THE LONELY CAMPER
The west was yellow. High on the mountain where a mad little waterfall
sprayed the bushes of laurel and rhododendron with quicksilver, the
afterglow of the sunset on the tumbling water made a streak of saffron.
The wings of a homing eagle were golden-black against the sky. Over
there above the cornfields to the west there was a cliff and a black
and bushy ravine over which soared a buzzard or two. Presently when
the moon rose its splendid alchemy would turn the black to glowing
silver.
A Kentucky brook chuckled boisterously by the hay-camp, tumbling
headlong over mossy logs and stones and a tangled lacery of drenched
ferns.
Philip laid aside a bow and arrow upon which he had been busily working
since supper and summoned Dick Whittington. Beyond, through oak and
poplar, glowed the camp fire of his lady.
"Likely we'll tramp about a bit, Richard, if you're willing," said he.
"Somehow, we're infernally restless to-night and just why our lady has
seen fit to pile that abominable silver-rod in such a place of honor by
her tent, we can't for the life of us see. 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. I've a mind to send you forward with my
card."
Philip's eyes narrowed and he laughed softly. Tearing a sheet of paper
from a notebook he took from his pocket, he scribbled upon it the
following astonishing message:
"The Duke of Connecticut desires an audience. Do not kick the courier!"
Accustomed by now to carry birch-bark messages to Diane, Richard
Whittington waggled in perfect understanding and trotted off obediently
toward the fire with Philip close at his heels.
Conceivably astonished, the camper presently picked up the paper which
Mr. Whittington dropped at his feet, and read it. As Philip stepped
lazily from the trees he turned.
It was Baron Tregar. Both men stared.
"The Duke of Connecticut!" at length rumbled the Baron with perfect
gravity. "I am overwhelmed."
Philip, much the more astonished of the two, laughed and bowed.
"Excellency," said he formally, "I am indeed astonished."
"Pray be seated!" invited the Baron, his eyes more friendly than those
of his guest. "I, too, have taken to the highway, Poynter, on yonder
motorcycle and I have lost my way." He sniffed in disgust. "I am
dining," he added dryly, "if one may dignify the damnable proceeding by
that name, on potatoes which I do not in the least know how to bake
without reducing them to cinders. I bought them a while back at a
desolate, God-forsaken farmhouse. Heaven deliver me from camping!"
With which pious ejaculation the Baron inspected his smudged and
blistered fingers and read again the entertaining message from the Duke
of Connecticut.
"Why take to the highway," begged Philip guilelessly, "when the task is
so unpleasant?"
"Ah!" rumbled the Baron, more sombre now, "there is a man with a
music-machine--"
"There is!" said Philip fervently.
The Baron looked hard at His Highness, the Duke of Connecticut. The
latter produced his cigarette case and opening it politely for the
service of his chief, smiled with good humor.
"There is," said he coolly, "a man with a music-machine, a mysterious
malady, a stained skin and a volume of Herodotus! Excellency knows
the--er--romantic ensemble?"
Excellency not only knew him, but for days now, taking up the trail at
a certain canal, he had traveled hard over roads strangely littered
with hay and food and linen collars--to find that romantic ensemble.
He added with grim humor that he fancied the Duke of Connecticut knew
him too. The Duke dryly admitted that this might be so. His memory,
though conveniently porous at times, was for the most part excellent.
"What is he doing?" asked the Baron with an ominous glint of his fine
eyes.
"Excellency," said Philip, staring hard at the end of his cigarette,
"by every subtle device at his command, he is making graceful love to
Miss Westfall, who is sufficiently wholesome and happy and absorbed in
her gypsy life not to know it--yet!"
The Barents explosive "Ah!" was a compound of wrath and outraged
astonishment. Philip felt his attitude toward his chief undergoing a
subtle revolution.
"His discretion," added Philip warmly, "has departed to that forgotten
limbo which has claimed his beard."
The Baron was staring very hard at the camp fire.
"So," said he at last,--"it is for this that I have been--" he searched
for an expressive Americanism, and shrugging, invented one,
"thunder-cracking along the highway in search of the man Themar saw by
the fire of Miss Westfall. 'It is incredible--it can not be!' said I,
as I blistered about, searching here, searching there, losing my way
and thunder-cracking about in dead of night--all to pick up the trail
of a green and white van and a music-machine! 'It is unbelievable--it
is a monstrous mistake on the part of Themar!' But, Poynter, this love
making, in the circumstances, passes all belief!" The Baron added that
twice within the week he had passed the hay-camp but that by some
unlucky fatality he had always contrived to miss the music-machine.
"Days back," rumbled the Baron thoughtfully, "I assigned to Themar the
task of discovering the identity of the man who--er--acquired a certain
roadster of mine and who, I felt fairly certain, would not lose track
of Miss Westfall but Themar, Poynter, came to grief--"
"Yes?" said Philip coolly. "You interest me exceedingly."
"He made his way back to me after many weeks of illness," said the
Baron slowly, "with a curious tale of a terrible thrashing, of a barge
and mules, of rough men who kicked him about and consigned him to a
city jail under the malicious charge of a mule-driver who swore that he
loved not black-and-tans--"
"Lord!" said Philip politely; "that was tough, wasn't it?"
"Just what, Poynter," begged the Baron, "is a black-and-tan?"
Mr. Poynter fancied he had heard the term before. It might have
reference to the color of a man's skin and hair.
An uncomfortable silence fell over the Baron's camp. The Baron himself
was the first to break it.
"Poynter," said he bluntly, "the circumstances of our separation at
Sherrill's have engendered, with reason, a slight constraint. There
was a night when you grievously misjudged me--"
"I am willing," admitted Philip politely, "to hear why I should alter
my views."
"_Mon Dieu_, Poynter!" boomed the Baron in exasperation, "you are
maddening. When you are politest, I fume and strike fire--here within!"
"Mental arson!" shrugged the Duke of Connecticut, relighting his
cigarette with a blazing twig. "For that singular crime. Excellency,
my deepest apologies."
The Baron stared, frowned, and laughed. One may know very little of
one's secretary, after all.
"You are a curious young man!" said he.
The Duke of Connecticut admitted that this might be so. Hay,
therapeutically, had effected an astonishing revolution in a nature
disposed congenitally to peace and trustfulness. Local applications of
hay had made him exceedingly suspicious and hostile. So much so indeed
that for days now he had slept by day, to the total wreck of his
aesthetic reputation, and watched by night, convinced that Miss
Westfall's camp was prone to strange and dangerous visitors.
Excellency no doubt remembered the knife and the bullet.
The Baron sighed.
"Poynter," he said simply, "to a man of my nature and diplomatic
position, a habit of candor is difficult. I wonder, however, if you
would accept my word of honor as a gentleman that I know as little of
this treacherous bullet as you; that for all I am bound to secrecy, my
sincerest desire is to protect Miss Westfall from the peculiar
consequences of this damnable muddle, to clear up the mystery of the
bullet, and for more selfish reasons to protect her from the romantic
folly of the man with the music-machine!"
Philip, his frank, fine face alive with honest relief, held out his
hand.
"Excellency," said he warmly, "one may learn more of his chief over a
camp fire, it seems, than in months of service. Our paths lie
parallel." There was a subtle compact in the handshake.
"What," questioned the Baron presently, "think you, are my fine
gentleman's plans, Poynter?"
Philip reddened.
"Excellency," he admitted, "I have definite information of his plans
which I did not seek."
"And the source?"
"Miss Westfall's servant."
"Ah!"
"There are certain atmospheric conditions," regretted Philip,
"intensely bad for hay-camps, wherefore I found myself obliged to seek
an occasional understudy who would not only blaze the trail for me but
do faithful sentry duty in my absence. And Johnny, Excellency, whom I
pledged to this secret service, uncomfortably insists upon reporting to
me much unnecessary detail. He has developed a most unreasoning
dislike for music-machines and musical gypsies."
"There appears to be a general prejudice against them," admitted the
Baron grimly.
"A while back, then," resumed Philip, "Johnny chanced upon the
information that in January Miss Westfall will be a guest of Ann
Sherrill's at Palm Beach. So will our minstrel--still incognito--"
"Excellent!" rumbled the Baron with relish. "Excellent. If all this
be true," he added, muddling an Americanism, "we have then, of the
horse another color!"
"Later," said Philip, "when Miss Westfall returns to her house on
wheels, I imagine he too will take to the road again--and resume his
charming erotics."
"That," said the Baron with decision, "is most undesirable."
"I agree with you!" said Philip feelingly.
"I too have promised to be a guest at Miss Sherrill's _fête de nuit_!"
purred the Baron suavely. "And you, Poynter?"
"Unfortunately Miss Sherrill knows absolutely nothing of my
whereabouts."
"Sherrill days ago entrusted me with a cordial invitation for you. He
was unaware of our disagreement and expected you to accompany me. As
my official secretary, Poynter, for, let us say the month of January,
it is possible for me to command your attendance at Palm Beach."
"Excellency," said Philip slowly, "singular as it may seem in my
present free lance state, I am greatly desirous of hearing such a
command."
"Poynter," boomed the Baron formally, "in January I shall be
overweighted with diplomatic duties at Palm Beach. I regret
exceedingly that I am forced to command your attendance. This
frivoling about must cease." He shook suddenly with silent laughter.
"Doubtless," said he, meeting Philip's amused glance with level
significance, "doubtless, Poynter, we can--"
"Yes," said Philip with much satisfaction, "I think we can."
They fell to chatting in lower voices as the fire died down.
"Meanwhile," shrugged the disgusted Baron a little later, "I shall
abandon that accursed music-machine to its fate, and rest. God knows I
am but an indifferent nomad and need it sorely. Night and day have I
thunder-cracked the highways, losing my way and my temper until I
loathe camps and motor machines and dust and wind and baked potatoes.
I sincerely hope, Poynter, that you can find me the road to an inn and
a bed, a bath and some iced mint--to-night."
Philip could and did. Presently standing by his abominated motorcycle
on a lonely moonlit road, the Baron adjusted his leather cap and
stroked his beard.
"Do you know, Poynter," said he slowly, "this is a most mysterious
motorcycle. It was crated to me from an unknown village in
Pennsylvania by the hand of God knows whom!"
"Excellency," said Philip politely as he cordially shook hands with his
chief, "The world, I find, is full of mystery."
Rumbling the Baron mounted and rode away. With a slight smile, Philip
watched him thunder-cracking disgustedly along the dusty road back to
civilization.