After repeated indignant refusals which Mr. Poynter characteristically splintered, Diane, intensely curious, went with Mr. Poynter to the hay-camp for supper.

Now although the somnolent Ras had been shuffling drowsily about a fresh fire with no apparent aim, he presently contrived to produce a roasted chicken, fresh cucumbers, some caviare and rolls, coffee and cheese and a small freezer of ice cream, all of which he appeared to take 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 way is exceedingly simple and comfortable.  Ras loads up the seat pantry at the nearest village and then we cast off all unnecessary ballast every morning.  Of course we couldn’t very well camp twice in the same place—­we decorate so heavily—­but that’s a negligible factor.  Oh, yes,” added Philip smiling, “we’ve blazed our trail with buns and cheese for miles back.  Ras thinks whole processions of birds and dogs and tramps and chickens are already following us.  If it’s true, we’ll most likely eat some of ’em.”

“Where,” demanded Diane hopelessly, “did you get this ridiculous outfit?”

“Well,” explained Philip comfortably, “Ras was drowsing by Sherrill’s on a load of hay and I bought the cart and the hay and the horses and Ras at a bargain and set out.  Ras is a free lance without an encumbrance on earth and I can’t imagine a more comfortable manner of getting about than stretched out full length on a load of hay.  You can always sleep when you feel like it.  And every morning we peel the bed—­that is, we dispense with a layer of mattress and presto!  I have a fresh bed until the hay’s gone.  We bought a new load this morning.”

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

“And Ras?” she begged faintly.

“Well,” said Philip slowly, “Ras is peculiarly gifted.  He can sleep anywhere.  Sometimes he sleeps stretched out on the padded seat of the wagon, and sometimes he sleeps under it—­the wagon I mean; not in the pantry.  And then of course he sleeps all day while he’s driving and once 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 birds will 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 but s’long as he don’ get ructious I’se gwine drive dat hay-cart to de Norf Pole if he say de word.  I hain’t never had a real chanst to make my fortune afore.”

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

Mr. Poynter agreed that that had been a problem.