red bridge, and
with a rumble of boards wound slowly through the dusty, twilight tunnel
into Pennsylvania. A little later a drowsy negro passed through with a
load of hay, a barking dog and a mysterious voice, with a lazy drawl,
which directed the payment of the toll from among the hay. Still later
a musical nomad driving an angular horse from the seat of a ramshackle
cart, accoutered, among other orchestral devices, with clashing
cymbals, a drum and a handle which upon being turned a trifle by the
curious tollgate keeper aroused a fearful musical commotion in the cart.

From her camp on a wooded spot by the river, Diane presently watched
the hay-camp anchor with maddening ease for the night. Ras built a
fire, unhitched the horses, produced a variety of things from the seat
of the pantry and took his table equipment from his hat. Philip
smoked, removed an occasional wisp of hay from his hair and shied
friendly pebbles at Richard Whittington.

Diane was busy making coffee when the third nomad appeared with his
music machine, and, halting near her, alighted and fell stiffly to
turning the eventful crank.

Instantly two terrible drumsticks descended and with globular
extremities thumped, by no visible agency, upon the drum. The cymbals
clashed--and a long music record began to unfold in segments like a
papier-mache snake.

"Well," exclaimed Diane fervently, "I do wish he'd stop! For all we've
seen him so often he's never bothered us like this before."

The unfortunate and frequently flagellated "Glowworm," however,
continued to glow fearfully, impelled to eruptive scintillation by the
crank, and the vocal lady "walked with Billy," and presently the
minstrel came through the trees with his hat in his hand, his dark eyes
very humble and deferential.

Now as Diane nodded pleasantly and smiled and held forth a coin, the
wandering minstrel suddenly swayed, clapped his hand to his forehead
with a choking groan and pitched forward senseless upon the ground at
her feet. Diane jumped.

"Johnny!" she exclaimed in keen alarm, "we've another invalid. Turn
him over!" But it was not Johnny who performed this service for the
unfortunate minstrel. It was Mr. Poynter.

"Hum!" said Philip dryly. "That's most likely retribution. A man
can't unwind all that hullabaloo without feeling the strain. Water,
Johnny, and if you have some smelling salts handy, bring 'em along."

After one or two vigorous attentions on the part