"I regret having alarmed you," he said. "I see that Peg has dropped
a shoe. If you'll let me fix it for you, after that I won't bother
you."
We turned back again along the road, and I noticed the right side of
his face for the first time. Under the ear was a large livid bruise.
"That hobo, or whoever he was," I said, "must have been a better
fighter than Andrew. I see he landed on your cheek. Are you always
fighting?"
His annoyance disappeared. Apparently the Professor enjoyed a fight
almost as much as he did a good book.
"Please don't regard the last twenty-four hours as typical of me,"
he said with a chuckle. "I am so unused to being a squire of dames
that perhaps I take the responsibilities too seriously."
"Did you sleep at all last night?" I asked. I think I began to
realize for the first time that the gallant little creature had been
out all night in a drizzling rain, simply to guard me from possible
annoyance; and I had been unforgivably churlish about it.
"I found a very fine haystack in a field overlooking the quarry.
I crawled into the middle of it. A haystack is sometimes more
comfortable than a boarding-house."
"Well," I said penitently, "I can never forgive myself for the
trouble I've caused you. It was awfully good of you to do what
you did. Please put your cap on and don't catch cold."
We walked for several minutes in silence. I watched him out of the
corner of my eye. I was afraid he might have caught his death of
cold from being out all night in the wet, to say nothing of the
scuffle he had had with the tramp; but he really looked as chipper
as ever.
"How do you like the wild life of a bookseller?" he said.
"You must read George Borrow. He would have enjoyed Parnassus."
"I was just thinking, when I met you, that I could write a book
about my adventures."
"Good!" he said. "We might collaborate."
"There's another thing we might collaborate on," I said, "and
that's breakfast. I'm sure you haven't had any."
"No," he said, "I don't think I have. I never lie when I know
I shan't be believed."
"I haven't had any, either," I said. I thought that to tell an
untruth would be the least thing I could do to reward the little
man for his unselfishness.
"Well," he said, "I really thought that by this time--"
He broke off. "Was that Bock barking?" he asked sharply.
We had been walking slowly, and had not yet reached the spot where
the lane branched from the main road. We were still about three
quarters of a mile from the place where I had camped overnight. We
both listened carefully, but I could hear nothing but the singing of
the telephone wires along the road.
"No matter," he said. "I thought I heard a dog." But I noticed that
he quickened his pace.
"I was saying," he continued, "that I had really thought to have
lost Parnassus for good by this morning, but I'm tickled to death to
have a chance to see her again. I hope she'll be as good a friend to
you as she has been to me. I suppose you'll sell her when you return
to the Sage?"
"I don't know I'm sure," I said. "I must confess I'm still a little
at sea. My desire for an adventure seems to have let me in deeper
than I expected. I begin to see that there's more in this
bookselling game than I thought. Honestly, it's getting into my
blood."
"Well, that's fine," he said heartily. "I couldn't have left
Parnassus in better hands. You must let me know what you do with
her, and then perhaps, when I've finished my book, I can buy her
back."
We struck off into the lane. The ground was slippery under the trees
and we went single file, Mifflin in front. I looked at my watch--it
was nine o'clock, just an hour since I had left the van. As we
neared the spot Mifflin kept looking ahead through the birch trees
in a queer way.
"What's the matter?" I said. "We're almost there, aren't we?"
"We _are_ there," he said. "Here's the place."
Parnassus was gone!