“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.