When a man has had a bump upon his only head, held Mr.Poynter, things are apt to slip away from him.

Wherefore one may pardon him if after repeated commands to go home, and certain frost-bitten truths about officious young men, he somehow forgot and reappeared in the camp of the enemy in radiant good humor.
Philip presently arrived with a generous layer of hay under his arm and a flour bag of tomatoes.
"Hello," he called warmly.

"Isn't the sunset bully! It even woke old Ras up and he's blinking and grumbling like fury." Mr.Poynter fell to chatting pleasantly, meanwhile removing from his clothing certain wisps of hay.
"You're always getting into hay or getting out of it!" accused Diane.
Philip admitted with regret that this might be so and Diane stared hopelessly at his immaculate linen.

Heaven alone knew by what ingenuity Mr.Poynter, handicapped by the peculiar limitations of a hay-camp, contrived to manage his wardrobe.

What mysterious toilet paraphernalia lay beneath the hay, what occasional laundry chores Ras did by brook and river, what purchases Mr.Poynter made in every village, and finally what an endless trail of shirts and cuffs and collars lay behind him, doomed, like the cheese and buns, as he feelingly put it, to one-night stands, only Ras and Philip knew; but certainly the hay-nomad combined the minimum of effort with the maximum of efficiency to the marvel of all who beheld him.