CHAPTER XI.
IN THE CAMP OF THE GYPSY LADY From a garish dream of startling unpleasantness, Philip Poynter stirred and opened his eyes.
"Well, now," he mused uncomfortably, "this is more like it! This is the sort of dream to have! I wonder I never had sufficient wit to carve out one like this before.

Birds and trees and wind fussing pleasantly around a fellow's bed--and by George! those birds are making coffee!" There was a cheerful sound of flapping canvas and vanishing glimpses of a woodland shot with sun-gold, of a camp fire and a pair of dogs romping boisterously.

Moreover, though his bed was barely an inch from the ground to which it was staked over a couple of poles, it was exceedingly springy and comfortable.

Not yet thoroughly awake, Philip put out an exploring hand.
"Flexible willow shoots!" said he drowsily, "and a rush mat! Oberon had nothing on me.

Hello!" A dog romped joyfully through the flapping canvas and barked.