"Over toward Redfield," I said.
"You any kin to that writer that lives up that way?"
"You mean Andrew McGill?" I said. "He's my brother."
"Do tell!" exclaimed Mrs. Pratt. "Why the Perfessor thought
a terrible lot of him. He read us all to sleep with one of
his books one night. Said he was the best literature in this
State, I do believe."
I smiled to myself as I thought of the set-to on the road from Shelby.
"Well," said Pratt, "if the Perfessor's got any better friends
than us in these parts, I'm glad to meet 'em. He come here
first time 'bout four years ago. I was up working in the
hayfield that afternoon, and I heard a shout down by the mill
pond. I looked over that way and saw a couple o' kids waving
their arms and screamin'. I ran down the hill and there was
the Perfessor just a pullin' my boy Dick out o' the water.
Dick's this one over here."
Dick, a small boy of thirteen or so, grew red under his freckles.
"The kids had been foolin' around on a raft there, an' first
thing you know Dick fell in, right into deep water, over by
the dam. Couldn't swim a stroke, neither. And the Perfessor,
who jest happened to be comin' along in that 'bus of his,
heard the boys yell.
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