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.
"But with our accustomed ingenuity," he added modestly, "we have solved
it. Back there in a village we induced a blacksmith with brains and
brawn to fit a tall iron frame around the wagon and if the sun's too
hot, or it showers, we shed some more hay and drape a tarpaulin or so
over the frame. It's an excellent arrangement. We can have side
curtains or not just as we choose. In certain wet circumstances, of
course, we'll most likely take to barns and inns and wood-houses and
corncribs and pick up the trail in the morning. You can't imagine," he
added, "how ready pedestrians are to tell us which way the green moving
van went.
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