stopped at a house where Mifflin pleaded for a chance to exercise
his art. I was much amused when he succeeded in selling a copy of
"Grimm's Fairy Tales" to a shrewish spinster on the plea that she
would enjoy reading the stories to her nephews and nieces who were
coming to visit her.

"My!" he chuckled, as he gave me the dingy quarter he had extracted.
"There's nothing in that book as grim as she is!"

A little farther on we halted by a roadside spring to give Peg a
drink, and I suggested lunch. I had laid in some bread and cheese in
Shelby, and with this and some jam we made excellent sandwiches. As
we were sitting by the fence the motor stage trundled past on its
way to Port Vigor. A little distance down the road it halted, and
then went on again. I saw a familiar figure walking back toward us.

"Now I'm in for it," I said to the Professor. "Here's Andrew!"



CHAPTER SEVEN


Andrew is just as thin as I am fat, and his clothes hang on him in
the most comical way. He is very tall and shambling, wears a ragged
beard and a broad Stetson hat, and suffers amazingly from hay fever
in the autumn. (In fact, his essay on "Hay Fever" is the best thing
he ever wrote, I think.) As he came striding up the road I noticed
how his trousers fluttered at the ankles as the wind plucked at
them. The breeze curled his beard back under his chin and his face