"But he's away until noon," I added. "He'll be back then. There's
roast pork for dinner."
"And apple sauce?" said the little man.
"Apple sauce and brown gravy," I said. "That's why I'm sure he'll be
home on time. Sometimes he's late when there's boiled dinner, but
never on roast pork days. Andrew would never do for a rabbi."
A sudden suspicion struck me.
"You're not another publisher, are you?" I cried. "What do you want
with Andrew?"
"I was wondering whether he wouldn't buy this outfit," said the
little man, including, with a wave of the hand, both van and white
horse. As he spoke he released a hook somewhere, and raised the
whole side of his wagon like a flap. Some kind of catch clicked, the
flap remained up like a roof, displaying nothing but books--rows and
rows of them. The flank of his van was nothing but a big bookcase.
Shelves stood above shelves, all of them full of books--both old and
new. As I stood gazing, he pulled out a printed card from somewhere
and gave it to me:
ROGER MIFFLIN'S
TRAVELLING PARNASSUS
Worthy friends, my wain doth hold
Many a book, both new and old;
Books, the truest friends of man,
Fill this rolling caravan.
Books to satisfy all uses,
Golden lyrics of the Muses,
Books on cookery and farming,
Novels passionate and charming,
Every kind for every need
So that he who buys may read.
What librarian can surpass us?