that wagonload of books and one of those crazy cards with Mr.
Mifflin's poetry on it.

I must confess that I was considerably upset.  Andrew is just
as unpractical and fanciful as a young girl, and always
dreaming of new adventures and rambles around the country.  If
he ever saw that travelling Parnassus he'd fall for it like
snap.  And I knew Mr. Decameron was after him for a new book
anyway.  (I'd intercepted one of his letters suggesting
another "Happiness and Hayseed" trip just a few weeks before.
Andrew was away when the letter came.  I had a suspicion what
was in it; so I opened it, read it, and--well, burnt it.
Heavens! as though Andrew didn't have enough to do without
mooning down the road like a tinker, just to write a book
about it.)

As I worked around the kitchen I could see Mr. Mifflin making
himself at home.  He unhitched his horse, tied her up to the
fence, sat down by the wood pile, and lit a pipe.  I could see
I was in for it.  By and by I couldn't stand it any longer.
I went out to talk to that bald-headed pedlar.

"See here," I said.  "You're a pretty cool fish to make
yourself so easy in my yard.  I tell you I don't want you
around here, you and your travelling parcheesi.  Suppose you
clear out of here before my brother gets back and don't be
breaking up our happy family."

"Miss McGill," he said (the man had a pleasant way with him,
too--darn him--with his bright, twinkling eye and his silly
little beard), "I'm sure I don't want to be discourteous.  If
you move me on from here, of course I'll go; but I warn you I
shall lie in wait for Mr. McGill just down this road.  I'm
here to sell this caravan of culture, and by the bones of
Swinburne I think your brother's the man to buy it."

My blood was up now, and I'll admit that I said my next
without proper calculation.

"Rather than have Andrew buy your old parcheesi," I said,
"I'll buy it myself.  I'll give you $300 for it."

The little man's face brightened.  He didn't either accept or
decline my offer.  (I was frightened to death that he'd take
me right on the nail and bang would go my three years' savings
for a Ford.)

"Come and have another look at her," he said.

I must admit that Mr. Roger Mifflin had fixed up his van
mighty comfortably inside.  The body of the wagon was built
out on each side over the wheels, which gave it an unwieldy
appearance but made extra room for the bookshelves.  This left
an inside space about five feet wide and nine long.  On one
side he had a little oil stove, a flap table, and a
cozy-looking bunk above which was built a kind of chest of
drawers--to hold clothes and such things, I suppose; on the
other side more bookshelves, a small table, and a little
wicker easy chair.  Every possible inch of space seemed to be
made useful in some way, for a shelf or a hook or a hanging
cupboard or something.  Above the stove was a neat little row
of pots and dishes and cooking usefuls.  The raised skylight
made it just possible to stand upright in the centre aisle of
the van; and a little sliding window opened onto the driver's
seat in front.  Altogether it was a very neat affair.  The
windows in front and back were curtained and a pot of geraniums
stood on a diminutive shelf.  I was amused to see a sandy Irish
terrier curled up on a bright Mexican blanket in the bunk.

"Miss McGill," he said, "I couldn't sell Parnassus for less
than four hundred.  I've put twice that much into her, one
time and another.  She's built clean and solid all through,
and there's everything a man would need from blankets to
bouillon cubes.  The whole thing's yours for $400--including
dog, cook stove, and everything--jib, boom, and spanker.
There's a tent in a sling underneath, and an ice box (he
pulled up a little trap door under the bunk) and a tank of
coal oil and Lord knows what all.  She's as good as a yacht;
but I'm tired of her.  If you're so afraid of your brother
taking a fancy to her, why don't you buy her yourself and go
off on a lark?  Make _him_ stay home and mind the farm!...
Tell you what I'll do.  I'll start you on the road myself,
come with you the first day and show you how it's worked.  You
could have the time of your life in this thing, and give
yourself a fine vacation.  It would give your brother a good
surprise, too.  Why not?"

I don't know whether it was the neatness of his absurd little
van, or the madness of the whole proposition, or just the
desire to have an adventure of my own and play a trick on
Andrew, but anyway, some extraordinary impulse seized me and
I roared with laughter.

"Right!" I said.  "I'll do it."

I, Helen McGill, in the thirty-ninth year of my age!

                        CHAPTER THREE

Well," I thought, "if I'm in for an adventure I may as well be