It's nothing like so pretty
as the goldenrod. By and by, Whittington," Philip felt for his pipe
and filled it, "we'll have our wildwood bow and arrows done and we
fancy somehow that our gypsy's wonderful black eyes are going to shine
a hit over that. Why? Lord, Dick, you do ask foolish questions! Our
beautiful lady's an archer and a capital one too, says Johnny--even if
she does like beastly silver-rod."
Somewhat out of sorts the Duke of Connecticut set off abruptly through
the trees with the dog at his heels.
Having climbed over log and boulder to a road which cleft the mountain,
he kept on to the north, descending again presently to the level of the
camp, smoking abstractedly and whistling now and then for Richard
Whittington, who was prone to ramble. Philip was debating whether or
not he had better turn back, for the moon was already edging the black
ravine with fire, when a camp fire and the silhouette of a lonely
camper loomed to the west among the trees. Philip puffed forth a
prodigious cloud of smoke and seated himself on a tree stump.
"My! My!" said he easily. "Must be our invalid and his rumpus
machine. Whittington, we're just in the mood to-night, you and I, to
wander over there and tell him that he's not getting half so much over
on us as he thinks he is.
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