At sunset one night Diane paid her toll at a Lilliputian house built
like an architectural barnacle on to the end of a covered bridge, and
with a rumble of boards wound slowly through the dusty, twilight tunnel
into Pennsylvania. A little later a drowsy negro passed through with a
load of hay, a barking dog and a mysterious voice, with a lazy drawl,
which directed the payment of the toll from among the hay. Still later
a musical nomad driving an angular horse from the seat of a ramshackle
cart, accoutered, among other orchestral devices, with clashing
cymbals, a drum and a handle which upon being turned a trifle by the
curious tollgate keeper aroused a fearful musical commotion in the cart.
From her camp on a wooded spot by the river, Diane presently watched
the hay-camp anchor with maddening ease for the night. Ras built a
fire, unhitched the horses, produced a variety of things from the seat
of the pantry and took his table equipment from his hat. Philip
smoked, removed an occasional wisp of hay from his hair and shied
friendly pebbles at Richard Whittington.
Diane was busy making coffee when the third nomad appeared with his
music machine, and, halting near her, alighted and fell stiffly to
turning the eventful crank.
Instantly two terrible drumsticks descended and with globular
extremities thumped, by no visible agency, upon the drum.
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