starter."
We turned into the lane that runs up to the Mason farmhouse. Bock
trotted on ahead—very stiff on his legs and his tail gently
wagging—to interview the mastiff, and Mrs. Mason who was sitting
on the porch, peeling potatoes, laid down the pan. She's a big,
buxom woman with jolly, brown eyes like a cow's.
"For heaven's sake, Miss McGill," she called out in a cheerful
voice—"I'm glad to see you. Got a lift, did you?"
She hadn't really noticed the inscription on Parnassus, and thought
it was a regular huckster's wagon.
"Well, Mrs. Mason," I said, "I've gone into the book business. This
is Mr. Mifflin. I've bought out his stock. We've come to sell you
some books."
She laughed. "Go on, Helen," she said, "you can't kid me! I bought
a whole set of books last year from an agent—'The World's Great
Funeral Orations'—twenty volumes. Sam and I ain't read more'n the
first volume yet. It's awful uneasy reading!"
Mifflin jumped down, and raised the side flap of the wagon. Mrs.
Mason came closer. I was tickled to see how the little man perked
up at the sight of a customer. Evidently selling books was meat
and drink to him.
"Madam," he said, "'Funeral Orations' (bound in sackcloth, I
suppose?) have their place, but Miss McGill and I have got some real
books here to which I invite your attention. Winter will be here
soon, and you will need something more cheerful to beguile your
evenings. Very possibly you have growing children who would profit
by a good book or two. A book of fairy tales for the little girl I
see on the porch? Or stories of inventors for that boy who is about
to break his neck jumping from the barn loft? Or a book about road
making for your husband? Surely there is something here you need?
Miss McGill probably knows your tastes."
That little red-bearded man was surely a born salesman. How he
guessed that Mr. Mason was the road commissioner in our township,
goodness only knows. Perhaps it was just a lucky shot. By this
time most of the family had gathered around the van, and I saw Mr.
Mason coming from the barn with his twelve-year-old Billy.
"Sam," shouted Mrs. Mason, "here's Miss McGill turned book pedlar
and got a preacher with her!"
"Hello, Miss McGill," said Mr. Mason. He is a big, slow-moving man
of great gravity and solidity. "Where's Andrew?"
"Andrew's coming home for roast pork and apple sauce," I said, "and
I'm going off to sell books for a living. Mr. Mifflin here is
teaching me how. We've got a book on road mending that's just what
you need."
I saw Mr. and Mrs. Mason exchange glances. Evidently they thought me
crazy. I began to wonder whether we had made a mistake in calling on
people I knew so well. The situation was a trifle embarrassing.
Mr. Mifflin came to the rescue.
"Don't be alarmed, sir," he said to Mr. Mason. "I haven't kidnapped
Miss McGill." (As he is about half my size this was amusing.) "We
are trying to increase her brother's income by selling his books for
him. As a matter of fact, we have a wager with him that we can sell
fifty copies of 'Happiness and Hayseed' before Hallowe'en. Now I'm
sure your sporting instinct will assist us by taking at least one
copy. Andrew McGill is probably the greatest author in this State,
and every taxpayer ought to possess his books. May I show you a
copy?"
"That sounds reasonable," said Mr. Mason, and he almost smiled.
"What do you say, Emma, think we better buy a book or two? You know
those 'Funeral Orations.'..." "Well," said Emma, "you know we've
always said we ought to read one of Andrew McGill's books but we
didn't rightly know how to get hold of one. That fellow that sold us
the funeral speeches didn't seem to know about 'em. I tell you what,
you folks better stop and have dinner with us and you can tell us
what we'd ought to buy. I'm just ready to put the potatoes on the
stove now."
I must confess that the prospect of sitting down to a meal I hadn't
cooked myself appealed to me strongly; and I was keen to see what
kind of grub