I was wondering what Andrew was thinking, and whether Mrs.
McNally had left things in good order. Like most Swedes she
had to be watched or she left her work only three quarters
done. And I didn't depend any too much on her daughter Rosie
to do the housework efficiently. I wondered what kind of
meals Andrew would get. And probably he would go right on
wearing his summer underclothes, although I had already
reminded him about changing. Then there were the chickens...
Well, the Rubicon was crossed now, and there was nothing to be done.
To my surprise, little Redbeard had divined my anxiety. "Now
don't you worry about the Sage," he said kindly. "A man that
draws his royalties isn't going to starve. By the bones of
John Murray, his publishers can send him a cook if necessary!
This is a holiday for you, and don't you forget it."
And with this cheering sentiment in my mind, we rolled
sedately down the hill toward Greenbriar.
I am about as hardy as most folks, I think, but I confess I
balked a little at the idea of facing the various people I
know in Greenbriar as the owner of a bookvan and the companion
of a literary huckster. Also I recollected that if Andrew
should try to trace us it would be as well for me to keep out
of sight.
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