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Authors: Christopher Morley
Tags: Suspense
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renewed interest," said Mifflin.
"May I get in?"
"By all means," I said. "There's Port Vigor in front of us."
He put on his cap, noticed that it seemed to feel different, pulled
it off again, and then looked at me in a quaint embarrassment.
"You are very good, Miss McGill," he said.
"Where did Andrew go?" I asked.
"He set off for Shelby on foot," Mifflin answered. "He has a grand
stride for walking. He suddenly remembered that he had left some
potatoes boiling on the fire yesterday afternoon, and said he must
get back to attend to them. He said he hoped you would send him a
postal card now and then. Do you know, he reminds me of Thoreau more
than ever."
"He reminds me of a burnt cooking pot," I said. "I suppose all my
kitchenware will be in a horrible state when I get home."
Chapter Eight
*
Port Vigor is a fascinating old town. It is built on a point jutting
out into the Sound. Dimly in the distance one can see the end of
Long Island, which Mifflin viewed with sparkling eyes. It seemed to
bring him closer to Brooklyn. Several schooners were beating along
the estuary in the fresh wind, and there was a delicious tang of
brine in the air. We drove direct to the station where the Professor
alighted. We took his portmanteau, and shut Bock inside the van to
prevent the dog from following him. Then there was an awkward pause
as he stood by the wheel with his cap off.
"Well, Miss McGill," he said, "there's an express train at five
o'clock, so with luck I shall be in Brooklyn to-night. My brother's
address is 600 Abingdon Avenue, and I hope when you're sending a
card to the Sage you'll let me have one, too. I shall be very
homesick for Parnassus, but I'd rather leave her with you than with
any one I know."
He bowed very low, and before I could say a word he blew his nose
violently and hurried away. I saw him carrying his valise into the
station, and then he disappeared. I suppose that living alone with
Andrew for all these years has unused me to the eccentricities of
other people, but surely this little Redbeard was one of the
strangest beings one would be likely to meet.
Bock yowled dismally inside, and I did not feel in any mood to sell
books in Port Vigor. I drove back into the town and stopped at a tea
shop for a pot of tea and some toast. When I came out I found that
quite a little crowd had collected, partly owing to the strange
appearance of Parnassus and partly because of Bock's plaintive cries
from within. Most of the onlookers seemed to suspect the outfit of
being part of a travelling menagerie, so almost against my will I
put up the flaps, tied Bock to the tail of the wagon, and began to
answer the humourous questions of the crowd. Two or three bought
books without any urging, and it was some time before I could get
away. Finally I shut up the van and pulled off, as I was afraid of
seeing some one I knew. As I turned into the Woodbridge Road I heard
the whistle of the five o'clock train to New York.
The twenty miles of road between Sabine Farm and Port Vigor was all
familiar to me, but now to my relief I struck into a region that I
had never visited. On my occasional trips to Boston I had always
taken the train at Port Vigor, so the country roads were unknown.
But I had set out on the Woodbridge way because Mifflin had spoken
of a farmer, Mr. Pratt, who lived about four miles out of Port
Vigor, on the Woodbridge Road. Apparently Mr. Pratt had several
times bought books from the Professor and the latter had promised to
visit him again. So I felt in duty bound to oblige a good customer.
After the varied adventures of the last two days it was almost a
relief to be alone to think things over. Here was I, Helen McGill,
in a queer case indeed. Instead of being home at Sabine Farm getting
supper, I was trundling along a strange road, the sole owner of a
Parnassus (probably the only one in existence), a horse, and a dog,
and a cartload of books on my hands. Since the morning of the day
before my whole life had twisted
"May I get in?"
"By all means," I said. "There's Port Vigor in front of us."
He put on his cap, noticed that it seemed to feel different, pulled
it off again, and then looked at me in a quaint embarrassment.
"You are very good, Miss McGill," he said.
"Where did Andrew go?" I asked.
"He set off for Shelby on foot," Mifflin answered. "He has a grand
stride for walking. He suddenly remembered that he had left some
potatoes boiling on the fire yesterday afternoon, and said he must
get back to attend to them. He said he hoped you would send him a
postal card now and then. Do you know, he reminds me of Thoreau more
than ever."
"He reminds me of a burnt cooking pot," I said. "I suppose all my
kitchenware will be in a horrible state when I get home."
Chapter Eight
*
Port Vigor is a fascinating old town. It is built on a point jutting
out into the Sound. Dimly in the distance one can see the end of
Long Island, which Mifflin viewed with sparkling eyes. It seemed to
bring him closer to Brooklyn. Several schooners were beating along
the estuary in the fresh wind, and there was a delicious tang of
brine in the air. We drove direct to the station where the Professor
alighted. We took his portmanteau, and shut Bock inside the van to
prevent the dog from following him. Then there was an awkward pause
as he stood by the wheel with his cap off.
"Well, Miss McGill," he said, "there's an express train at five
o'clock, so with luck I shall be in Brooklyn to-night. My brother's
address is 600 Abingdon Avenue, and I hope when you're sending a
card to the Sage you'll let me have one, too. I shall be very
homesick for Parnassus, but I'd rather leave her with you than with
any one I know."
He bowed very low, and before I could say a word he blew his nose
violently and hurried away. I saw him carrying his valise into the
station, and then he disappeared. I suppose that living alone with
Andrew for all these years has unused me to the eccentricities of
other people, but surely this little Redbeard was one of the
strangest beings one would be likely to meet.
Bock yowled dismally inside, and I did not feel in any mood to sell
books in Port Vigor. I drove back into the town and stopped at a tea
shop for a pot of tea and some toast. When I came out I found that
quite a little crowd had collected, partly owing to the strange
appearance of Parnassus and partly because of Bock's plaintive cries
from within. Most of the onlookers seemed to suspect the outfit of
being part of a travelling menagerie, so almost against my will I
put up the flaps, tied Bock to the tail of the wagon, and began to
answer the humourous questions of the crowd. Two or three bought
books without any urging, and it was some time before I could get
away. Finally I shut up the van and pulled off, as I was afraid of
seeing some one I knew. As I turned into the Woodbridge Road I heard
the whistle of the five o'clock train to New York.
The twenty miles of road between Sabine Farm and Port Vigor was all
familiar to me, but now to my relief I struck into a region that I
had never visited. On my occasional trips to Boston I had always
taken the train at Port Vigor, so the country roads were unknown.
But I had set out on the Woodbridge way because Mifflin had spoken
of a farmer, Mr. Pratt, who lived about four miles out of Port
Vigor, on the Woodbridge Road. Apparently Mr. Pratt had several
times bought books from the Professor and the latter had promised to
visit him again. So I felt in duty bound to oblige a good customer.
After the varied adventures of the last two days it was almost a
relief to be alone to think things over. Here was I, Helen McGill,
in a queer case indeed. Instead of being home at Sabine Farm getting
supper, I was trundling along a strange road, the sole owner of a
Parnassus (probably the only one in existence), a horse, and a dog,
and a cartload of books on my hands. Since the morning of the day
before my whole life had twisted
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