he was mighty puzzled at a woman driving a vanload of books around
the country, alone.

"Over toward Redfield," I said.

"You any kin to that writer that lives up that way?"

"You mean Andrew McGill?" I said. "He's my brother."

"Do tell!" exclaimed Mrs. Pratt. "Why the Perfessor thought a
terrible lot of him. He read us all to sleep with one of his books
one night. Said he was the best literature in this State, I do
believe."

I smiled to myself as I thought of the set-to on the road from
Shelby.

"Well," said Pratt, "if the Perfessor's got any better friends
than us in these parts, I'm glad to meet 'em. He come here first
time 'bout four years ago. I was up working in the hayfield that
afternoon, and I heard a shout down by the mill pond. I looked over
that way and saw a couple o' kids waving their arms and screamin'.
I ran down the hill and there was the Perfessor just a pullin' my
boy Dick out o' the water. Dick's this one over here."

Dick, a small boy of thirteen or so, grew red under his freckles.

"The kids had been foolin' around on a raft there, an' first thing
you know Dick fell in, right into deep water, over by the dam.
Couldn't swim a stroke, neither. And the Perfessor, who jest