"
Whereupon the nomad of the hay-camp and his ruffled guest crossed
swords again over a pot of coffee, with inglorious defeat for Diane,
who departed for her own camp in a blaze of indignation.
"I'll ignore him!" she decided in the morning as the green van took to
the road again. "It's the only way. And after a while he'll most
likely get tired and disgruntled and go home. He's subject to huffs
anyway. It's utterly useless to talk to him. He thrives on
opposition."
Looking furtively back, she watched Mr. Poynter break camp. It was
very simple. Ras, yawning prodigiously, heaved a variety of
unnecessary provisions overboard from the seat pantry, abandoned the
ice-cream freezer to a desolate fate by the ashes of the camp fire and
peeled the hay-bed. Philip slipped a small tin plate, a collapsible
tin cup, a wooden knife, fork and spoon into his pocket. Ras put his
in his hat, which immediately took on a somewhat bloated appearance.
Having climbed languidly to the reins, the ridiculous negro appeared to
fall asleep immediately. Mr. Poynter, looking decidedly trim and
smiling, summoned Dick Whittington, climbed aboard and, whistling,
disappeared from view with uncommon grace and good humor. The
hay-wagon rumbled off.
Diane bit her lips convulsively and looked at Johnny.
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