"Well, well," said Mr. Pratt, "tell us about the Perfessor. We was
expectin' him here some time this fall. He generally gets here
around cider time."
"I guess there isn't so much to tell," I said. "He stopped up at our
place the other day, and said he wanted to sell his outfit. So I
bought him out. He was pining to get back to Brooklyn and write a
book."
"That book o' his!" said Mrs. Pratt. "He was always talkin' on it,
but I don't believe he ever started it yet."
"Whereabout do you come from, Miss McGill?" said Pratt. I could see
he was mighty puzzled at a woman driving a vanload of books around
the country, alone.
"Over toward Redfield," I said.
"You any kin to that writer that lives up that way?"
"You mean Andrew McGill?" I said. "He's my brother."
"Do tell!" exclaimed Mrs. Pratt. "Why the Perfessor thought a
terrible lot of him. He read us all to sleep with one of his books
one night. Said he was the best literature in this State, I do
believe."
I smiled to myself as I thought of the set-to on the road from
Shelby.
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