s;
her mind was a blank in the matter of bootees, and catalogues, and our
No. 29E8347, and those hungry bins that always yawned for more. She
forgot about Michael Fenger, and Theodore, and the new furs. They
scrambled up dunes, digging into the treacherous sand with heels, toes,
and the side of the foot, and clutching at fickle roots with frantic
fingers. Forward a step, and back two--that's dune climbing. A
back-breaking business, unless you're young and strong, as were these
two. They explored the woods, and Heyl had a fascinating way of talking
about stones and shrubs and trees as if they were endowed with human
qualities--as indeed they were for him. They found a hill-slope carpeted
with dwarf huckleberry plants, still bearing tiny clusters of the
blue-black fruit. Fanny's heart was pounding, her lungs ached, her
cheeks were scarlet, her eyes shining. Heyl, steel-muscled, took the
hills like a chamois. Once they crossed hands atop a dune and literally
skated down it, right, left, right, left, shrieking with laughter, and
ending in a heap at the bottom. "In the name of all that's idiotic!"
shouted Heyl. "Silk stockings! What in thunder made you wear silk
stockings! At the sand dunes! Gosh!"

They ate their dinner in olympic splendor, atop a dune. Heyl produced
unexpected things from the rucksack--things that ranged all the way from
milk chocolate to literature, and from grape juice to cigarettes.
They ate ravenously, but at Heyl's thrifty suggestion they saved a few
sandwiches for the late afternoon. It was he, too, who made a little
bonfire of papers, crusts, and bones, as is the cleanly habit of your
true woodsman. Then they stretched out, full length, in the noon sun, on
the warm, clean sand.

"What's your best price on one-sixth doz. flannel vests?" inquired Heyl.

And, "Oh, shut up!" said Fanny, elegantly. Heyl laughed as one who hugs
a secret.

"We'll work our way down the beach," he announced, "toward Millers.
There'll be northern lights to-night; did you know that? Want to stay
and see them?"

"Do I want to! I won't go home till I have."

These were the things they did on that holiday; childish, happy, tiring
things, such as people do who love the outdoors.

The charm of Clarence Heyl--for he had charm--is difficult to transmit.
His lovableness and appeal lay in his simplicity. It was not so much
what he said as in what he didn't say. He was staring unwinkingly now at
the sunset that had suddenly bur