Parnassus on Wheels (3 page)

"You going driving?" she said blankly.

"Yes," I said, and fled upstairs.

I always keep my bank book in an old Huyler box in the top drawer
of my bureau. I don't save very quickly, I'm afraid. I have a
little income from some money father left me, but Andrew takes care
of that. Andrew pays all the farm expenses, but the housekeeping
accounts fall to me. I make a fairish amount of pin money on my
poultry and some of my preserves that I send to Boston, and on some
recipes of mine that I send to a woman's magazine now and then; but
generally my savings don't amount to much over $10 a month. In the
last five years I had put by something more than $600. I had been
saving up for a Ford. But just now it looked to me as if that
Parnassus would be more fun than a Ford ever could be. Four hundred
dollars was a lot of money, but I thought of what it would mean
to have Andrew come home and buy it. Why, he'd be away until
Thanksgiving! Whereas if I bought it I could take it away, have my
adventure, and sell it somewhere so that Andrew never need see it.
I hardened my heart and determined to give the Sage of Redfield
some of his own medicine.

My balance at the Redfield National Bank was $615.20. I sat down at
the table in my bedroom where I keep my accounts and wrote out a
check to Roger Mifflin for $400. I put in plenty of curlicues after
the figures so that no one could raise the check into $400,000; then
I got out my old rattan suit case and put in some clothes. The whole
business didn't take me ten minutes. I came downstairs to find Mrs.
McNally looking sourly at the Parnassus from the kitchen door.

"You going away in that—that 'bus, Mis' McGill?" she asked.

"Yes, Mrs. McNally," I said cheerfully. Her use of the word gave me
an inspiration. "That's one of the new jitney 'buses we hear about.
He's going to take me to the station. Don't you worry about me. I'm
going for a holiday. You get Mr. McGill's dinner ready for him.
After dinner tell him there's a note for him in the living-room."

"I tank that bane a queer 'bus," said Mrs. McNally, puzzled. I think
the excellent woman suspected an elopement.

I carried my suit case out to the Parnassus. Pegasus stood placidly
between the shafts. From within came sounds of vigorous movement. In
a moment the little man burst out with a bulging portmanteau in his
hand. He had a tweed cap slanted on the back of his head.

"There!" he cried triumphantly. "I've packed all my personal effects
clothes and so on—and everything else goes with the transaction.
When I get on the train with this bag I'm a free man, and hurrah for
Brooklyn! Lord, won't I be glad to get back to the city! I lived in
Brooklyn once, and I haven't been back there for ten years," he
added plaintively.

"Here's the check," I said, handing it to him. He flushed a little,
and looked at me rather shamefacedly. "See here," he said, "I hope
you're not making a bad bargain? I don't want to take advantage of a
lady. If you think your brother...."

"I was going to buy a Ford, anyway," I said, "and it looks to me
as though this parcheesi of yours would be cheaper to run than any
flivver that ever came out of Detroit. I want to keep it away from
Andrew and that's the main thing. You give me a receipt and we'll
get away from here before he comes back."

He took the check without a word, hoisted his fat portmanteau on the
driver's seat, and then disappeared in the van. In a minute he
reappeared. On the back of one of his poetical cards he had written:

Received from Miss McGill the sum of four hundred dollars in
exchange for one Travelling Parnassus in first class condition,
delivered to her this day, October 3rd, 19—.

Signed
ROGER MIFFLIN.

"Tell me," I said, "does your Parnassus—
my
Parnassus,
rather—contain everything I'm likely to need? Is it stocked up
with food and so on?"

"I was coming to that," he said. "You'll find a fair supply of stuff
in the cupboard over the stove, though I used to get most of my
meals at farmhouses along the road. I generally read aloud to people
as I go along, and they're often good for a free meal. It's amazing
how little most of the country folk know about books, and how
pleased they are to hear good stuff. Down in Lancaster County,
Pennsylvania...."

"Well, how about the horse?" I said hastily, seeing him about to
embark on an anecdote. It wasn't far short of eleven o'clock, and I
was anxious to get started.

"It might be well to take along some oats. My supply's about
exhausted."

I filled a sack with oats in the stable and Mr. Mifflin showed me
where to hang it under the van. Then in the kitchen I loaded a big
basket with provisions for an emergency: a dozen eggs, a jar of
sliced bacon, butter, cheese, condensed milk, tea, biscuits, jam,
and two loaves of bread. These Mr. Mifflin stowed inside the van,
Mrs. McNally watching in amazement.

"I tank this bane a queer picnic!" she said. "Which way are you
going? Mr. McGill, is he coming after you?"

"No," I insisted, "he's not coming. I'm going off on a holiday. You
get dinner for him and he won't worry about anything until after
that. Tell him I've gone over to see Mrs. Collins."

I climbed the little steps and entered my Parnassus with a pleasant
thrill of ownership. The terrier on the bunk jumped to the floor
with a friendly wag of the tail. I piled the bunk with bedding and
blankets of my own, shook out the drawers which fitted above the
bunk, and put into them what few belongings I was taking with me.
And we were ready to start.

Redbeard was already sitting in front with the reins in hand. I
climbed up beside him. The front seat was broad but uncushioned,
well sheltered by the peak of the van. I gave a quick glance around
at the comfortable house under its elms and maples—saw the big, red
barn shining in the sun and the pump under the grape arbour. I waved
good-bye to Mrs. McNally who was watching us in silent amazement.
Pegasus threw her solid weight against the traces and Parnassus
swung round and rolled past the gate. We turned into the Redfield
road.

"Here," said Mifflin, handing me the reins, "you're skipper, you'd
better drive. Which way do you want to go?"

My breath came a little fast when I realized that my adventure had
begun!

Just out of sight of the farm the road forks, one way running on
to Walton where you cross the river by a covered bridge, the other
swinging down toward Greenbriar and Port Vigor. Mrs. Collins lives a
mile or so up the Walton road, and as I very often run over to see
her I thought Andrew would be most likely to look for me there. So,
after we had passed through the grove, I took the right-hand turn to
Greenbriar. We began the long ascent over Huckleberry Hill and as I
smelt the fresh autumn odour of the leaves I chuckled a little.

Mr. Mifflin seemed in a perfect ecstasy of high spirits. "This is
certainly grand," he said. "Lord, I applaud your spunk. Do you think
Mr. McGill will give chase?"

"I haven't an idea," I said. "Not right away, anyhow. He's so used
to my settled ways that I don't think he'll suspect anything till he
finds my note. I wonder what kind of story Mrs. McNally will tell!"

"How about putting him off the scent?" he said. "Give me your
handkerchief."

I did so. He hopped nimbly out, ran back down the hill (he was a
spry little person in spite of his bald crown), and dropped the
handkerchief on the Walton Road about a hundred feet beyond the
fork. Then he followed me up the slope.

"There," he said, grinning like a kid, "that'll fool him. The Sage
of Redfield will undoubtedly follow a false spoor and the criminals
will win a good start. But I'm afraid it's rather easy to follow a
craft as unusual as Parnassus."

"Tell me how you manage the thing," I said. "Do you really make it
pay?" We halted at the top of the hill to give Pegasus a breathing
space. The terrier lay down in the dust and watched us gravely. Mr.
Mifflin pulled out a pipe and begged my permission to smoke.

"It's rather comical how I first got into it," he said. "I was a
school teacher down in Maryland. I'd been plugging away in a country
school for years, on a starvation salary. I was trying to support an
invalid mother, and put by something in case of storms. I remember
how I used to wonder whether I'd ever be able to wear a suit that
wasn't shabby and have my shoes polished every day. Then my health
went back on me. The doctor told me to get into the open air. By and
by I got this idea of a travelling bookstore. I had always been a
lover of books, and in the days when I boarded out among the farmers
I used to read aloud to them. After my mother died I built the wagon
to suit my own ideas, bought a stock of books from a big second-hand
store in Baltimore, and set out. Parnassus just about saved my life
I guess."

He pushed his faded old cap back on his head and relit his pipe.
I clicked to Pegasus and we rumbled gently off over the upland,
looking down across the pastures. Distant cow bells sounded
tankle-tonk among the bushes. Across the slope of the hill I could
see the road winding away to Redfield. Somewhere along that road
Andrew would be rolling back toward home and roast pork with apple
sauce; and here was I, setting out on the first madness of my life
without even a qualm.

"Miss McGill," said the little man, "this rolling pavilion has been
wife, doctor, and religion to me for seven years. A month ago I
would have scoffed at the thought of leaving her; but somehow it's
come over me I need a change. There's a book I've been yearning to
write for a long time, and I need a desk steady under my elbows and
a roof over my head. And silly as it seems, I'm crazy to get back
to Brooklyn. My brother and I used to live there as kids. Think
of walking over the old Bridge at sunset and seeing the towers of
Manhattan against a red sky! And those old gray cruisers down in the
Navy Yard! You don't know how tickled I am to sell out. I've sold a
lot of copies of your brother's books and I've often thought he'd be
the man to buy Parnassus if I got tired of her."

"So he would," I said. "Just the man. He'd be only too likely
to—and go maundering about in this jaunting car and neglect the
farm. But tell me about selling books. How much profit do you make
out of it? We'll be passing Mrs. Mason's farm, by and by, and we
might as well sell her something just to make a start."

"It's very simple," he said. "I replenish my stock whenever I go
through a big town. There's always a second-hand bookstore somewhere
about, where you can pick up odds and ends. And every now and then I
write to a wholesaler in New York for some stuff. When I buy a book
I mark in the back just what I paid for it, then I know what I can
afford to sell it for. See here."

He pulled up a book from behind the seat—a copy of "Lorna Doone" it
was—and showed me the letters
a m
scrawled in pencil in the back.

"That means that I paid ten cents for this. Now, if you sell it for
a quarter you've got a safe profit. It costs me about four dollars a
week to run Parnassus—generally less. If you clear that much in six
days you can afford to lay off on Sundays!"

"How do you know that
a m
stands for ten cents?" I asked.

"The code word's
manuscript
. Each letter stands for a figure,
from 0 up to 9, see?" He scrawled it down on a scrap of paper:

m a n u s c r i p t
0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

"Now, you see
a m
stands for 10,
a n
would be 12,
n s
is 24,
a c
is 15,
a m m
is $1.00, and so on. I don't pay much over
fifty cents for books as a rule, because country folks are shy of
paying much for them. They'll pay a lot for a separator or a buggy
top, but they've never been taught to worry about literature! But
it's surprising how excited they get about books if you sell 'em the
right kind. Over beyond Port Vigor there's a farmer who's waiting
for me to go back—I've been there three or four times—and he'll
buy about five dollars' worth if I know him. First time I went there
I sold him 'Treasure Island,' and he's talking about it yet. I sold
him 'Robinson Crusoe,' and 'Little Women' for his daughter, and
'Huck Finn,' and Grubb's book about 'The Potato.' Last time I was
there he wanted some Shakespeare, but I wouldn't give it to him.
I didn't think he was up to it yet."

I began to see something of the little man's idealism in his work.
He was a kind of traveling missionary in his way. A hefty talker,
too. His eyes were twinkling now and I could see him warming up.

"Lord!" he said, "when you sell a man a book you don't sell him
just twelve ounces of paper and ink and glue—you sell him a whole
new life. Love and friendship and humour and ships at sea by
night—there's all heaven and earth in a book, a real book I mean.
Jiminy! If I were the baker or the butcher or the broom huckster,
people would run to the gate when I came by—just waiting for my
stuff. And here I go loaded with everlasting salvation—yes, ma'am,
salvation for their little, stunted minds—and it's hard to make 'em
see it. That's what makes it worth while—I'm doing something that
nobody else from Nazareth, Maine, to Walla Walla, Washington, has
ever thought of. It's a new field, but by the bones of Whitman it's
worth while. That's what this country needs—more books!"

He laughed at his own vehemence. "Do you know, it's comical," he
said. "Even the publishers, the fellows that print the books,
can't see what I'm doing for them. Some of 'em refuse me credit
because I sell their books for what they're worth instead of
for the prices they mark on them. They write me letters about
price-maintenance—and I write back about merit-maintenance.
Publish a good book and I'll get a good price for it, Say I!
Sometimes I think the publishers know less about books than any
one else! I guess that's natural, though. Most school teachers
don't know much about children."