Read Online Parnassus on Wheels by Christopher Morley - Free Book Online
Authors: Christopher Morley
Tags: Suspense
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have the law on you for kidnapping my sister. You're a
fine kind of a pirate."
Mifflin said nothing.
"Don't be a fool, Andrew" I said. "Can't you see that I want a
little adventure of my own? Go home and bake six thousand loaves of
bread, and by the time they're done I'll be back again. I think two
men of your age ought to be ashamed of yourselves. I'm going off to
sell books." And with that I climbed up to the seat and clucked to
Pegasus. Andrew and Mifflin and Bock remained standing in the road.
I was mad all the way through. I was mad at both men for behaving
like schoolboys. I was mad at Andrew for being so unreasonable,
yet in a way I admired him for it; I was mad at Mifflin for giving
Andrew a bloody nose, and yet I appreciated the spirit in which it
was done. I was mad at myself for causing all the trouble, and I was
mad at Parnassus. If there had been a convenient cliff handy I would
have pushed the old thing over it. But now I was in for it, and just
had to go on. Slowly I rolled up a long grade, and then saw Port
Vigor lying ahead and the broad blue stretches of the Sound.
Parnassus rumbled on with its pleasant creak, and the mellow sun and
sweep of the air soon soothed me. I began to taste salt in the wind,
and above the meadows two or three seagulls were circling. Like
all women, my angry mood melted into a reaction of exaggerated
tenderness and I began to praise both Andrew and Mifflin in my
heart. How fine to have a brother so solicitous of his sister's
welfare and reputation! And yet, how splendid the little, scrawny
Professor had been! How quick to resent an insult and how bold to
avenge it! His absurd little tweed cap was lying on the seat, and I
picked it up almost sentimentally. The lining was frayed and torn.
From my suit case in the van I got out a small sewing kit, and
hanging the reins on a hook I began to stitch up the rents as
Peg jogged along. I thought with amusement of the quaint life
Mr. Mifflin had led in his "caravan of culture." I imagined him
addressing the audience of Whitman disciples in Camden, and wondered
how the fuss ended. I imagined him in his beloved Brooklyn,
strolling in Prospect Park and preaching to chance comers his gospel
of good books. How different was his militant love of literature
from Andrew's quiet satisfaction. And yet how much they really had
in common! It tickled me to think of Mifflin reading aloud from
"Happiness and Hayseed," and praising it so highly, just before
fighting with the author and giving him a bloody nose. I remembered
that I should have spoken to Andrew about feeding the hens, and
reminded him of his winter undergarments. What helpless creatures
men are, after all!
I finished mending the cap in high good humour.
I had hardly laid it down when I heard a quick step in the road
behind me, and looking back, there was Mifflin, striding along with
his bald pate covered with little beads of moisture. Bock trotted
sedately at his heels. I halted Peg.
"Well," I said, "what's happened to Andrew?"
The Professor still looked a bit shamefaced. "The Sage is a
tenacious person," he said. "We argued for a bit without much
satisfaction. As a matter of fact we nearly came to blows again,
only he got another waft of goldenrod, which started him sneezing,
and then his nose began bleeding once more. He is convinced that
I'm a ruffian, and said so in excellent prose. Honestly, I admire
him a great deal. I believe he intends to have the law on me. I
gave him my Brooklyn address in case he wants to follow the matter
up. I think I rather pleased him by asking him to autograph
'Happiness and Hayseed' for me. I found it lying in the ditch."
"Well," I said, "you two are certainly a great pair of lunatics. You
both ought to go on the stage. You'd be as good as Weber and Fields.
Did he give you the autograph?"
He pulled the book out of his pocket. Scrawled in it in pencil were
the words "I have shed blood for Mr. Mifflin. Andrew McGill."
"I shall read the book again with
fine kind of a pirate."
Mifflin said nothing.
"Don't be a fool, Andrew" I said. "Can't you see that I want a
little adventure of my own? Go home and bake six thousand loaves of
bread, and by the time they're done I'll be back again. I think two
men of your age ought to be ashamed of yourselves. I'm going off to
sell books." And with that I climbed up to the seat and clucked to
Pegasus. Andrew and Mifflin and Bock remained standing in the road.
I was mad all the way through. I was mad at both men for behaving
like schoolboys. I was mad at Andrew for being so unreasonable,
yet in a way I admired him for it; I was mad at Mifflin for giving
Andrew a bloody nose, and yet I appreciated the spirit in which it
was done. I was mad at myself for causing all the trouble, and I was
mad at Parnassus. If there had been a convenient cliff handy I would
have pushed the old thing over it. But now I was in for it, and just
had to go on. Slowly I rolled up a long grade, and then saw Port
Vigor lying ahead and the broad blue stretches of the Sound.
Parnassus rumbled on with its pleasant creak, and the mellow sun and
sweep of the air soon soothed me. I began to taste salt in the wind,
and above the meadows two or three seagulls were circling. Like
all women, my angry mood melted into a reaction of exaggerated
tenderness and I began to praise both Andrew and Mifflin in my
heart. How fine to have a brother so solicitous of his sister's
welfare and reputation! And yet, how splendid the little, scrawny
Professor had been! How quick to resent an insult and how bold to
avenge it! His absurd little tweed cap was lying on the seat, and I
picked it up almost sentimentally. The lining was frayed and torn.
From my suit case in the van I got out a small sewing kit, and
hanging the reins on a hook I began to stitch up the rents as
Peg jogged along. I thought with amusement of the quaint life
Mr. Mifflin had led in his "caravan of culture." I imagined him
addressing the audience of Whitman disciples in Camden, and wondered
how the fuss ended. I imagined him in his beloved Brooklyn,
strolling in Prospect Park and preaching to chance comers his gospel
of good books. How different was his militant love of literature
from Andrew's quiet satisfaction. And yet how much they really had
in common! It tickled me to think of Mifflin reading aloud from
"Happiness and Hayseed," and praising it so highly, just before
fighting with the author and giving him a bloody nose. I remembered
that I should have spoken to Andrew about feeding the hens, and
reminded him of his winter undergarments. What helpless creatures
men are, after all!
I finished mending the cap in high good humour.
I had hardly laid it down when I heard a quick step in the road
behind me, and looking back, there was Mifflin, striding along with
his bald pate covered with little beads of moisture. Bock trotted
sedately at his heels. I halted Peg.
"Well," I said, "what's happened to Andrew?"
The Professor still looked a bit shamefaced. "The Sage is a
tenacious person," he said. "We argued for a bit without much
satisfaction. As a matter of fact we nearly came to blows again,
only he got another waft of goldenrod, which started him sneezing,
and then his nose began bleeding once more. He is convinced that
I'm a ruffian, and said so in excellent prose. Honestly, I admire
him a great deal. I believe he intends to have the law on me. I
gave him my Brooklyn address in case he wants to follow the matter
up. I think I rather pleased him by asking him to autograph
'Happiness and Hayseed' for me. I found it lying in the ditch."
"Well," I said, "you two are certainly a great pair of lunatics. You
both ought to go on the stage. You'd be as good as Weber and Fields.
Did he give you the autograph?"
He pulled the book out of his pocket. Scrawled in it in pencil were
the words "I have shed blood for Mr. Mifflin. Andrew McGill."
"I shall read the book again with
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