lor, provost, president (or whoever it
might be) who hands out the diploma. Then (in Roger's vision) he could
see the garlanded bibliopole turning to the expectant audience, giving
his trailing gown a deft rearward kick as the ladies do on the stage,
and uttering, without hesitation or embarrassment, with due
interpolation of graceful pleasantry, that learned and unlaboured
discourse on the delights of bookishness that he had often dreamed of.
Then he could see the ensuing reception: the distinguished savants
crowding round; the plates of macaroons, the cups of untasted tea; the
ladies twittering, "Now there's something I want to ask you--why are
there so many statues to generals, admirals, parsons, doctors,
statesmen, scientists, artists, and authors, but no statues to
booksellers?"

Contemplation of this glittering scene always lured Roger into
fantastic dreams. Ever since he had travelled country roads, some
years before, selling books from a van drawn by a fat white horse, he
had nourished a secret hope of some day founding a Parnassus on Wheels
Corporation which would own a fleet of these vans and send them out
into the rural byways where bookstores are unknown. He loved to
imagine a great map of New York State, with the daily location of each
travelling Parnassus marked by a coloured pin. He dreamed of himself,
sitting in some vast central warehouse of second-hand books, poring
over his map like a military chief of staff and forwarding cases of
literary ammunition to various bases where his vans would re-stock.
His idea was that his travelling salesmen could be recruited largely
from college professors, parsons, and newspaper men, who were weary of
their thankless tasks, and would welcome an opportunity to get out on
the road. One of his hopes was that he might interest Mr. Chapman in
this superb scheme, and he had a vision of the day when the shares of
the Parnassus on Wheels Corporation would pay a handsome dividend and
be much sought after by serious investors.

These thoughts turned his mind toward his brother-in-law Andrew McGill,
the author of several engaging books on the joys of country living, who
dwells at the Sabine Farm in the green elbow of a Connecticut valley.
The original Parnassus, a quaint old blue wagon in which Roger had
lived and journeyed and sold books over several thousand miles of
country roads in the days before his marriage, was now housed in
Andrew's barn. Peg, his fat white ho