I strode along pondering over my adventures, and resolved to buy a pistol when I got to Woodbridge. I remember thinking that I could write quite a book now myself. Already I began to feel quite a hardened pioneer. It doesn't take an adaptable person long to accustom one's self to a new way of life, and the humdrum routine of the farm certainly looked prosy compared to voyaging with Parnassus. When I had got beyond Woodbridge, and had crossed the river, I would begin to sell books in earnest. Also I would buy a notebook and jot down my experiences. I had heard of bookselling as a profession for women, but I thought that my taste of it was probably unique. I might even write a book that would rival Andrew's--yes, and Mifflin's. And that brought my thoughts to Barbarossa again. Of all extraordinary people, I thought, he certainly takes the cake--and then, rounding a bend, I saw him sitting on a rail fence, with his head shining in the sunlight. My heart gave a sort of jump. I do believe I was getting fond of the Professor. He was examining something which he held in his hand. "You'll get sunstroke," I said. "Here's your cap." And I pulled it out of my pocket and tossed it to him. "Thanks," he said, as cool as you please. "And here's your horse-shoe. Fair exchange!" I burst out laughing, and he looked disconcerted, as I hoped he would. "I thought you'd be in Brooklyn by now," I said, "at 600 Abingdon Avenue, laying out Chapter One. What do you mean by following me this way? You nearly frightened me to death last night. I felt like one of Fenimore Cooper's heroines, shut up in the blockhouse while the redskins prowled about." He flushed and looked very uncomfortable. "I owe you an apology," he said. "I certainly never intended that you should see me. I bought a ticket for New York and checked my bag through. And then while I was waiting for the train it came over me that your brother was right, and that it was a darned risky thing for you to go jaunting about alone in Parnassus. I was afraid something might happen. I followed along the road behind you, keeping well out of sight." "Where were you while I was at Pratt's?" "Sitting not far down the road eating bread and cheese," he said. "Also I wrote a poem, a thing I very rarely do." "Well, I hope your ears burned," I said, "for those Pratts have certainly raised you to the peerage." He got more uncomfortable than ever. "Well," he said, "I dare say it was all an error, but anyway I _did_ follow you. When you turned off into that lane, I kept pretty close behind you. As it happens, I know this bit of country, and there are very often some hoboes hanging around the old quarry up that lane. They have a cave there where they go into winter quarters. I was afraid some of them might bother you. You could hardly have chosen a worse place to camp out. By the bones of George Eliot, Pratt ought to have warned you. I can't conceive why you didn't stop at his house overnight anyway."