"Here's Andrew!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
Andrew is just as thin as I am fat, and his clothes hang on
him in the most comical way. He is very tall and shambling,
wears a ragged beard and a broad Stetson hat, and suffers
amazingly from hay fever in the autumn. (In fact, his essay
on "Hay Fever" is the best thing he ever wrote, I think.) As
he came striding up the road I noticed how his trousers
fluttered at the ankles as the wind plucked at them. The
breeze curled his beard back under his chin and his face was
quite dark with anger. I couldn't help being amused; he
looked so funny.
"The Sage looks like Bernard Shaw," whispered Mifflin.
I always believe in drawing first blood.
"Good-morning, Andrew," I called cheerfully. "Want to buy any
books?" I halted Pegasus, and Andrew stood a little in front
of the wheel--partly out of breath and mostly out of temper.
"What on earth is this nonsense, Helen?" he said angrily.
"You've led me the deuce of a chase since yesterday. And who
is this--this person you're driving with?"
"Andrew," I said, "you forget your manners. Let me introduce
Mr. Mifflin. I have bought his caravan and am taking a
holiday, selling books.
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