The lining was frayed and torn.
From my suit case in the van I got out a small sewing kit, and
hanging the reins on a hook I began to stitch up the rents as
Peg jogged along. I thought with amusement of the quaint life
Mr. Mifflin had led in his "caravan of culture." I imagined
him addressing the audience of Whitman disciples in Camden,
and wondered how the fuss ended. I imagined him in his
beloved Brooklyn, strolling in Prospect Park and preaching to
chance comers his gospel of good books. How different was his
militant love of literature from Andrew's quiet satisfaction.
And yet how much they really had in common! It tickled me to
think of Mifflin reading aloud from "Happiness and Hayseed,"
and praising it so highly, just before fighting with the
author and giving him a bloody nose. I remembered that I
should have spoken to Andrew about feeding the hens, and
reminded him of his winter undergarments. What helpless
creatures men are, after all!
I finished mending the cap in high good humour.
I had hardly laid it down when I heard a quick step in the
road behind me, and looking back, there was Mifflin, striding
along with his bald pate covered with little beads of
moisture.
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