Several people, evidently intelligent and
well-to-do, sat under a tree while their chauffeur fussed with
a tire. I was so absorbed in my own thoughts that I think I
should have gone by without paying them much heed, but
suddenly I remembered the Professor's creed--to preach the
gospel of books in and out of season. Sunday or no Sunday, I
thought I could best honour Mifflin by acting on his own
principle. I pulled up by the side of the road.
I noticed the people turn to one another in a kind of
surprise, and whisper something. There was an elderly man
with a lean, hard-worked face; a stout woman, evidently his
wife; and two young girls and a man in golfing clothes.
Somehow the face of the older man seemed familiar. I wondered
whether he were some literary friend of Andrew's whose photo
I had seen.
Bock stood by the wheel with his long, curly tongue running in
and out over his teeth. I hesitated a moment, thinking just
how to phrase my attack, when the elderly gentleman called out:
"Where's the Professor?"
I was beginning to realize that Mifflin was indeed a public character.
"Heavens!" I said. "Do you know him, too?"
"Well, I should think so," he said. "Didn't he come to see me
last spring about an appropriation for school libraries, and
wouldn't leave till I'd promised to do what he wanted! He stayed
the night with us and we talked literature till four o'clock
in the morning.
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