CHAPTER XVIII.
NOMADS "Johnny!" said Diane in crisp, distinct tones, "Mr.Poynter has slept long enough.

You'd better call him." Now it is a regrettable fact that ordinarily this attack would have provoked a reply of mild impudence from Mr.Poynter's tent, but this morning a surprising silence lay behind the flapping canvas.

Diane began to hum.

When presently investigation proved that Mr.Poynter's tent was in exemplary order--that Mr.Poynter and his mended shirt were missing--she went on humming--but to Johnny's amazement, burned her fingers on the coffeepot; sharply reproved Johnny for staring, and then curtly suggested that he prepare to break camp that morning, as it was high time they were on the road.
"As for Mr.Philip Poynter," reflected Diane with delicate disdain, as she bent over the fire and rolled some baked potatoes away with a stick, "what can one expect?
Men are exceedingly peculiar and inconsistent and impudent.

I haven't the ghost of a doubt that he found that ridiculous shirt and went off in a huff.