Johnny's behind with the laundry and I haven't a
collarable shirt." Whereupon he whistled for Nero and set off amiably
through the woods to gather an inaccessible flower he knew his lady
would prize.
By nine that night Diane was asleep in the van. Philip, with whom she
had indignantly crossed swords a little earlier, lay thoughtfully by
the fire watching the snowy curtains of the van windows billowing
lazily in the warm night wind. He felt restless and perturbed and
presently sought his tent, where he lit the bottled candle to look for
the predecessor of his insatiable wildwood pipe, but halted suddenly
with a peculiar whistle.
The silk shirt he had worn from Sherrill's lay conspicuously upon the
bed, washed and ironed and beautifully mended up the slashed sleeve and
along the shoulder. As a laundress of parts, Johnny was a jewel, but
he could not mend!
Now oddly enough as Mr. Poynter stared at the shirt upon the bed, his
appearance was that of a young man decidedly out of sorts. Presently
with an ominous glint of temper in his fine eyes, he noiselessly
rearranged his tent, viciously donned the offending shirt, whistled for
Nero and leaving the camp of his lady as unexpectedly as he had entered
it, set out for Sherrill's.
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