My blood was up now, and I’ll admit that I said my next without proper calculation.

“Rather than have Andrew buy your old parcheesi,” I said, “I’ll buy it myself.  I’ll give you $300 for it.”

The little man’s face brightened.  He didn’t either accept or decline my offer. (I was frightened to death that he’d take me right on the nail and bang would go my three years’ savings for a Ford.)

“Come and have another look at her,” he said.

I must admit that Mr. Roger Mifflin had fixed up his van mighty comfortably inside.  The body of the wagon was built out on each side over the wheels, which gave it an unwieldy appearance but made extra room for the bookshelves.  This left an inside space about five feet wide and nine long.  On one side he had a little oil stove, a flap table, and a cozy-looking bunk above which was built a kind of chest of drawers—­to hold clothes and such things, I suppose; on the other side more bookshelves, a small table, and a little wicker easy chair.  Every possible inch of space seemed to be made useful in some way, for a shelf or a hook or a hanging cupboard or something.  Above the stove was a neat little row of pots and dishes and cooking usefuls.  The raised skylight made it just possible to stand upright in the centre aisle of the van; and a little sliding window opened onto the driver’s seat in front.  Altogether it was a very neat affair.  The windows in front and back were curtained and a pot of geraniums stood on a diminutive shelf.  I was amused to see a sandy Irish terrier curled up on a bright Mexican blanket in the bunk.

“Miss McGill,” he said, “I couldn’t sell Parnassus for less than four hundred.  I’ve put twice that much into her, one time and another.  She’s built clean and solid all through, and there’s everything a man would need from blankets to bouillon cubes.  The whole thing’s yours for $400—­including dog, cook stove, and everything—­jib, boom, and spanker.  There’s a tent in a sling underneath, and an ice box (he pulled up a little trap door under the bunk) and a tank of coal oil and Lord knows what all.  She’s as good as a yacht; but I’m tired of her.  If you’re so afraid of your brother taking a fancy to her, why don’t you buy her yourself and go off on a lark?  Make him stay home and mind the farm!...  Tell you what I’ll do.  I’ll start you on the road myself, come with you the first day and show you how it’s worked.  You could have the time of your life in this thing, and give yourself a fine vacation.  It would give your brother a good surprise, too.  Why not?”

I don’t know whether it was the neatness of his absurd little van, or the madness of the whole proposition, or just the desire to have an adventure of my own and play a trick on Andrew, but anyway, some extraordinary impulse seized me and I roared with laughter.

“Right!” I said.  “I’ll do it.”

I, Helen McGill, in the thirty-ninth year of my age!