And I didn't depend any
too much on her daughter Rosie to do the housework efficiently. I
wondered what kind of meals Andrew would get. And probably he would
go right on wearing his summer underclothes, although I had already
reminded him about changing. Then there were the chickens...
Well, the Rubicon was crossed now, and there was nothing to be done.
To my surprise, little Redbeard had divined my anxiety. "Now don't
you worry about the Sage," he said kindly. "A man that draws his
royalties isn't going to starve. By the bones of John Murray, his
publishers can send him a cook if necessary! This is a holiday for
you, and don't you forget it."
And with this cheering sentiment in my mind, we rolled sedately down
the hill toward Greenbriar.
I am about as hardy as most folks, I think, but I confess I balked a
little at the idea of facing the various people I know in Greenbriar
as the owner of a bookvan and the companion of a literary huckster.
Also I recollected that if Andrew should try to trace us it would be
as well for me to keep out of sight.
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