As I stood looking at this queer turnout, the little reddish
man climbed down from in front and stood watching me. His
face was a comic mixture of pleasant drollery and a sort of
weather-beaten cynicism. He had a neat little russet beard
and a shabby Norfolk jacket. His head was very bald.
"Is this where Andrew McGill lives?" he said.
I admitted it.
"But he's away until noon," I added. "He'll be back then.
There's roast pork for dinner."
"And apple sauce?" said the little man.
"Apple sauce and brown gravy," I said. "That's why I'm sure
he'll be home on time. Sometimes he's late when there's
boiled dinner, but never on roast pork days. Andrew would
never do for a rabbi."
A sudden suspicion struck me.
"You're not another publisher, are you?" I cried. "What do
you want with Andrew?"
"I was wondering whether he wouldn't buy this outfit," said
the little man, including, with a wave of the hand, both van
and white horse. As he spoke he released a hook somewhere,
and raised the whole side of his wagon like a flap. Some kind
of catch clicked, the flap remained up like a roof, displaying
nothing but books--rows and rows of them. The flank of his
van was nothing but a big bookcase.
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