Diane of the Green Van

by Leona Dalrymple

  CHAPTER XVIII

  NOMADS

  "Johnny!" said Diane in crisp, distinct tones, "Mr. Poynter has sleptlong enough. You'd better call him."

  Now it is a regrettable fact that ordinarily this attack would haveprovoked a reply of mild impudence from Mr. Poynter's tent, but thismorning a surprising silence lay behind the flapping canvas. Dianebegan to hum. When presently investigation proved that Mr. Poynter'stent was in exemplary order--that Mr. Poynter and his mended shirt weremissing--she went on humming--but to Johnny's amazement, burned herfingers on the coffeepot; sharply reproved Johnny for staring, and thencurtly suggested that he prepare to break camp that morning, as it washigh time they were on the road.

  "As for Mr. Philip Poynter," reflected Diane with delicate disdain, asshe bent over the fire and rolled some baked potatoes away with astick, "what can one expect? Men are exceedingly peculiar andinconsistent and impudent. I haven't the ghost of a doubt that hefound that ridiculous shirt and went off in a huff. And I'm very gladhe did--very glad indeed. I meant he should, though I didn't supposewith his unconscionable nerve it would bother him in the least. If aman's sufficiently erratic to blow a tin whistle all the way toFlorida--as Philip certainly is--and maroon himself on somebody else'slake for fear he'd miss an acquaintance, he'd very likely fly into arage when one least expected it and go tramping off in the night. I dodislike people who fall into huffs about nothing."

  Diane burned her fingers again, felt that the fire was unnecessarilyhot upon her face, and indignantly resigning the preparation ofbreakfast to Johnny, went fishing.

  "He should have gone long ago," mused Diane, flinging her line withconsiderable force into the river. "It's a great mercy as it is thatAunt Agatha didn't appear and weep all over the camp about him. I'msorry I mended the shirt. Not but that I was fortunate to findsomething that would make him go, but a shirt's such a childish thingto fuss about. And, anyway, I preferred him to leave in a friendly,conventional sort of way!"

  There are times, alas, when even fish are perverse! Thoroughly out ofpatience, Diane presently unjointed her rod, emptied the can of wormsupon the bank, and returned to camp, where she found Johnnyindustriously piling up a heap of litter.

  "What are you going to do with these?" demanded Diane, indicating aneccentric woodland broom and a rake of forked twigs and twine. "Throwthem out?"

  Johnny nodded.

  "Well, I guess you're not!" sniffed Diane indignantly. "They're mightyconvenient. That rake is really clever."

  Johnny's round eyes showed his astonishment. He had heard his perverseyoung mistress malign these inventions of Philip's most cruelly.

  Then what a woodland commotion arose after breakfast! What a cautiousstamping out of fire and razing of tents! What a startled flutter ofbirds above and bugs below! What an excited barking on the part ofRex, who after loafing industriously for a week or so, felt called uponto sprint about and assist his mistress with a dirt-brown nose! What atrampling of horses and a creaking of wheels as the great green wagonwound slowly through the shadowy forest road and took to the openhighway with Rex at His mistress's feet haughtily inspecting thewayside.

  And what a wayside, to be sure! Past fields of young rye from which alazy silver smoke seemed to rise and follow the wind-billowing grain;past fields of dark red clover rife with the whir and clatter of mowingmachines as the farmers felled the velvety stalks for clover hay; pastsnug white farmhouses where perfumed peonies drooped sleepily overbrick walks; on over a rustic bridge, skirting now a tiny village whosechurch spire loomed above the trees; now following a road which layrough and deeply rutted, among golden fields of buttercups fringed withbunch grass.

  Farmers waved and called; housewives looked and disapproved; childrenstared and jealous canines pettishly barked at the haughty Rex; butJohnny only chuckled and cracked his whip. Day by day the green andwhite caravan rumbled serenely on, camping by night in field and forest.

  A country world of peace and sunshine--of droning bees and the namelessfragrance of summer fields it was! And the struggling nomads of thedusty road! Diane felt a kindred thrill of interest in each one ofthem. Now a Syrian peddler woman, squat and swarthy, bending heavilybeneath her pack amid a flurry of dust from the sun-baked roads herfeet had wearily padded for days; now a sleepy negro on a load of hay,an organ grinder with a chattering monkey or a clumsy bear, anothersleepy negro with another load of hay, and a picturesque minstrel withan elaborate musical contrivance drawn by a horse. Now a caperingItalian with a bagpipe, who danced grotesquely to his own piping, andpiped the pennies out of rural pockets as if they had been so manycopper rats from Hamelin!

  Peddlers and tramps and agents, country drummers and country circuses,medicine men who shouted the versatile merits of corn salve by thelight of flaring torches, eccentric orators of eccentric theology,tent-shows of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," with real bloodhounds and unrealpainted ice, gypsies who were always expected to steal some one'schildren and never did, peddlers with creaking, clinking wagons,hucksters and motorcyclists, motorists and dusty hikers--one by one inthe days to come Diane was to meet them all and learn that the nomadsof the summer road were a happy-go-lucky guild of peculiar andcooeperative good humor.

  But the girl herself was a truer nomad than many to whom with warmfriendliness she nodded and spoke.

  Late one afternoon Diane espied a woodland brook. Shot with gold andshadow, it laughed along, under a waving canopy of green, freckled withcool, clean pebbles and hiding roguishly now and then beneath atrailing branch. A brook was a luxury. It was mirror and spring andlullaby in one.

  By six the tents of the nomad were pitched by the forest brook and thenomad herself was smoothing back her ruffled hair over a crystallinemirror.

  A drowsy negro on a load of hay drove by on the road beyond.

  Diane studied him with critical interest.

  "Johnny," she said, "just why are there so many drowsy negroes aboutdriving loads of hay? Or is that the same one? And if it is, whereunder Heaven has he been driving that hay for the last three days?"

  Johnny didn't know. Wherefore he pursed his lips and shook his head.

  The hay wagon turned on into the forest on the farther side of the roadand halted. The drowsy negro leisurely alighted and shuffled throughthe trees until he stood before Diane with a square of birch bark inhis hand. Greatly astonished--for this negro was apparently too lazyto talk when he deemed it unnecessary--Diane took the birch bark andinspected it in mystification. A most amazing message was dulyinscribed thereon.

  "Erastus has acquired a sinewy chicken from somebody's barn yard," itread. "Why not bring your own plate, knife, fork, spoon and a good sawover to my hay-camp and dine with me?

  "Philip."

  Diane stared with rising color at the load of hay. From its ragged,fragrant bed, a tall, lean young man with a burned skin, was rising andlazily urging a nondescript yellow dog to do the same. The dogconceivably demurred, for Philip removed him, yelping, by the simpleprocess of seizing him by the loose skin at the back of his neck anddropping him overboard. Having brushed his clothes, the young mancame, with smiling composure, through the forest, the yellow dogwaggling at his heels.

  "I've read so much about breaking the news gently," apologized Philip,smiling, "that I thought I'd better try a bit of it myself. Hence thesylvan note. Ras, if you go to sleep by that tree, I'll like as notlet you sleep there until you die. Go back to camp and build a fireand hollow out the feathered biped."

  Ras slouched obediently off toward the hay-camp.

  "You've hay in your ears!" exclaimed Diane, biting her lips.

  "I'm a nomad!" announced Philip calmly. "So's Erastus--so's DickWhittington here. I'm likely to have hay in my ears for months tocome. Dick Whittington," explained Philip, patting the dog, "is amustard-colored orphan I picked up a couple of days ago. He'd made avow to gyrate steadily in a whirlwind of dust after a hermit flea wholived on the end of his tail, until somebody adopted him and
--er--cutoff the grasping hermit. I fell for him, but, like Ras, a sleep bugseems to have bitten him."

  "Most likely he unwinds in his sleep," suggested Diane politely. Andadded, acidly, "Where are you going?'

  "Florida!" said Philip amiably.

  The girl stared at him with dark, accusing eyes.

  "The trip is really no safer now," reminded Philip steadily, "than itwas when I left camp."

  "In a huff!" flashed Diane disparagingly.

  "In a huff," admitted Philip and dismissed the dangerous topic with aphilosophic shrug.

  "I won't have you trailing after me on a hay-wagon!" exclaimed Diane inhonest indignation.

  "Hum! Just how," begged Philip, "does one go about effecting anational ordinance to keep hay-carts off the highway?"

  As Philip betokened an immediate desire to name over certain rightswith which he was vested as a citizen of the United States, Diane wasmore than willing to change the subject. Persistence was the keynoteof Mr. Poynter's existence.

  "Johnny," begged Philip, "get Miss Diane some chicken implements, willyou, old man? And lend me some salt. You see," he added easily toDiane, "Ras and I are personally responsible for an individual and veryconcentrated grub equipment. It saves a deal of fussing. I carry minein my pocket and Ras carries his in his hat, but he wears a roomiertile than I do and never climbs out of it even when he sleeps. Thankyou, Johnny. I'll send Ras over with your supper. But if it seems tobe getting late, look him up. He may fall asleep."

  After repeated indignant refusals which Mr. Poynter characteristicallysplintered, Diane, intensely curious, went with Mr. Poynter to thehay-camp for supper.

  Now although the somnolent Ras had been shuffling drowsily about afresh fire with no apparent aim, he presently contrived to produce aroasted chicken, fresh cucumbers, some caviare and rolls, coffee andcheese and a small freezer of ice cream, all of which he appeared totake at intervals from under the seat of the hay-cart.

  "Ice cream and caviare!" exclaimed the girl aghast. "That's treason."

  "I've my own notions of camping," admitted Philip, "and really our wayis exceedingly simple and comfortable. Ras loads up the seat pantry atthe nearest village and then we cast off all unnecessary ballast everymorning. Of course we couldn't very well camp twice in the sameplace--we decorate so heavily--but that's a negligible factor. Oh,yes," added Philip smiling, "we've blazed our trail with buns andcheese for miles back. Ras thinks whole processions of birds and dogsand tramps and chickens are already following us. If it's true, we'llmost likely eat some of 'em."

  "Where," demanded Diane hopelessly, "did you get this ridiculousoutfit?"

  "Well," explained Philip comfortably, "Ras was drowsing by Sherrill'son a load of hay and I bought the cart and the hay and the horses andRas at a bargain and set out. Ras is a free lance without anencumbrance on earth and I can't imagine a more comfortable manner ofgetting about than stretched out full length on a load of hay. You canalways sleep when you feel like it. And every morning we peel thebed--that is, we dispense with a layer of mattress and _presto_! Ihave a fresh bed until the hay's gone. We bought a new load thismorning."

  Swept by an irresistible spasm of laughter, Diane stared wildly aboutthe hay-camp.

  "And Ras?" she begged faintly.

  "Well," said Philip slowly, "Ras is peculiarly gifted. He can sleepanywhere. Sometimes he sleeps stretched out on the padded seat of thewagon, and sometimes he sleeps under it--the wagon I mean; not in thepantry. And then of course he sleeps all day while he's driving andonce or twice I've found him in a tree. I don't like him to do that,"he added with gravity, "for he's so full of hay I'm afraid the birdswill begin to make nests in his ears and pockets."

  "Mistah Poynteh," reflected Ras, scratching his head through his hat,"is a lunatict. He gits notions. I cain't nohow understan' him buts'long as he don' get ructious I'se gwine drive dat hay-cart to de NorfPole if he say de word. I hain't never had a real chanst to make myfortune afore."

  "And what," begged Diane presently, "do you do when it rains?"

  Mr. Poynter agreed that that had been a problem.

  "But with our accustomed ingenuity," he added modestly, "we have solvedit. Back there in a village we induced a blacksmith with brains andbrawn to fit a tall iron frame around the wagon and if the sun's toohot, or it showers, we shed some more hay and drape a tarpaulin or soover the frame. It's an excellent arrangement. We can have sidecurtains or not just as we choose. In certain wet circumstances, ofcourse, we'll most likely take to barns and inns and wood-houses andcorncribs and pick up the trail in the morning. You can't imagine," headded, "how ready pedestrians are to tell us which way the green movingvan went."

  Whereupon the nomad of the hay-camp and his ruffled guest crossedswords again over a pot of coffee, with inglorious defeat for Diane,who departed for her own camp in a blaze of indignation.

  "I'll ignore him!" she decided in the morning as the green van took tothe road again. "It's the only way. And after a while he'll mostlikely get tired and disgruntled and go home. He's subject to huffsanyway. It's utterly useless to talk to him. He thrives onopposition."

  Looking furtively back, she watched Mr. Poynter break camp. It wasvery simple. Ras, yawning prodigiously, heaved a variety ofunnecessary provisions overboard from the seat pantry, abandoned theice-cream freezer to a desolate fate by the ashes of the camp fire andpeeled the hay-bed. Philip slipped a small tin plate, a collapsibletin cup, a wooden knife, fork and spoon into his pocket. Ras put hisin his hat, which immediately took on a somewhat bloated appearance.Having climbed languidly to the reins, the ridiculous negro appeared tofall asleep immediately. Mr. Poynter, looking decidedly trim andsmiling, summoned Dick Whittington, climbed aboard and, whistling,disappeared from view with uncommon grace and good humor. Thehay-wagon rumbled off.

  Diane bit her lips convulsively and looked at Johnny. Simultaneouslythey broke into an immoderate fit of laughter.

  "Very well," decided the girl indignantly a little later, "if I can'tdo anything else, I can lose him!"

  But even this was easier of utterance than accomplishment. Diane wassoon to learn that if the distance between them grew too great, Mr.Poynter promptly unloaded all but a scant layer of hay, took the reinshimself, and thundered with expedition up the trail in quest of her,with Dick Whittington barking furiously. It was much too spectacular aperformance for a daily diet.

  Diane presently ordered her going and coming as if the persistenthay-gypsy on the road behind her did not exist, but every night shecaught the cheerful glimmer of his camp fire through the trees, andfrowned.