I never knew before what it meant to be really infuriated. I could feel my brain tingle, the Professor in jail. The gallant, chivalrous little man penned up with hobos and sneak-thieves suspected of being a crook, as if I couldn't take care of myself. What did they think he was, anyway? A kidnapper? Instantly I decided I would hurry back to Port Vigor without delay. If Andrew had had the Professor locked up, it could only be on the charge of defrauding me. Certainly it couldn't be for giving him a bloody nose on the road from Shelby. And if I appeared to deny the charge surely they would have to let Mr. Mifflin go. I believe I must have been talking to myself in Peg's stall. At any rate, just at that moment a stableman appeared and looked very bewildered when he saw me, with flushing face and in obvious excitement talking to the horse. I asked him when was the next train to Port Vigor. Well, ma'am, he said, they say that all the local trains is held up till the wreck at Wildens clears away. This being Sunday, I don't think you'll get anything from here until tomorrow morning. I reflected. It wasn't so awfully far back to Port Vigor. A fliver from the local garage could spin me back there in a couple of hours at the most. But somehow it seemed more fitting to go to the professor's rescue in his own Parnassus, even if it would take longer to get there. To tell the truth while I was angry and humiliated at the thought of his being put in jail by Andrew, I couldn't help deep down within me being rather thankful. Suppose he had been in the wreck. The sage of Redfield had played the part of Providence after all. And if I set out right away with Parnassus I could get to Port Vigor, well, by Monday morning anyway. The good people of the Moose Hotel were genuinely surprised at the hurry in which I dispatched my lunch. But I gave them no explanations. Goodness knows my head was full of other thoughts and applesauce might have been asbestos. You know a woman only falls in love once in her life, and if it waits until she's darn near forty, well, it takes. You see, I hadn't even been vaccinated against it by girlish flirtations. I began to be a governess when I was just a kid, and a governess doesn't get many chances to be skittish. So now when it came it hit me hard. That's when a woman finds herself when she's in love. I don't care if she is old or fat or homely or prosy. She feels that little flutter under her ribs, and she drops from a tree like a ripe plum. I didn't care if Roger Mifflin and I were as odd a couple as old Dr. Johnson and his wife. I only knew one thing. That when I saw the little red devil again, I was going to be all his if he'd have me. That's why the old Moose Hotel in Bath is always sacred to me. That's where I learned that life still held something fresh for me, something better than baking Champlain Biscuits for Andrew. That Sunday was one of those mellow golden days that we New Englanders get in October. The year really begins in March, as every farmer knows, and by the end of September or the beginning of October the season has come to its perfect ripened climax. There are a few days when the world seems to hang still in a dreaming, sweet hush at the very fullness of the fruit before the decline sets in. I have no words, like Andrew, to describe it, but every autumn for years I have noticed it. I remember that sometimes at the farm I used to lean over the wood pile for a moment just before supper to watch those purple October sunsets. I would hear the sharp little ting of Andrew's typewriter bell as he would be working in his study. And then I would try to swallow down within me the beauty and wistfulness of it all and run back to mash the potatoes. Peg drew Parnassus along the backward road with a merry little rumble. I think she knew we were going back to the Professor. Bach careered mightily along the wayside, and I had much time for thinking. On the whole I was glad, for I had much to ponder. An adventure that had started as a mere lark or whim had now become for me the very gist of life itself. I was fanciful, I guess, and as romantic as a young hen. But by the bones of George Elliot I'm sorry for the woman that never has a chance to be fanciful. Mifflin was in jail, I. But he might have been dead and unrecognizable. My heart refused to be altogether sad. I was on my way to deliver him from Durance vile. There seemed a kinship between the season and myself I mused, seeing the golden rod turn brown and droopy along the way. Here was I, in the full fruitation of womanhood, on the verge of my decline into autumn, and lo! by the grace of God I had found my man, my master. He touched me with his own fire and courage. I didn't care what happened to Andrew or to the Sabine farm or to anything else in the world. Here was my hearth and my home, Parnassus, or wherever Roger should pitch his tent. I dreamed of crossing the Brooklyn Bridge with him at dusk, watching the skyscrapers etched against the burning sky. I believed in calling things by their true names, ink as ink even if the bottle is marked commercial fluid. I didn't try to blink the fact that I was in love. In fact, I gloried in it. As Parnassus rolled along the road, and the scarlet maple leaves eddy gently down in the blue October air, I made up a kind of chant, which I called him for a middle-aged woman, fat, who has fallen into love. Oh God, I thank thee who sent this great adventure my way. I am grateful to have come out of the barren land of spinsterhood, seeing the glory of love greater than myself. I thank thee for teaching me that mixing and kneading and baking are not all that life holds for me. Even if he doesn't love me, God, I shall always be his. I was crooning some such babble as this to myself when near Woodbridge I came upon a big, shiny motor-car stranded by the roadside. Several people, evidently intelligent and well to do, sat under a tree while their chauffeur fussed with a tire. I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I think I should have gone by without paying them much heed. But suddenly I remembered the professor's creed to preach the gospel of books in and out of season. Sunday or no Sunday I thought I could best honor Mifflin by acting on his own principle. I pulled up by the side of the road. I noticed the people turn to one another in a kind of surprise and whisper something. There was an elderly man with a lean, hardworking face, a stout woman, evidently his wife, and two young girls and a man in golfing clothes. Somehow the face of the older man seemed familiar. I wondered whether he was some literary friend of Andrews whose photo I had seen. Buck stood by the wheel with his long, curly tongue running in and out over his teeth. I hesitated a moment, thinking just how to phrase my attack, when the elderly gentleman called out. Where's the professor? I was beginning to realize that Mifflin was indeed a public character. Heavens, I said, do you know him too? Well, I should think so, he said. Didn't he come to see me last spring about an appropriation for school libraries and wouldn't leave till I promised to do what he wanted? He stayed the night with us and we talked literature till four o'clock in the morning. Where is he now? Have you taken over his Parnassus? Just at present I said Mr. Mifflin's in jail in Port Vigor. The ladies gave little cries of astonishment and the gentleman himself—I had sized him up as a school commissioner or something of that sort—seemed not less surprised. In jail, he said, what on earth for? Has he sandbagged somebody for reading Nick Carter in Bertha M. Clay? That's about the only crime he'd be likely to commit. He's supposed to have cousined me out of four hundred dollars, I said, and my brother has had him locked up. But as a matter of fact he wouldn't swindle a hen out of a new-laid egg. I bought Parnassus of my own free will. I'm on my way to Port Vigor now to get him out. Then I'm going to ask him to marry me, if he will. It's not leapier, either. He looked at me, his thin, lined face working with friendliness. He was a fine-looking man, short, gray hair brushed away from a broad, brown forehead. I noticed his rich dark suit and the spotless collar. This was evidently a man of breeding. Well, madam, he said, any friend of the professor is a friend of ours. His wife and the girls chimed in with a scent. If you would like a lift in our car to speed you on your errand, I'm sure Bob here would be glad to drive the Parnassus into Port Vigor. Our tire will soon be mended. The young man assented hardly, but as I said before I was bent on taking Parnassus back myself. I thought the sight of his own tabernacle would be the best balm for Mifflin's annoying experience. So I refused the offer and explained the situation a little more fully. Well, he said, then let me help in any way I can. He took a card from his pocket-book and scribbled something on it. When you get to Port Vigor, he said, show this at the jail and I don't think you'll have any trouble. I happen to know the people there. So after handshakes all around I went on again, much cheered by this friendly little incident. It wasn't till I was some way along the road that I thought to look at the card he had given me. Then I realized why the man's face had been familiar. The card read quite simply, Raleigh Stone, Stafford, the Executive Mansion, Darlington. It was the Governor of the State. I couldn't help chuckling as Parnassus came over the brow of the hill, and I saw the river in the distance once more. How different all this was from my girlhood visions of romance. That has been characteristic of my life all along. It has been full of homely workaday happenings, and often rather comic in spite of my best resolutions to be high-brow and serious. All the same I was something near to tears as I thought of the tragic wreck at Wyldon and the grief-laden hearts that must be mourning. I wondered whether the Governor was now returning from Wyldon after ordering an inquiry. On his card he had written, Please release R. Mifflin at once and show this lady all courtesies, so I didn't anticipate any particular trouble. This made me all the more anxious to push on, and after crossing the ferry we halted in Woodbridge, only long enough for supper. I drove past the bank where I had waited in the anti-room and would have been glad of a chance to horse-whip that sneaking little cashier. I wondered how they had transported the Professor to Port Vigor and thought ironically that it was only that Saturday morning when he had suggested taking the hobos to the same jail. Still, I do not doubt that his philosophic spirit has made the best of it all. Woodbridge was as dead as any country town is on a Sunday night. At the little hotel where I had supper there was no topic of conversation except the wreck. But the proprietor, when I paid my bill, happened to notice the Parnassus in the yard. That be the bus that peddler sold you, ain't it? he asked with the leer. Yes, I said shortly. Going back to prosecute him, I guess, he suggested. Say, that fell as a devil. Believe me, when the Sheriff tried to put the cuffs on him he gave him a black eye and pretty near broke his jaw. Some scrapper for a midget. My own brave little fighter, I thought, and flushed with pride. The road back to Port Vigor seemed endless. I was a little nervous remembering the tramps in Pratt's quarry, but with Bach sitting beside me on the seat I thought it craven to be alarmed. We rumbled gently through the darkness between the aisles of inky pines where the strip of starlight ran like a ribbon overhead, then on the rolling dunes that overlooked the water. There was a moon, too, but I was mortally tired and lonely and longed only to see my little red beard. Peg was weary, too, and plotted slowly. It must have been midnight before we saw the red and green lights of the railway signals, and I knew that Port Vigor was at hand. I decided to camp where I was. I guided Peg into a field beside the road, hitched her to a fence, and took the dog into the van with me. I was too tired to undress. I fell into the bunk and drew the blankets over me. As I did so something dropped down behind the bunk with a sharp wrap. It was a forgotten corncob pipe of the professor's blackened in sooty. I put it under my pillow and fell fast asleep. Monday, October 7th, if this were a novel about a charming slender pansy-eyed girl, how differently I would have to describe the feelings with which I woke the next morning. But these being only a few pages from the life of a fat New England housewife, I must be candid. I woke feeling dull and sour. The day was gray and cool, faint shreds of mist sifting up from the sound, and a desolate mewing of seagulls in the air. I was unhappy, upset, and, yes, shy. Passionately I yearned to run to the professor, to gather him into my arms, to be alone with him in Parnassus, creaking up some sunny by-road. But his words came back to me. I was nothing to him. What if he didn't love me after all? I walked across two fields down to the beach, where little waves were slapping against the shingle. I washed my face and hands in the salt water. Then I went back to Parnassus and brewed some coffee with condensed milk. I gave Peg and Bach their breakfasts. Then I hitched Peg to the van again and felt better. As I drove into the town, I had to wait at the grain crossing while a wrecked train rumbled past on its way back from Wyldon. That meant that the line was clear again. I watched the grimy men on the cars and shuddered to think what they had been doing. The Vigor County Jail lies about a mile out of town, an ugly, gray-stone barracks with a high, spiked wall about it. I was thankful that it was still fairly early in the morning, and I drove through the streets without seeing anyone I knew. Finally I reached the gate in the prison wall. Here some kind of a keeper barred my way. Can't get in, lady, he said. Yesterday was Visitor's Day. No more visitors till next month. I must get in, I said. You've got a man in there on a false charge. So they all say he retorted calmly and spat halfway across the road. You wouldn't believe any of our borders had a right to be here if you could hear their friends talk. I showed him Governor Stafford's card. He was rather impressed by this and retired into a sentry box in the wall to telephone, I suppose. Presently he came back. The Sheriff says he'll see you, ma'am, but you'll have to leave this here dynamite caboose behind. He unlocked a little door in the immense iron gate and turned me over to another man inside. Take this here lady to see the Sheriff, he said. Some of Vigor County's prisoners must have learned to be pretty good gardeners for certainly the grounds were in good condition. The grass was green and trimly mowed. There were conventional beds of flowers in very ugly shapes. In the distance I saw a gang of men in striped overalls mending a roadway. The guide led me to an attractive cottage to one side of the main building. There were two children playing outside and I remember thinking that within the walls of a jail was surely a queer place to bring up youngsters. But I had other things to think about. I looked up at the grim gray building. Behind one of those little barred windows was the Professor. I should have been angry at Andrew, but somehow it all seemed a kind of dream. Then I was taken into the hallway of the Sheriff's Cottage and in a minute I was talking to a big bullnecked man with a political mustache. You have a prisoner here called Mifflin, I said. My dear madam, I don't keep a list of all our inmates in my head if you will come to the office we will look up the records. I showed him the Governor's card. He took it and kept looking at it as though he expected to see the message written there change or fade away. We walked across a strip of lawn to the prison building. There, in a big bare office, he ran over a card index. Here we are, he said. Roger Mifflin, age 41, face, oval, complexion, florid hair, red, but not much of it, height, 64 inches, weight, stripped, 120, birthmark. Never mind, I said, that's the man what's he here for? He's held in default of bail pending trial. The charges attempt to defraud one Helen McGill, spinster, age. Rubbish, I said. I'm Helen McGill, and the man made no attempt to defraud me. The charge was entered and warrant applied for you by your brother Andrew McGill acting on your behalf. I never authorized Andrew to act on my behalf. Then do you withdraw the charge? By all means, I said, I have a great mind to enter a countercharge against Andrew and have him arrested. This is all very irregular, said the Sheriff, but if the prisoner is known to the Governor, I suppose there is no alternative. I cannot annul the warrant without some recognizance. According to the laws of this state, the next of kin must stand surety for the prisoner's good behavior after release. There is no next of kin. Surely there is, I said. I am the prisoner's next of kin. What do you mean, he said, in what relationship do you stand to this Roger Mifflin? I intend to marry him just as soon as I can get him away from here. He burst into a roar of laughter. I guess there's no stopping you, he said. He pinned the Governor's card to a blue paper on the desk and began filling in some blanks. Well, Miss McGill, he went on. Don't take away more than one of my prisoners or I'll lose my job. The turnkey will take you up to the cell. I'm exceedingly sorry. You can see that the mistake was none of our fault. Tell the Governor that, will you, when you see him? I followed the attendant up two flights of bare stone stairs and down a long whitewashed corridor. It was a gruesome place, rows and rows of heavy doors with little barred windows. I noticed that each door had a combination knob like a safe. My knees felt awfully shaky. But it wasn't really so heartthrobby as I had expected. The jailer stopped at the end of a long passageway. He spun the clicking dial while I waited in a kind of horror. I think I expected to see the Professor with shaved head. They couldn't shave much off his head, poor lamb, and striped canvas suit and a ball and chain on his ankle. The door swung open heavily. There was a narrow, clean little room with a low camp-bed, and under the barred window a table was strewn with sheets of paper. It was the Professor, in his own clothes, riding busily, with his back towards me. Perhaps he thought it was only an attendant with food, or perhaps he didn't even hear the interruption. I could hear his pen running busily. I might have known you never would get any heroics out of that man. Trust him to make the best of it. Lemon's soul in a glass of sherry-pleased James, said the Professor over his shoulder, and the water who evidently had joked with him before broke into a cackle of laughter. A lady to see your lordship, he said. The Professor turned round. His face went quite white. For the first time in my experience of him he seemed to be at a loss for speech. Miss, Miss McGill, he stammered. You are the good Samaritan. I'm doing the John Bunyan Act C, writing in prison. I've really started my book at last. And I find the fellows here know nothing whatever about literature. There isn't even a library in the place. For the life of me I couldn't utter the tenderness in my heart with that gorilla of a jailer standing behind us. Somehow we made our way downstairs after the Professor had gathered the sheets of his manuscript. It had already reached formidable proportions, as he had written fifty pages in the thirty-six hours he had been in prison. In the office we had to sign some papers. The Sheriff was very apologetic to Mifflin and offered to take him back to town in his car, but I explained that Parnassus was waiting at the gate. The Professor's eyes brightened when he heard that, but I had to hurry him away from an argument about putting good books in prisons. The Sheriff walked with us to the gate and there shook hands again. Peg wicked as we came up to her, and the Professor padded her soft nose. Bach tugged at his chain in a frenzy of joy. At last we were alone. Chapter 15 of Parnassus on Wheels. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Parnassus on Wheels by Christopher Morley, Chapter 15. I never knew just how it happened. Instead of driving back through Port Vigor, we turned into a side road leading up over the hill, across the heath, where the air came fresh and sweet from the sea. The Professor sat very silent, looking about him. There was a grove of birches on the hill, and the sunlight played upon their satin bowls. It feels good to be out again, he said calmly. The sage cannot be so keen a lover of open air, as his books would indicate, or he wouldn't be so ready to clap a man into quad. Perhaps I owe him another punch on the nose for that. Oh, Roger, I said, and I'm afraid my voice was trembling. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Not very eloquent, was it? And then somehow or another his arm was round me. Helen, he said, will you marry me? I'm not rich, but I've saved up enough to live on. We'll always have Parnassus, and this winter we'll go and live in Brooklyn and write the book. And we'll travel around with Peg and preach the love of books and the love of human beings. Helen, you're just what I need. God bless you. Will you come with me and make me the happiest bookseller in the world? Peg must have been astonished at the length of time she had for cropping the grass, undisturbed. I know that Roger and I sat careless of time. And when he told me that ever since our first afternoon together he had determined to have me sooner or later, I was the proudest woman in New England. I told Roger about the ghastly wreck and my agony of apprehension. I think it was the wreck that made us both feel inclined to forgive Andrew. We had a light luncheon together there on the dunes above the sound. By taking a shortcut over the ridge we struck into the Shelby Road without going down into Port Vigor again. Peg pulled us along toward Greenbrier and we talked as we went. Perhaps the best of it was that a cold drizzle of rain began to fall as we moved along the hill road. The Professor, as I still call him by force of habit, curtained in the front of the van with a rubber sheet. Bach hopped up and curled himself against his master's leg. Roger got out his corncob pipe and I sat close to him. In the gathering gloom we plotted along as happy a trio, or quartet if you include the fat cheery old Peg, as any on this planet. Summer was over and we were no longer young, but there were great things before us. I listened to the drip of the rain and the steady creak of Parnassus on her axels. I thought of my anthology of loaves and bread and vowed to bake a million more if Roger wanted me to. It was after supper time when we got to Greenbrier. Roger had suggested that we take a shorter road that would have brought us through to Redfield sooner, but I begged him to go by way of Shelby and Greenbrier just as we had come before. I did not tell him why I wanted this, and when finally we came to a halt in front of Kirby's store at the crossroads it was raining heavily and we were ready for a rest. Well, sweetheart, said Roger, shall we go and see what sort of rooms the hotel has? I can think of something better than that, said I. Let's go up to Mr. Kane and have him marry us. Then we can get back to Sabine Farm afterward and give Andrew a surprise. By the bones of high men, said Roger, you're right. It must have been ten o'clock when we turned in at the red gate of Sabine Farm. The rain had stopped but the wheels sloshed through the mud and water at every turn. The light was burning in the sitting-room and through the window I could see Andrew bent over his work-table. We climbed out stiff and sore from the long ride. I saw Roger's face set in the comical blend of sternness and humour. Well, here goes to surprise the sage, he whispered. We picked our way between puddles and wrapped on the door. Andrew appeared carrying the lamp in one hand. When he saw us, he grunted. Let me introduce my wife, said Roger. Well, I'll be damned, said Andrew. But Andrew isn't quite so black as I have painted him. When he's once convinced of the error of his ways he is almost pathetically eager to make up. I remember only one remark in the subsequent conversation because I was so appalled by the state of everything at Sabine Farm that I immediately set about putting the house to rights. The two men, however, as soon as Parnassus was housed in the barn and the animals under cover, sat down by the stove to talk things over. I'll tell you what, said Andrew, do whatever you like with your wife. She's too much for me. But I'd like to buy that Parnassus. Not on your life, said the Professor. End of Chapter 15 End of Parnassus on Wheels by Christopher Morley Read for You by Don Larson in Minnesota