Ras's problem was
infinitely simpler. He never changed. There was much of the original
load of hay, Philip said, dispersed about his ears and pockets and
fringing the back of his neck.
"Where did you get tomatoes?" inquired Diane at supper.
"Well," said Philip, "I hate to tell you. I strongly suspect Ras of
spearing 'em with a harpoon he made. Made it in his sleep, too. It's
pretty long and he can spear whatever he wants from the wagon seat.
Lord help the rabbits!" He lazily sprinkled salt upon a large tomato
and bit into it with relish. "But why should I worry?" he commented
smiling. "They're mighty good. Johnny, old top, see if you can rustle
up a loaf of bread to lend me for breakfast, will you? I'm willing to
trade three cucumbers for it. And tell Ras when you take his supper
over that there's a herring under the seat for Dick Whittington's
supper. Tell me," he added humorously to Diane, "just how do you
contrive to remember bread and salt?"
"I don't," said Diane, smiling. "Johnny does. Did the storm get you
last night, Philip?"
"It did indeed. It's the third load of hay we've had this week. We're
perpetually furling up the tarpaulin or unfurling it or skinning the
mattress or watching the clouds. I'm a wreck.
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