GYPSY MOON
As they neared the tiny island, the sound of banjo and singing grew
louder. From time to time the music was punctuated by shouts and clapping
of hands.
“Someone playing gypsy under the gypsy moon,” said the lady of the
island, glancing at the golden orb that hung like a giant Chinese lantern
in the sky.
Florence made no reply. She recalled the dark-skinned child she had
surprised on the trail, but kept her thoughts to herself.
“There’s a tiny beach half way round to the left,” she suggested. “We
were here not long ago.”
The boat swerved. Once more they moved on in silence.
To Florence there was something startling about this night’s happenings.
“Gamblers’ Island; a lady cop,” she whispered. “And now this.”
Once more their boat grounded silently. This time, instead of finding
herself left behind, the girl felt a pull at her arm and saw a hand in
the moonlight beckon her on.
From the spot where they had landed, a half trail, strewn with brush and
overhung with bushes, led to the little clearing at the center of the
island.
Florence and Jeanne had found this trail difficult in broad daylight. Yet
her guide, with a sense of direction quite uncanny, led the way through
the dark without a single audible swish of brush or crack of twig until,
with breath coming quick and fast, Florence parted the branches of a low
growing fir tree and found herself looking upon a scene of wild,
bewitching beauty.
Round a glowing campfire were grouped a dozen people.
“Gypsies,” she told herself. “All French gypsies!” Her heart sank. Here
was bad news indeed.
Or was it bad? “Perhaps,” she said to herself, “they are Jeanne’s
friends.”
Whether the scene boded good or ill, it enthralled her. Two beautiful
gypsies, garbed in scant attire, but waving colorful shawls about them as
they whirled, were dancing before the fire. Two banjos and a mandolin
kept time to the wild beating of their nimble feet.
Old men, women, and children hovered in the shadows. Florence had no
difficulty in locating the child of the trail who had played with the
chipmunk. She was now fast asleep in her mother’s arms.
Florence’s reaction to all this was definite, immediate. She disliked the
immodest young dancers and the musicians. The children and the older ones
appealed to her.
“They have hard faces, those dancers,” she told herself. “They would stop
at nothing.”
Of a sudden a mad notion seized her. These were water gypsies who had
deserted the caravan for a speed boat. They had seen Jeanne, had
recognized her, and it had been their speed boat that had overturned the
rowboat.
“But that,” she told herself instantly, “is impossible. Such a speed boat
costs two or three thousand dollars. How can a band of gypsies hope to
own one?”
Nevertheless, when her strange companion, after once more pulling at her
arm, had led her back to the beach, she found the notion in full
possession of her mind.
Florence offered to row back to the mainland but as if by mistake she
rowed the long way round the island. This gave her a view of the entire
shore.
“No speed boat, nor any other motor craft on those shores,” she assured
herself after a quarter of an hour of anxious scanning. “Wonder how they
travel, anyway.”
Thereupon she headed for the distant shore which was, for the time being,
their home.
Once again her mind was troubled. Should she tell Petite Jeanne of this,
her latest discovery, or should she remain silent?