Her hot
biscuit was perfect; the coffee was real Mocha, simmered, not
boiled; the cold sausage and potato salad was as good as any
Andrew ever got. And she had a smoking-hot omelet sent in for
me, and opened a pot of her own strawberry preserve. The
children (two boys and a girl) sat open-mouthed, nudging one
another, and Mr. Pratt got out his pipe while I finished up on
stewed pears and cream and chocolate cake. It was a regular
meal. I wondered what Andrew was eating and whether he had
found the nest behind the wood pile where the red hen always
drops her eggs.
"Well, well," said Mr. Pratt, "tell us about the Perfessor.
We was expectin' him here some time this fall. He generally
gets here around cider time."
"I guess there isn't so much to tell," I said. "He stopped up
at our place the other day, and said he wanted to sell his
outfit. So I bought him out. He was pining to get back to
Brooklyn and write a book."
"That book o' his!" said Mrs. Pratt. "He was always talkin'
on it, but I don't believe he ever started it yet."
"Whereabout do you come from, Miss McGill?" said Pratt. I
could see he was mighty puzzled at a woman driving a vanload
of books around the country, alone.
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