FOREST FRIENDS
Northward to Jacksonville had journeyed the camp of the Indian girl,
bearing away Diane, to Aunt Agatha's unspeakable agitation. Now,
joining forces, these two forest friends, linked in an idle moment by
the nameless freemasonry of the woodland, were winding happily south
along the seacoast. Nights their camps lay side by side.
Keela, with shy and delightful gravity, slipped wide-eyed into the
niceties of civilization, coiled her heavy hair in the fashion of Diane
and copied her dress naïvely. Diane felt a thrill of satisfaction at
this singular finding of a friend whose veins knew the restless stir of
nomadic blood, a friend who was fleeter of foot, keener of vision and
hearing and better versed in the ways of the woodland than Diane
herself. And Diane had known no peer in the world of white men.
There were gray dawns when a pair of silent riders went galloping
through the stillness upon the Westfall horses, riding easily without
saddles; there were twilights when they swam in sheltered pools like
wild brown nymphs; there were quiet hours by the camp fire when the
inborn reticence of the Indian girl vanished in the frank sincerity of
Diane's friendship. Of Mr. Poynter and the hay-camp there was no sign.
"Doubtless," considered Diane disdainfully, "he has come at last to his
senses. And I'm very glad he has, very glad indeed. It's time he did.
I think I made my displeasure sufficiently clear at the exceedingly
tricky way he and the Baron conducted themselves at Palm Beach. And
the Baron was no better than Philip. Indeed, I think he was very much
worse. If Philip hadn't wandered about in the garb of Herodotus and
murmured that impertinence about 'frost in Florida' it wouldn't have
been so bad. It's a very unfortunate thing, however, that he never
seems to remember one's displeasure or the cause of it."
But for one who rejoiced in Mr. Poynter's belated inheritance of common
sense, Diane's comment a few days later was very singular.
"I wonder," she reflected uncomfortably, "if Philip understands smoke
signals. He may be lost."
But Philip was not lost. He was merely discreet.
A lonely beach fringed in sand hills lay before the camp. Beyond
rolled the ocean, itself a melancholy solitude droning under an azure
sky. There were beach birds running in flocks down the sand as the
white-ridged foam receded; overhead an Indian file of pelicans winged
briskly out to sea.
On the broad, hard beach to the north presently appeared a
music-machine. Piebald horse, broad, eccentric wagon, cymbals and
drum--there was no mistaking the outfit, nor the minstrel himself with
his broad-brimmed sombrero tipped protectively over his nose.
Now despite the fact that the Baron had hinted that Ronador's
masquerade was at an end, the music-machine steadily approached and
halted. The minstrel alighted and fell stiffly to turning the crank,
whereupon with a fearful roll of the drum and a clash of cymbals, the
papier-mache snake began to unfold and "An Old Girl of Mine" emerged
from the cataclysm of sound and frightened the fish hawks over the
shallow water. A great blue heron, knee-deep in water, croaked with
annoyance, flapped his wings and departed.
When the dreadful commotion in the wagon at last subsided, the minstrel
came through the trees and sweeping off his sombrero, bowed and smiled.
"Merciful Heavens!" exclaimed the girl, staring.
It was Mr. Poynter.
"I'm sorry," regretted Mr. Poynter. "I'm really sorry I feel so
well--but I've got a music-machine." And seating himself most
comfortably by the fire, with a frankly admiring glance at his corduroy
trousers, silken shirt and broad sombrero, he anxiously inquired what
Diane thought of his costume. Indeed, he admitted, that thought had
been uppermost in his mind for days, for he'd copied it very faithfully.
"It's ridiculous!" said Diane, "and you know it."
There, said Mr. Poynter, he must disagree. He didn't know it.
"Well," said Diane flatly, "to my thinking, this is considerably worse
than blowing a tin whistle on the steps of the van!"
Mr. Poynter could not be sure. He said in his delightfully naïve way,
however, that a music-machine was a thing to arouse romance and
sympathy with conspicuous success, that more and more the moon was
getting him, and that he did hope Diane would remember that he was the
disguised Duke of Connecticut. Moreover, his most tantalizing
shortcoming up-to-date had seemed to be a total inability to arouse
said romance and sympathy, especially sympathy, for, whether or not
Diane would believe it, even here in this land of flowers he had
encountered frost! Wherefore, having personal knowledge of the success
incidental to unwinding a hullabaloo in proper costume, he had
purchased one from a--er--distinguished gentleman who for singular and
very private reasons had no further use for it. And though the
negotiations, for reasons unnamable, had had to be conducted with
infinite discretion through an unknown third person, he had eventually
found himself the possessor of the hullabaloo, to his great delight.
He had hullabalooed his way along the coast in the wake of a nomadic
friend, but deeming it wise to await the dispersal of frost strangely
engendered by a Regent's Hymn, had discreetly kept his distance and
proved his benevolence, in the manner of his distinguished predecessor,
by playing to all the nice old ladies in the dooryards. . . . And one
of them had given him a piece of pie and a bottle of excellent coffee
and fretted a bit about the way he was wasting his life. Mr. Poynter
added that in the fashion of certain young darkies who infest the
Southern roads, he would willingly stand on his head for a baked potato
in lieu of a nickel, being very hungry.
"You probably mean by that, that you're going to stay to supper!" said
Diane.
Mr. Poynter meant just that.
"Where," demanded Diane, "is the hay-camp?"
"Well," said Philip, "Ras is a hay-bride-groom. He dreamt he was
married and it made such a profound impression upon him that he went
and married somebody. He slept through his wooing and he slept through
his wedding and I gave him the hay and the cart and Dick Whittington.
I don't think he entirely appreciated Dick either, for he blinked some.
All of which primarily engendered the music-machine inspiration. It's
really a very comfortable way of traveling about and the wagon was
fastidiously fitted up by my distinguished predecessor. The seat's
padded and plenty broad enough to sleep on."
Mr. Poynter presently departed to the music-machine for a peace
offering in the shape of a bow and some arrows upon which, he said,
he'd been working for days. When he returned, laden with luxurious
contributions to the evening meal, the camp had still another guest.
Keela was sitting by the fire. Philip eyed with furtive approval the
modish shirtwaist, turned back at the full brown throat, and the
heavily coiled hair.
"The Seminole rig," explained Diane, "was an excellent drawing card for
Palm Beach tourists but it was a bit conspicuous for the road. Greet
him in Seminole, Keela."
"Som-mus-ka-lar-nee-sha-maw-lin!" said Keela with gravity.
Philip looked appalled.
"She says 'Good wishes to the white man!'" explained Diane, smiling.
"My Lord," said Philip, "I wouldn't have believed it. Keela, I thought
you were joint by joint unwinding a yard or so of displeasure at my
appearance. No-chit-pay-lon-es-chay!" he added irresponsibly, naming a
word he had picked up in Palm Beach from an Indian guide.
The effect was electric. Keela stared. Diane look horrified.
"Philip!" she said. "It means 'Lie down and go to sleep!'"
"To the Happy Hunting Ground with that bonehead Indian!" said Philip
with fervor. "Lord, what a civil retort!" and he stammered forth an
instant apology.
Immeasurably delighted, Keela laughed.
"You are very funny," she said in English. "I shall like you."
"That's really very comfortable!" said Philip gratefully. "I don't
deserve it." He held forth the bow and arrows. "See if you can shoot
fast and far enough to have six arrows in the air at once," he said,
smiling, "and I'll believe I'm forgiven."
With lightning-like grace Keela shot the arrows into the air and smiled.
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Philip admiringly. "Seven!"
With deft fingers she strung the bow again and shot, her cheeks as
vivid as a wild flower, her poise and skill faultless.
"Eight!" said Philip incredulously. "Help!"
"Keela is easily the best shot I ever knew," exclaimed Diane warmly.
"Try it, Philip."
"Not much!" said Philip feelingly. "I can shoot like a normal being
with one pair of arms, but I can't string space with arrows like that.
You forest nymphs," he added with mild resentment, "with woodland eyes
and ears and skill put me to shame. You and I, Diane, quarreled once,
I think, about the number of Pleiades--"
"They're an excellent test of eyesight," nodded Diane. "And you said
there were only six!"
"There is no seventh Pleiad!" said Philip with stubborn decision.
"Eight!" said Keela shyly. And they both stared. Shooting a final
arrow, she sent it so far that Philip indignantly refused to look for
it.