As Mrs. Adams came out of the door with her side of bacon, Mandy dashed
inside, and returned in a few moments with a piece of paper which she
slipped into my hand.
“Here’s the address,” she whispered. “You won’t forget, will you?
Please, please, don’t forget.”
With a few reassuring words I bade her good-bye and took my place in the
wagon.
“That good-for-nothing hussy of a girl will come to a bad end, you mark
my words,” Mrs. Adams said spitefully, as I turned to wave my hand to
the plucky little figure standing in the dust of the roadside, “but I
suppose you think she’s real cute, running down her poor old father.”
We jogged along in silence for some time, then, as we approached a
prosperous-looking farm, my employer suggested that I try my hand at the
game. With sinking heart I dragged my reluctant feet up the path, but
was surprised and reassured by the warmth of my reception. Unlike the
city dweller, the average country woman rather welcomes the call of a
peddler. I was fortunate in more ways than one, for my customer had
money and made a large selection, so that I was enabled to pay for my
goods and retain sixty-five cents to jingle in my pocket.
For the rest of the day, we took turns at the farmhouses and by night I
had quite a supply of food, which represented clear profit, as I had
paid for the toilet articles in produce. Dan and I had determined to
attend to our own culinary operations instead of boarding with Mrs.
Adams, as had been suggested. We felt that we could save more money, and
while our table was not elaborate, it satisfied our needs very nicely.
About five o’clock we overtook the men, and following their direction,
soon arrived at the camping place.
The evening meal concluded, Dan and I were sitting beside our little
fire, comparing the day’s experiences, when Mr. Adams strolled over and
threw himself down beside us. After some desultory conversation, he
plunged into a philosophical discussion.
“Have you ever made a study of Nietzsche?” he demanded.
“I’ve tried to read him, but with little success,” I replied. “His
philosophy is so revolting to me, that I can scarcely pass an unbiassed
judgment on him.”
“You surprise me. I consider Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche the greatest
genius and the most profound philosopher that the world has yet
produced. His work is so free from sentimental mush, his attitude is so
clearly scientific, he shows none of the weakness that comes from....”
“Oh, Frankie, love, come quick. I need you.” It was the voice of our
friend’s fair partner. He rose slowly to his feet and bade us
good-night.
“I have a hunch that Honey-drips does not care for philosophy,” observed
Dan, as we rose to turn in for the night.
The next few days were uneventful. Mr. Bates took a train for Cheyenne,
leaving Dan to handle the sign orders alone. We had accumulated an
abundant supply of farm produce of all kinds, in fact, we were
overstocked in some lines, so that Mr. Adams suggested a change of
programme. Instead of riding behind the mule team, I now go with the men
in the buckboard, and while Mr. Adams solicits sign orders, and Dan puts
them up, I canvass the towns where my goods sell for cash.
The drives seem but half as long as before, thanks to the superior speed
of the horses and the pleasant banter of Mr. Adams, who is a most
interesting conversationalist.
The man is a wonderful study. He often starts to speak of some personal
experience and breaks off in the middle of the first sentence. He never
has given me the least hint of his earlier life, but I feel sure that he
is a college man. There must be some mystery in his life. I spoke of my
beliefs to Dan.
He replied, “The only mystery that I see is that he is falling in love
with you, and that’s not much of a mystery either. Honey-drips sees how
the wind blows and loves you like a rattlesnake.”
I indignantly denied the allegation, for Mr. Adams’ conduct had been
exemplary. But Dan refused to retract his unjust words, so I determined
to keep my opinions to myself.