Moreover, though his bed was barely an inch from
the ground to which it was staked over a couple of poles, it was
exceedingly springy and comfortable. Not yet thoroughly awake, Philip
put out an exploring hand.
"Flexible willow shoots!" said he drowsily, "and a rush mat! Oberon
had nothing on me. Hello!" A dog romped joyfully through the flapping
canvas and barked. Philip's dream boat docked with a painful thud of
memory. Wincing painfully he sat up.
"Easy, old top!" he advised ruefully, as the dog bounded against him.
"It would seem that we're an invalid with an infernal bump on the back
of our head and a bandaged shoulder." He peered curiously through the
tent flap and whistled softly. "By George, Nero," he added under his
breath, "we're in the camp of my beautiful gypsy lady!"
There was a bucket of water by the tent flap. Philip painfully made a
meager toilet, glanced doubtfully at the coarse cotton garment which by
one of the mystifying events of the previous night had replaced the
silk shirt he had worn from Sherrill's, and emerged from the tent.
It was early morning. A fresh fire was crackling merrily about a pot
of coffee. Beyond through the trees a river of swollen amber laughed
in the morning sunlight under a cloudless sky.
Pages:
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77