There's Mason's farm over there. I guess we'd
better sell them some books--hadn't we? Just for a 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.
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