The Harvester regarded him sympathetically. “Isn't it a crime?” he questioned. “Mushrooms are no go. I can see that!——or rather they are entirely too much of a go. I never saw anything in such demand. I must seek a less popular article for my purpose. To-morrow look out for me. I shall begin where I left off to-day, but I will have changed my product.”
“David, for pity sake,” peeped the doctor.
“What do I care how I do it, so I locate her?” superbly inquired the Harvester.
“But you won't find her!” gasped the doctor.
“I've come as close it as you so far, anyway,” said the Harvester. “Your mushrooms are on the desk in your office.”
He drove slowly up and down the streets until Betsy wabbled on her legs. Then he left her to rest and walked until he wabbled; and by that time it was dark, so he went home.
At the first hint of dawn he was at work the following morning. With loaded baskets closely covered, he started to Onabasha, and began where he had quit the day before. This time he carried a small, crudely fashioned bark basket, leaf-covered, and he rang at the front door with confidence.
Every one seemed to have a maid in that part of the city, for a freshly capped and aproned girl opened the door.
“Are there any young women living here?” blandly inquired the Harvester.
“What's that of your business?” demanded the maid.