# I Know a Secret/Chapter 21

WHEN the pleasure of mowing the lawn is past, then comes the pleasure of raking leaves. No wonder Helen is proud of having her birthday at the end of September, for perhaps autumn days are loveliest of all. The fields are yellow with goldenrod and blue with asters. The poison ivy runs up the trunks of the locust trees like a red and yellow flame. The air smells sweet of bonfires, and all kinds of smoky fragrance. Down in his greenhouses Mr. Steiger is burning tobacco to kill the chrysanthemum lice.
The time would soon come when the peanut wagon must be returned to George Vlachos. Even after they came back from camp the ​animals wanted to have as many expeditions in it as possible. Sometimes they took the children too, and all came home singing. The wagon was at its most picturesque plodding in the dusk up the long hill from the Village. Past the Clock Tower, and the house where George Washington had breakfast, it would roll steadily up the winding slope. Bowser refused to be hurried on that hill, and even those terribly big busses marked Glen Cove Express had to take their time behind him. They would groan and grumble in all their gears, but Bowser insisted—and quite rightly—on his fair share of the road. A red lantern hung inside the wagon and cast a glow over all the company. There was a pink tinge in the little trail of steam floating from the peanut whistle.
But on this last expedition there were no children with them. The children were at school when the animals started before lunch. It was just as well, for this trip resulted in the greatest adventure of all, and it was good to have it a surprise.
They wanted to visit the Jericho Cider Mill, which always opens the first of October. Donny had inherited from Mr. Mistletoe a great passion ​for cider, particuarly when it was new and sweet. Every autumn the first visit to the Jericho mill was an Event. There is a little bar built outside the mill, and the glass jugs of bright golden juice stand sparkling in the sunshine. Mr. Tappen, who runs the mill since old Mr. Hicks retired, gives away glasses of cider free to everybody who buys a jug. It is said that people who drink largely of the Jericho cider will live to a great and happy age, and it seems to be true. Perhaps that is because it is made of honest old Quaker apples. Certainly there is a Quaker influence in the Jericho cider; after two glasses of it people always say thee to each other, instead of you, in the old Quaker fashion.
The animals were the first visitors to the mill that autumn, and when the peanut wagon halted beside the bar Mr. Tappen welcomed them gladly. No one else was there, so the smaller animals got out and sat on top of the counter, while Donny stood with his feet on the old brass rail just as he had seen Mr. Mistletoe do. Mr. Tappen served Bowser's cider in a pail, and they were all happy. The sun was warm and clear and a few toping flies were drinking greedily from puddles of spilled cider.
​"Does thee remember the poem?" said Donny to Mr. Tappen, and repeated the following lines:
"What is that from?" asked Escargot.
"Doesn't thee know?" said Fourchette. "It's a verse from a poem Mr. Mistletoe wrote about this cider mill. He wrote it and got it printed in a book."
"No, thee never told me," said Escargot. He liked saying thee, because it was just like the French way of saying tu when you know people very well.
It may have been partly the cheerful influence of the clear autumn elixir they were drinking, for it was then that the great idea came to them. Escargot said it first.
"Look here," he said. "Thee told me about a big printing press not far from Roslyn. Instead of thee going to Station M. E. O. W. to broad​cast our stories, the way thee is planning to do, why don't we write them out and take them over to that printing place? They're Long Island stories, and a Long Island publisher might like them."
They were amazed at the simplicity of this excellent thought.
"Very true," said Fourchette. "A book would be much better than just talking them on the air, because we'd have something to show for it."
"A book with pictures?" shouted Hops and Malta.
"My picture in it too!" squeaked Dosoris.
"Mr. Mistletoe would give us an introduction to Mr. Doubleday," said Donny.
"Think of the labour of writing them all out," said the rabbits. "Writing stories is hard work, see how much fuss Mr. Mistletoe makes about it."
"But Mr. Doubleday would pay us for it," said Escargot.
"It's a wonderful idea," said Donny. "We must think about it carefully."
Escargot had been sipping steadily at the magical cider, which reminded him of his own Normandy, a great cider country. His eyes were ​long and bright with enthusiasm. "Don't let's think about it," he said. "Let's do it. Let's go there right away and see what Mr. Doubleday says."
"I know where he works," said Bowzer. "It's in that big building over at Garden City. George Vlachos often went there about noon-time to sell things to the printers. They must work very hard because they are terribly hungry when they come out for their lunch hour. I don't know which one is Mr. Doubleday, but they all come out from the press room with ink on their hands."
They consulted Mr. Tappen who thought it a fine idea.
"If you hurry, you can get there before he closes for the afternoon," he said. So they had one last drink of cider all round, to wish luck to the venture. Then they set off along the Jericho Pike.
They were more nervous when they finally got to the Country Life Press. The peanut wagon drove into the circular driveway in front of the building, and they were startled at the size of the establishment. Beyond a blaze of autumn flowers they could see the printing machines flapping great white sheets of paper at them in a ​threatening way. Now they began to argue which one had better go in to see Mr. Doubleday, and all felt rather timid except Dosoris. He was eager to rush in, and insisted that he could finish the affair in no time. But they were certain that Dosoris was not the best person. His habit of whipping off his cap and holding out an appealing palm might make a bad impression. "A publisher sees quite enough of that sort of thing," said Fourchette.
It was decided that Escargot, who had made the suggestion, should be their representative. Escargot's quiet dignity and his slow thoughtful ways would be appreciated by Mr. Doubleday.
The kittens were impatient. "Hurry, hurry up!" Hops exclaimed. "He will stop work for the day and you'll be too late."
"Thee hold thy tongue," replied Escargot calmly.
The prudent snail was not to be hustled. He tucked a small bag of peanuts inside his shell, as a present for Mr. Doubleday. At his own pace, and pausing to admire the flower garden, he proceeded along the brick path and up the steps. Fortunately someone came out just then and held the front door open for him. He climbed ​the stairs perseveringly, and a pleasant young woman at a desk in the hall, noticing him on the floor, asked if she could do anything for him.
"I wish to see Mr. Doubleday," he said, outwardly bold but rather shaky deep inside his curly shell.
"Which Mr. Doubleday?" she asked, and this perplexed him for a moment; but he made the proper reply. "There is only one Mr. Doubleday," he said firmly.
He was escorted into a large library where he waited.
Mr. Doubleday did what any wise business man would do. When he was told that an unexpected visitor was asking for him, he sent his assistant, Miss Comstock, to find out what it was all about. Miss Comstock came to the library. At first she could not see anyone, and was puzzled, but then she found Escargot on top of a glass case that holds some rare manuscripts and old printed books. He was pretending to study the manuscripts with keen interest, but as a matter of fact he had climbed there with a sound business instinct. He knew that to talk upward from the floor would put him at a disadvantage.
​Miss Comstock, after long experience in the publishing business, never shows surprise at anything. She welcomed Escargot with calm cordiality. He explained briefly the nature of his errand. Miss Comstock at first suggested that if they would submit the manuscript of the book when it was ready, it would have careful attention; but when Escargot pointed out the peanut wagon in the driveway, and the animals frisking about it, she felt that Mr. Doubleday would like to hear about this himself. Donny, in the hope of impressing Mr. Doubleday, had stoked up the peanut cooker to a high pressure of steam, and the little whistle was singing violently.
Miss Comstock thought it best to save time by giving Escargot a lift. They brought a little truck, such as is used to carry piles of books or paper, and on this Escargot rode into Mr. Doubleday's private office. There a tall bronzed man with a friendly face and very bright eyes was looking cheerfully at a little blackboard on which was written Number of Books Printed Yesterday, 28,000.
Miss Comstock introduced Escargot and placed him on a chair near Mr. Doubleday's desk. This chair has a broad green arm-piece ​for writing. Escargot sat there and cleared his throat.
It was now quite late in the afternoon, and Mr. Doubleday had had a secret notion of slipping off for a game of golf before dark, but you would never have known that, he was so polite. Escargot felt at ease immediately, and offered the publisher the bag of peanuts. Mr. Doubleday ate some and listened attentively.
"I have an idea for you," said Escargot.
"That's grand," said Mr. Doubleday. "That's what we need."
Escargot told about the Grape Arbor Tea Room, and about the way the stories had been told. The shrewd questions that Mr. Doubleday asked pleased him very much. He felt that they were both practical wary people and had much in common.
"It sounds like an interesting book," said Mr. Doubleday. "Is any of it written yet? Are any of you good writers?"
"We can get some help from Mr. Mistletoe," said Escargot.
"Don't you get help from anyone," said Mr. Doubleday. "You write it yourselves, in your own way. If it's written the way you tell it, ​it'll be all right—I suppose you're rather a slow worker," he added doubtfully.
"Fourchette will do most of the writing," said Escargot. "She is very clever and thinks fast."
"I should like to meet her," said Mr. Doubleday. "We are not clever here, in fact we're only a bunch of farmers, but we work hard."
Escargot could see that what Mr. Doubleday said about being farmers was a joke, and he smiled pleasantly.
"I suppose you would pay us something for a book like that?" he said earnestly.
"I hope you don't expect to make a fortune out of it," said Mr. Doubleday. "Very few books do. This business is very uncertain."
Mr. Doubleday must have taken a fancy to Escargot, for they talked and talked. It grew dusk, and people began streaming out of the press on their way home, and the big windows shone with lights. The animals in the wagon were very anxious, imagining all sorts of ill fortune.
"Perhaps Escargot has got trodden on," said Donny.
"Perhaps he's got caught in one of the machines," said Fourchette.
​"Perhaps Mr. Doubleday is a Frenchman and has eaten him," suggested the kittens.
And then, just when they were beginning to despair, Mr. Doubleday came out of the doorway. He was carrying Escargot on a piece of paper, which Escargot was carefully reading as he went along. The snail's eyes were stretched far out, he was reading the paper so attentively.
Fourchette's heart gave a jump, for as they got near she could see what the paper was. It was a contract, that is a promise, saying that the book would be published.
Mr. Doubleday was introduced to the others, and admired the wagon. He was impressed by the way the peanut roaster was steaming, which seemed to him to show a fine energy and enthusiasm. Dosoris kept trying to pull off his cap and hold out his hands, but Fourchette held him tight. Donny offered to give Mr. Doubleday a lift back to Oyster Bay in the wagon, but he said his car was waiting for him.
The animals were a little shy, knowing how much depended on Mr. Doubleday being pleased with them, but Escargot and the publisher were now on excellent terms.
​"Get on with the book," said Mr. Doubleday, "and we'll publish it for you."
"We'll go right home and get to work," said Escargot. "Well, so long, Effendi."
They lit the red lantern and the peanut wagon rolled off toward Roslyn. They went by the back road, through the lonely fields, so that Donny could get out and have one of his barking fits.