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 burst upon them.
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