about Michael Fenger, and Theodore, and the new furs. They
scrambled up dunes, digging into the treacherous sand with
heels, toes, and the side of the foot, and clutching at
fickle roots with frantic fingers. Forward a step, and back
two--that's dune climbing. A back-breaking business, unless
you're young and strong, as were these two. They explored
the woods, and Heyl had a fascinating way of talking about
stones and shrubs and trees as if they were endowed with
human qualities--as indeed they were for him. They found a
hill-slope carpeted with dwarf huckleberry plants, still
bearing tiny clusters of the blue-black fruit. Fanny's
heart was pounding, her lungs ached, her cheeks were
scarlet, her eyes shining. Heyl, steel-muscled, took the
hills like a chamois. Once they crossed hands atop a dune
and literally skated down it, right, left, right, left,
shrieking with laughter, and ending in a heap at the bottom.
"In the name of all that's idiotic!" shouted Heyl. "Silk
stockings! What in thunder made you wear silk stockings!
At the sand dunes! Gosh!"

They ate their dinner in olympic splendor, atop a dune.
Heyl produced unexpected things from the rucksack--things
that ranged all the way from milk chocolate to
literature, and from grape juice to cigarettes. 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.