It was chilly, and we didn’t dawdle over our meal.  I only made a feint of eating, as I had had a little breakfast before, and also as the events of the last few hours had left me rather restless.  I wanted to get Parnassus out on the highway again, to jog along in the sun and think things over.  The quarry was a desolate, forbidding place anyway.  But before we left we explored the cave where the tramps had been preparing to make themselves comfortable for the winter.  It was not really a cave, but only a shaft into the granite cliff.  A screen of evergreen boughs protected the opening against the weather, and inside were piles of sacking that had evidently been used as beds, and many old grocery boxes for tables and chairs.  It amused me to notice a cracked fragment of mirror balanced on a corner of rock.  Even these ragamuffins apparently were not totally unconscious of personal appearance.  I seized the opportunity, while the Professor was giving Peg’s foot a final look, to rearrange my hair, which was emphatically a sight.  I hardly think Andrew would have recognized me that morning.

We led Peg up the steep incline, back into the lane where I had strayed, and at length we reached the main road again.  Here I began to lay down the law to Redbeard.

“Now look here, Professor,” I said, “I’m not going to have you tramp all the way back to Port Vigor.  After the night you’ve had you need a rest.  You just climb into that Parnassus and lie down for a good snooze.  I’ll drive you into Woodbridge and you can take your train there.  Now you get right into that bunk.  I’ll sit out here and drive.”

He demurred, but without much emphasis.  I think the little fool was just about fagged out, and no wonder.  I was a trifle groggy myself.  In the end he was quite docile.  He climbed into the van, took off his boots, and lay down under a blanket.  Bock followed him, and I think they both fell asleep on the instant.  I got on the front seat and took the reins.  I didn’t let Peg go more quickly than a walk as I wanted to spare her sore foot.

My, what a morning that was after the rain!  The road ran pretty close to the shore, and every now and then I could catch a glimpse of the water.  The air was keen—­not just the ordinary, unnoticed air that we breathe in and out and don’t think about, but a sharp and tingling essence, as strong in the nostrils as camphor or ammonia.  The sun seemed focussed upon Parnassus, and we moved along the white road in a flush of golden light.  The flat fronds of the cedars swayed gently in the salty air, and for the first time in ten years, I should think, I began amusing myself by selecting words to describe the goodness of the morning.  I even imagined myself writing a description of it, as if I were Andrew or Thoreau.  The crazy little Professor had inoculated me with his literary bug, I guess.