"I'm sorry you won't be there," said the man."But we'll give the young gents a square meal--and tasty, too! Something to relish! What do you say, now," he asked Gregory, "to a hedgehog? I don't expect you've ever eaten that.""Hedgehog!" said Gregory."No, but I've always wanted to." And, in fact, he had been thinking of nothing else for the last five minutes.
"You shall have it," said the man."Baked or stewed?""Which is best?" Gregory asked.
"Stewed," said the man."But if you'd like it baked--Or, I'll tell you.
We'll have one of each.We got two to-day.This shall be a banquet."The gipsies really were very grateful folk.The boy got wood for them; the man made their fire--much better than it had ever been made before--and lit it without any paper, and with only one match.
It was at last arranged that they should all share the same supper, although the woman should sit with the girls and the boys with the man.And so they did; and they found the hedgehog very good, especially the baked one, which had been enclosed in a mould of clay and pushed right into the middle of the fire.It tasted a little like pork, only more delicate.
"When you invited us to come to supper," Robert said, "you asked what the time was, and then looked at the sun and said it was nearly five.And it was--almost exactly.How do you do that?""Ah," said the gipsy, "I can't explain.There it is.I know by the sun, but I can't teach you, because you must live out of doors and never have a clock, or it's no good.""And can you tell it when there's no sun?" Robert asked.
"Pretty well," said the man.
"How lucky you are!" said Horace.
"Well, I don't know," said the man."What about rain? When it's raining hard, and we're huddling in the van and can't get any dry sticks for the fire, and our feet are soaked, what are you doing? Why, you're all snug in your houses, with a real roof over you.""I'd much rather live in a caravan than a house," said Horace.
The man laughed."You're a young gent out for a spree," he said."You don't count.You wonder at me," he continued, "being able to tell the time by the skies.But I dare say there's one, at any rate, of you who can find a train in that thing they call Bradshaw, isn't there?""I can," said Robert.
"Well, there you are," said the gipsy."What's luck? Nothing.Everyone's got a little.No one's got much.""Oh, but the millionaires?" said Horace.
"Millionaires!" said the gipsy."Why, you don't think they're lucky, do you?""I always have done so," said Horace.
"Go on!" said the gipsy."Why, we're luckier than what they are.We've got enough to eat and drink,--and no one wants more,--and along with it no rent and taxes, no servants, no tall hats, no offices, no motor-cars, no fear of thieves.Millionaires have no rest at all.No sitting under a tree by the fire smoking a pipe.""And no hedgehogs," said Gregory.
"No--no hedgehogs.Nothing but butcher's meat that costs its weight in gold.Take my advice, young gents," said the gipsy, "and never envy anybody."Meanwhile the others were very happy by the Slowcoach fire.The gipsy woman, hugging her baby, kept as close to Janet as if she were a spaniel.
Their name was Lee, she said, and they made baskets.They lived at Reading in the winter and were on the road all the rest of the year.The young boy was her brother.His name was Keziah.Her husband's name was Jasper.The baby's was Rhoda.
Hester was very anxious to ask questions about kidnapping, but she did not quite like to, and was, in fact, silent.
The gipsy woman noticed it after a while, and remarked upon it."That little dark one there," she said; "why doesn't she speak?"Janet said something about Hester being naturally quiet and thoughtful.
"Oh, no," said the woman, "I know what it is: she's frightened of me.She's heard stories about the gipsies stealing children and staining their faces with walnut juice; haven't you, dearie?"Hester admitted it.
"There," said the woman, laughing triumphantly."But don't be frightened, dearie," she added."That's only stories.And even if it ever did happen, it couldn't again, what with railway trains and telegraphs and telephones and motor-cars and newspapers.How could we help being found out? Why," she continued, "so far from stealing children, there was a boy running away from school once who offered us a pound to let him join our caravan and stain his face and go with us to Bristol, where he could get on to a ship as a stowaway, as he called it; but Jasper wouldn't let him.I wanted to;but Jasper was dead against it.'No,' he said, 'gipsies have a bad enough time as it is, without getting into trouble helping boys to run away from school.' That shows what we are, dearie," she added to Hester, with a smile.
"And don't you ever tell fortunes?" Hester asked.
"I won't say I've never done that," the gypsy said.
"Won't you tell mine?" Hester asked."I've got a sixpence.""Just cross my hand with it," said the woman, "but don't give it to me.Icouldn't take money from any of you."
So Hester, with her heart beating very fast, crossed the gipsy's hand with the sixpence, and the gipsy held both hers and peered at them very hard while Janet nursed the baby.
"This," said the gipsy at last, "is a very remarkable hand.I see stories and people reading them.I see a dark gentleman and a gentleman of middling colour.""Yes," said Hester."Can't you tell me anything more about them?""Well," said the gipsy, "I can't, because they are only little boys just now.But I see a beautiful wedding.White satin.Flowers.Bridesmaids."The gipsy stopped, and Hester drew her hand back.It was terribly romantic and exciting.
Before the woman said good night and went to her caravan, Hester took her sixpence to Kink and asked him to bore a hole in it.And then she threaded it on a piece of string and tied it round the baby's neck.
The gipsy woman was very grateful."A beautiful wedding," she said again.
"Such flowers! Music, too."
"Wasn't it wonderful?" Hester said to Janet before they went to sleep.
"What?" Janet asked.
"The gipsy knowing I was fond of writing.""No," said Janet, "it wasn't wonderful at all.There was a great ink stain on your finger."
