“Where did you get tomatoes?” inquired Diane at supper.

“Well,” said Philip, “I hate to tell you.  I strongly suspect Ras of spearing ’em with a harpoon he made.  Made it in his sleep, too.  It’s pretty long and he can spear whatever he wants from the wagon seat.  Lord help the rabbits!” He lazily sprinkled salt upon a large tomato and bit into it with relish.  “But why should I worry?” he commented smiling.  “They’re mighty good.  Johnny, old top, see if you can rustle up a loaf of bread to lend me for breakfast, will you?  I’m willing to trade three cucumbers for it.  And tell Ras when you take his supper over that there’s a herring under the seat for Dick Whittington’s supper.  Tell me,” he added humorously to Diane, “just how do you contrive to remember bread and salt?”

“I don’t,” said Diane, smiling.  “Johnny does.  Did the storm get you last night, Philip?”

“It did indeed.  It’s the third load of hay we’ve had this week.  We’re perpetually furling up the tarpaulin or unfurling it or skinning the mattress or watching the clouds.  I’m a wreck.”

“Where have you been all day?”

“Haying!” said Philip promptly.

“Sleeping!” corrected Diane with a critical sniff.

Mr. Poynter fancied they were synonyms.

“Do you know,” he added pointedly, “I imagine I’d find ever so much more romance and adventure about it if I only had some interesting ailment and a music-mill.  I did think I had a bully cough, but it was only a wisp of hay in my throat.”

Philip’s powers of intuition were most fearful.  Diane colored.

“Just what do you mean?” she inquired cautiously.

“Nothing at all,” replied Philip with a charming smile.  “I never do.  Why mean anything when words come so easy without?  It has occurred to me,” he added innocently, “that it takes an uncommonly thick-skinned and unromantic dub to tour about covered with hay.  Fancy sleeping through this wild and beautiful country when I might be grinding up lost chords to annoy the populace.”

Diane had heard something of this sort before from quite another source.  Acutely uncomfortable, she changed the subject.  There was something uncanny in Philip’s perfect comprehension of the minstrel’s tactics.

A little later Mr. Poynter produced a green bug mounted eccentrically upon a bit of birch bark.

“I found a bug,” he said guilelessly.  “He was a very nice little bug.  I thought you’d like him.”

Diane frowned.  For every flower the minstrel brought, Philip contrived a ridiculous parallel.

“How many times,” she begged hopelessly, “must I tell you that I am not collecting ridiculous bugs?”

Philip raised expressive eyebrows.

“Dear me!” said he in hurt surprise.  “You do surprise me.  Why, he’s the greenest bug I ever saw and he matches the van.  He’s a nomad with the wild romance of the woodland bounding through him.  I did think I’d score heavily with him.”