Since the morning of the day before my whole life had
twisted out of its accustomed orbit. I had spent four hundred
dollars of my savings; I had sold about thirteen dollars'
worth of books; I had precipitated a fight and met a
philosopher. Not only that, I was dimly beginning to evolve
a new philosophy of my own. And all this in order to prevent
Andrew from buying a lot more books! At any rate, I had been
successful in that. When he had seen Parnassus at last, he
had hardly looked at her--except in tones of scorn. I caught
myself wondering whether the Professor would allude to the
incident in his book, and hoping that he would send me a copy.
But after all, why should he mention it? To him it was only
one of a thousand adventures. As he had said angrily to
Andrew, he was nothing to me, nor I to him. How could he
realize that this was the first adventure I had had in the
fifteen years I had been--what was it he called
it?--compiling my anthology. Well, the funny little gingersnap!
I kept Bock tied to the back of the van, as I was afraid he
might take a notion to go in search of his master. As we
jogged on, and the falling sun cast a level light across the
way, I got a bit lonely.
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