way-back farmhouses. And I wish there were a thousand Parnassuses
instead of this one. I'd never give it up if it weren't for my book:
but I want to write about my ideas in the hope of stirring other
folk up, too. I don't suppose there's a publisher in the country
will take it!"

"Try Mr. Decameron," I said. "He's always been very nice to Andrew."

"Think what it would mean," he cried, waving an eloquent hand, "if
some rich man would start a fund to equip a hundred or so wagons
like this to go huckstering literature around through the rural
districts. It would pay, too, once you got started. Yes, by the
bones of Webster! I went to a meeting of booksellers once, at some
hotel in New York, and told 'em about my scheme. They laughed at me.
But I've had more fun toting books around in this Parnassus than I
could have had in fifty years sitting in a bookstore, or teaching
school, or preaching. Life's full of savour when you go creaking
along the road like this. Look at today, with the sun and the air
and the silver clouds. Best of all, though, I love the rainy days. I
used to pull up alongside the road, throw a rubber blanket over Peg,
and Bock and I would curl up in the bunk and smoke and read. I used
to read aloud to Bock: we went through 'Midshipman Easy' together,
and a good deal of Shakespeare. He's a very bookish dog. We've seen
some queer experiences in this Parnassus."

The hill road from Shelby to Port Vigor is a lonely one, as most
of the farmhouses lie down in the valley. If I had known better we
might have taken the longer and more populous way, but as a matter
of fact I was enjoying the wide view and the solitary road lying
white in the sunshine. We jogged along very pleasantly. Once more we