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.
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