Mrs. McNally was bending over the tubs in the laundry. I could see
only the broad arch of her back and hear the vigorous zzzzzzz of her
rubbing. She straightened up at my call.

"Mrs. McNally," I said, "I'm going away for a little trip. You'd
better let the washing go until this afternoon and get Andrew's
dinner for him. He'll be back about twelve-thirty. It's half-past
ten now. You tell him I've gone over to see Mrs. Collins at Locust
Farm."

Mrs. McNally is a brawny, slow-witted Swede. "All right Mis'
McGill," she said. "You be back to denner?"

"No, I'm not coming back for a month," I said. "I'm going away for
a trip. I want you to send Rosie over here every day to do the
housework while I'm away. You can arrange with Mr. McGill about
that. I've got to hurry now."

Mrs. McNally's honest eyes, as blue as Copenhagen china, gazing
through the window in perplexity, fell upon the travelling Parnassus
and Mr. Mifflin backing Pegasus into the shafts. I saw her make a
valiant effort to comprehend the sign painted on the side of the
van--and give it up.

"You going driving?" she said blankly.

"Yes," I said, and fled upstairs.

I always keep my bank book in an old Huyler box in the top drawer
of my bureau. I don't save very quickly, I'm afraid. I have a