I'm doing the John Bunyan act, see? Writing in
prison. I've really started my book at last. And I find the
fellows here know nothing whatever about literature. There
isn't even a library in the place."
For the life of me, I couldn't utter the tenderness in my
heart with that gorilla of a jailer standing behind us.
Somehow we made our way downstairs, after the Professor had
gathered together the sheets of his manuscript. It had
already reached formidable proportions, as he had written
fifty pages in the thirty-six hours he had been in prison. In
the office we had to sign some papers. The sheriff was very
apologetic to Mifflin, and offered to take him back to town in
his car, but I explained that Parnassus was waiting at the
gate. The Professor's eyes brightened when he heard that, but
I had to hurry him away from an argument about putting good
books in prisons. The sheriff walked with us to the gate and
there shook hands again.
Peg whickered as we came up to her, and the Professor patted
her soft nose. Bock tugged at his chain in a frenzy of joy.
At last we were alone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I never knew just how it happened. Instead of driving back
through Port Vigor, we turned into a side road leading up over
the hill and across the heath where the air came fresh and
sweet from the sea.
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