it any longer. I went out to talk to that bald-headed pedlar.
"See here," I said. "You're a pretty cool fish to make yourself so easy in my yard. I tell you I don't want you around here, you and your travelling parcheesi. Suppose you clear out of here before my brother gets back and don't be breaking up our happy family."
"Miss McGill," he said (the man had a pleasant way with him, too—darn him—with his bright, twinkling eye and his silly little beard), "I'm sure I don't want to be discourteous. If you move me on from here, of course I'll go; but I warn you I shall lie in wait for Mr. McGill just down this road. I'm here to sell this caravan of culture, and by the bones of Swinburne I think your brother's the man to buy it."
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
