Diane of the Green Van

by Leona Dalrymple

  CHAPTER XXXII

  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 bythe nameless freemasonry of the woodland, were winding happily southalong the seacoast. Nights their camps lay side by side.

  Keela, with shy and delightful gravity, slipped wide-eyed into theniceties of civilization, coiled her heavy hair in the fashion of Dianeand copied her dress naively. Diane felt a thrill of satisfaction atthis singular finding of a friend whose veins knew the restless stir ofnomadic blood, a friend who was fleeter of foot, keener of vision andhearing and better versed in the ways of the woodland than Dianeherself. And Diane had known no peer in the world of white men.

  There were gray dawns when a pair of silent riders went gallopingthrough the stillness upon the Westfall horses, riding easily withoutsaddles; there were twilights when they swam in sheltered pools likewild brown nymphs; there were quiet hours by the camp fire when theinborn reticence of the Indian girl vanished in the frank sincerity ofDiane's friendship. Of Mr. Poynter and the hay-camp there was no sign.

  "Doubtless," considered Diane disdainfully, "he has come at last to hissenses. 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 exceedinglytricky way he and the Baron conducted themselves at Palm Beach. Andthe Baron was no better than Philip. Indeed, I think he was very muchworse. If Philip hadn't wandered about in the garb of Herodotus andmurmured that impertinence about 'frost in Florida' it wouldn't havebeen so bad. It's a very unfortunate thing, however, that he neverseems to remember one's displeasure or the cause of it."

  But for one who rejoiced in Mr. Poynter's belated inheritance of commonsense, Diane's comment a few days later was very singular.

  "I wonder," she reflected uncomfortably, "if Philip understands smokesignals. He may be lost."

  But Philip was not lost. He was merely discreet.

  A lonely beach fringed in sand hills lay before the camp. Beyondrolled the ocean, itself a melancholy solitude droning under an azuresky. There were beach birds running in flocks down the sand as thewhite-ridged foam receded; overhead an Indian file of pelicans wingedbriskly out to sea.

  On the broad, hard beach to the north presently appeared amusic-machine. Piebald horse, broad, eccentric wagon, cymbals anddrum--there was no mistaking the outfit, nor the minstrel himself withhis broad-brimmed sombrero tipped protectively over his nose.

  Now despite the fact that the Baron had hinted that Ronador'smasquerade was at an end, the music-machine steadily approached andhalted. The minstrel alighted and fell stiffly to turning the crank,whereupon with a fearful roll of the drum and a clash of cymbals, thepapier-mache snake began to unfold and "An Old Girl of Mine" emergedfrom the cataclysm of sound and frightened the fish hawks over theshallow water. A great blue heron, knee-deep in water, croaked withannoyance, flapped his wings and departed.

  When the dreadful commotion in the wagon at last subsided, the minstrelcame 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 sowell--but I've got a music-machine." And seating himself mostcomfortably by the fire, with a frankly admiring glance at his corduroytrousers, silken shirt and broad sombrero, he anxiously inquired whatDiane thought of his costume. Indeed, he admitted, that thought hadbeen 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 worsethan blowing a tin whistle on the steps of the van!"

  Mr. Poynter could not be sure. He said in his delightfully naive way,however, that a music-machine was a thing to arouse romance andsympathy with conspicuous success, that more and more the moon wasgetting him, and that he did hope Diane would remember that he was thedisguised Duke of Connecticut. Moreover, his most tantalizingshortcoming up-to-date had seemed to be a total inability to arousesaid romance and sympathy, especially sympathy, for, whether or notDiane would believe it, even here in this land of flowers he hadencountered frost! Wherefore, having personal knowledge of the successincidental to unwinding a hullabaloo in proper costume, he hadpurchased one from a--er--distinguished gentleman who for singular andvery private reasons had no further use for it. And though thenegotiations, for reasons unnamable, had had to be conducted withinfinite discretion through an unknown third person, he had eventuallyfound himself the possessor of the hullabaloo, to his great delight.He had hullabalooed his way along the coast in the wake of a nomadicfriend, but deeming it wise to await the dispersal of frost strangelyengendered by a Regent's Hymn, had discreetly kept his distance andproved his benevolence, in the manner of his distinguished predecessor,by playing to all the nice old ladies in the dooryards. . . . And oneof them had given him a piece of pie and a bottle of excellent coffeeand fretted a bit about the way he was wasting his life. Mr. Poynteradded that in the fashion of certain young darkies who infest theSouthern roads, he would willingly stand on his head for a baked potatoin lieu of a nickel, being very hungry.

  "You probably mean by that, that you're going to stay to supper!" saidDiane.

  Mr. Poynter meant just that.

  "Where," demanded Diane, "is the hay-camp?"

  "Well," said Philip, "Ras is a hay-bride-groom. He dreamt he wasmarried and it made such a profound impression upon him that he wentand married somebody. He slept through his wooing and he slept throughhis 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'sreally a very comfortable way of traveling about and the wagon wasfastidiously fitted up by my distinguished predecessor. The seat'spadded and plenty broad enough to sleep on."

  Mr. Poynter presently departed to the music-machine for a peaceoffering in the shape of a bow and some arrows upon which, he said,he'd been working for days. When he returned, laden with luxuriouscontributions to the evening meal, the camp had still another guest.Keela was sitting by the fire. Philip eyed with furtive approval themodish shirtwaist, turned back at the full brown throat, and theheavily coiled hair.

  "The Seminole rig," explained Diane, "was an excellent drawing card forPalm Beach tourists but it was a bit conspicuous for the road. Greethim 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 thoughtyou were joint by joint unwinding a yard or so of displeasure at myappearance. No-chit-pay-lon-es-chay!" he added irresponsibly, naming aword 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 Philipwith fervor. "Lord, what a civil retort!" and he stammered forth aninstant 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'tdeserve it." He held forth the bow and arrows. "See if you can shootfast 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 a
svivid 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 beingwith one pair of arms, but I can't string space with arrows like that.You forest nymphs," he added with mild resentment, "with woodland eyesand 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 saidthere were only six!"

  "There is no seventh Pleiad!" said Philip with stubborn decision.

  "Eight!" said Keela shyly. And they both stared. Shooting a finalarrow, she sent it so far that Philip indignantly refused to look forit.