Striking west into New York State, Diane had come into Orange County, whence she wound slowly down into northern Jersey, through the Poconos.  For days now the dusty wanderers had followed the silver flash of the Delaware, coming at length from a rugged, cooler country of mountain and lake into a sunny valley cleft by the singing river.  It was a goodly land of peaceful villages tucked away mid age-old trees, of garrulous, kindly folks and covered bridges, of long, lazy canals with grassy banks banding each shore of the rippling river, of tow-paths padded by the feet of bargemen and bell-hung mules and lock-tenders.

At sunset one night Diane paid her toll at a Lilliputian house built like an architectural barnacle on to the end of a covered 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.