A WIND FLOWER
Presently Willard took a brush from his mouth and faced them.
"Well?" he said.
The older man shook his head. "Queer sky!" he answered briefly.
The younger looked questioningly at Willard. "You'll have to get a gait on you if you hope to beat Morris with that," he said. "What's up, Willard? Don't you want that prize?"
"Of course I do." His voice sounded dull, even to himself. "You aren't any too sympathetic, you fellows" he tried to feel injured.
The older man came nearer. "What's that white thing there? Good Lord, Will, you're not going to try a figure?"
Willard brushed rapidly over the shadowy outline. "No—that was just a sketch. The whole thing's just a sort of"
"The whole thing's just a bluff!" interrupted the younger man, decidedly. "It's not what you told us about at all—and it's not good, anyway. It looks as if a tornado had struck it! You said it was to be late afternoon—it's nearer midnight, as
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