see on the porch? Or stories of inventors for that boy who is about
to break his neck jumping from the barn loft? Or a book about road
making for your husband? Surely there is something here you need?
Miss McGill probably knows your tastes."

That little red-bearded man was surely a born salesman. How he
guessed that Mr. Mason was the road commissioner in our township,
goodness only knows. Perhaps it was just a lucky shot. By this
time most of the family had gathered around the van, and I saw Mr.
Mason coming from the barn with his twelve-year-old Billy.

"Sam," shouted Mrs. Mason, "here's Miss McGill turned book pedlar
and got a preacher with her!"

"Hello, Miss McGill," said Mr. Mason. He is a big, slow-moving man
of great gravity and solidity. "Where's Andrew?"

"Andrew's coming home for roast pork and apple sauce," I said, "and
I'm going off to sell books for a living. Mr. Mifflin here is
teaching me how. We've got a book on road mending that's just what
you need."

I saw Mr. and Mrs. Mason exchange glances. Evidently they thought me
crazy. I began to wonder whether we had made a mistake in calling on
people I knew so well. The situation was a trifle embarrassing.

Mr. Mifflin came to the rescue.

"Don't be alarmed, sir," he said to Mr. Mason. "I haven't kidnapped
Miss McGill." (As he is about half my size this was amusing.) "We