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 happened to be comin’ along in that ’bus of his, heard the boys yell.  Didn’t he hop out o’ the wagon as spry as a chimpanzee, skin over the fence, an’ jump into the pond, swim out there an’ tow the boy in!  Yes, ma’am, he saved that boy’s life then an’ no mistake.  That man can read me to sleep with poetry any night he has a mind to.  He’s a plumb fine little firecracker, the Perfessor.”

Farmer Pratt pulled hard on his pipe.  Evidently his friendship for the wandering bookseller was one of the realities of his life.

“Yes, ma’am,” he went on, “that Perfessor has been a good friend to me, sure enough.  We brought him an’ the boy back to the house.  The boy had gone down three times an’ the Perfessor had to dive to find him.  They were both purty well all in, an’ I tell you I was scared.  But we got Dick around somehow—­rolled him on a sugar bar’l, an’ poured whiskey in him, an’ worked his arms, an’ put him in hot blankets.  By and by he come to.  An’ then I found that the Perfessor, gettin’ over the barb-wire fence so quick (when he lit for the pond) had torn a hole in his leg you could put four fingers in.  There was his trouser all stiff with blood, an’ he not sayin’ a thing.  Pluckiest little runt in three States, by Judas!  Well, we put him to bed, too, and then the Missus keeled over, an’ we put her to bed.  Three of them, by time the Doc got here.  Great old summer afternoon that was!  But bless your heart, we couldn’t keep the Perfessor abed long.  Next day he was out lookin’ fer his poetry books, an’ first thing you know he had us all rounded up an’ was preachin’ good literature at us like any evangelist.  I guess we all fell asleep over his poetry, so then he started on readin’ that ‘Treasure Island’ story to us, wasn’t it, Mother?  By hickory, we none of us fell asleep over that.  He started the kids readin’ so they been at it ever since, and Dick’s top boy at school now.  Teacher says she never saw such a boy for readin’.  That’s what Perfessor done for us!  Well, tell us ’bout yerself, Miss McGill.  Is there any good books we ought to read?  I used to pine for some o’ that feller Shakespeare my father used to talk about so much, but Perfessor always ’lowed it was over my head!”

It gave me quite a thrill to hear all this about Mifflin.  I could readily imagine the masterful little man captivating the simple-hearted Pratts with his eloquence and earnestness.  And the story of the mill pond had its meaning, too.  Little Redbeard was no mere wandering crank—­he was a real man, cool and steady of brain, with the earmarks of a hero.  I felt a sudden gush of warmth as I recalled his comical ways.

Mrs. Pratt lit a fire in her Franklin stove and I racked my head wondering how I could tread worthily in the Professor’s footsteps.  Finally I fetched the “Jungle Book” from Parnassus and read them the story of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.  There was a long pause when I had finished.