Parnassus on Wheels - Christopher Morley (books you need to read TXT) 📗

“Well,” he said, “I dare say it was all an error, but anyway I did follow you. When you turned off into that lane, I kept pretty close behind you. As it happens, I know this bit of country, and there are very often some hoboes hanging around the old quarry up that lane. They have a cave there where they go into winter quarters. I was afraid some of them might bother you. You could hardly have chosen a worse place to camp out. By the bones of George Eliot, Pratt ought to have warned you. I can’t conceive why you didn’t stop at his house overnight anyway.”

“If you must know, I got weary of hearing them sing your praises.”

I could see that he was beginning to get nettled.

“I regret having alarmed you,” he said. “I see that Peg has dropped a shoe. If you’ll let me fix it for you, after that I won’t bother you.”

We turned back again along the road, and I noticed the right side of his face for the first time. Under the ear was a large livid bruise.

“That hobo, or whoever he was,” I said, “must have been a better fighter than Andrew. I see he landed on your cheek. Are you always fighting?”

His annoyance disappeared. Apparently the Professor enjoyed a fight almost as much as he did a good book.

“Please don’t regard the last twenty four hours as typical of me,” he said with a chuckle. “I am so unused to being a squire of dames that perhaps I take the responsibilities too seriously.”

“Did you sleep at all last night?” I asked. I think I began to realize for the first time that the gallant little creature had been out all night in a drizzling rain, simply to guard me from possible annoyance; and I had been unforgivably churlish about it.

“I found a very fine haystack in a field overlooking the quarry. I crawled into the middle of it. A haystack is sometimes more comfortable than a boarding house.”

“Well,” I said penitently, “I can never forgive myself for the trouble I’ve caused you. It was awfully good of you to do what you did. Please put your cap on and don’t catch cold.”

We walked for several minutes in silence. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. I was afraid he might have caught his death of cold from being out all night in the wet, to say nothing of the scuffle he had had with the tramp; but he really looked as chipper as ever.

“How do you like the wild life of a bookseller?” he said. “You must read George Borrow. He would have enjoyed Parnassus.”

“I was just thinking, when I met you, that I could write a book about my adventures.”

“Good!” he said. “We might collaborate.”

“There’s another thing we might collaborate on,” I said, “and that’s breakfast. I’m sure you haven’t had any.”

“No,” he said, “I don’t think I have. I never lie when I know I shan’t be believed.”

“I haven’t had any, either,” I said. I thought that to tell an untruth would be the least thing I could do to reward the little man for his unselfishness.

“Well,” he said, “I really thought that by this time⁠—”

He broke off. “Was that Bock barking?” he asked sharply.

We had been walking slowly, and had not yet reached the spot where the lane branched from the main road. We were still about three quarters of a mile from the place where I had camped overnight. We both listened carefully, but I could hear nothing but the singing of the telephone wires along the road.

“No matter,” he said. “I thought I heard a dog.” But I noticed that he quickened his pace.

“I was saying,” he continued, “that I had really thought to have lost Parnassus for good by this morning, but I’m tickled to death to have a chance to see her again. I hope she’ll be as good a friend to you as she has been to me. I suppose you’ll sell her when you return to the Sage?”

“I don’t know I’m sure,” I said. “I must confess I’m still a little at sea. My desire for an adventure seems to have let me in deeper than I expected. I begin to see that there’s more in this bookselling game than I thought. Honestly, it’s getting into my blood.”

“Well, that’s fine,” he said heartily. “I couldn’t have left Parnassus in better hands. You must let me know what you do with her, and then perhaps, when I’ve finished my book, I can buy her back.”

We struck off into the lane. The ground was slippery under the trees and we went single file, Mifflin in front. I looked at my watch⁠—it was nine o’clock, just an hour since I had left the van. As we neared the spot Mifflin kept looking ahead through the birch trees in a queer way.

“What’s the matter?” I said. “We’re almost there, aren’t we?”

“We are there,” he said. “Here’s the place.”

Parnassus was gone!

We stood in complete dismay⁠—I did, at any rate⁠—for about as long as it takes to peel a potato. There could be no doubt in which direction the van had moved, for the track of the wheels was plain. It had gone farther up the lane toward the quarry. In the earth, which was still soggy, were a number of footprints.

“By the bones of Polycarp!” exclaimed the Professor, “those hoboes have stolen the van. I guess they think it’ll make a fine Pullman sleeper for them. If I’d realized there was more than one of them I’d have hung around closer. They need a lesson.”

Good Lord! I thought, here’s Don Quixote about to wade into another fight.

“Hadn’t we better go back and get Mr. Pratt?” I asked.

This was obviously the wrong thing to say. It put the fiery little man all the more on his mettle. His beard bristled. “Nothing of the sort!” he said. “Those fellows are cowards