THE GYPSY CAMP.
“We must find shelter or we’ll be soaked to the skin,” said Roy
Crossley. “Do you see any kind of a building?”
“No,” said Joe. “Not a blessed thing in sight. But if I remember
rightly there was an old barn near that gypsy camp.”
They passed the creek and made the turn toward the gypsy’s squatting
place, but no barn came to view. By this time their sweaters were
pretty wet and the rain was running over their caps and down their
necks in anything but a comfortable fashion.
“My gracious, but this is rough,” commented our hero dismally. “If we
could----”
He got no further, for his front wheel had slipped on the wet road.
There was a twist and a wobble, and over he went. Roy, directly behind,
had to leap off to save himself.
“Are you hurt?” he asked anxiously, as Joe arose painfully.
“Yes, I scraped my knee,” gasped our hero. “Riding home with it is
going to be no picnic.”
“Are you sure you can ride?”
“I’ll try, anyway.”
Joe mounted and went a short distance--bringing them into sight of the
gypsy’s camp. He gave a groan and dropped rather than stepped to the
road.
“I can’t do it. If that barn was handy----”
“Here’s the gypsy camp,” began Roy. “I suppose they’ll take us in if we
pay them.”
“I don’t want to go among those dirty creatures,” said Joe, with a
shrug of disgust. “They might--here come three of the men now!”
He was right. Through the rain the gypsies had seen his mishap, and now
they came forward with various offers of assistance.
“Come in the wagon out o’ the wet,” said one, who appeared to be
something of a leader. “We’ll give you some liniment for your knee.”
The boys did not wish to accept, but the three gypsies insisted, and
against their will they went along, Roy trundling the machines and the
gypsy leader catching Joe by the arm to make walking on the injured
limb easier.
The wagon into which they were invited was large enough to hold a score
of persons, but it had such an untidy look and smelled so strongly of
musty bedding and tobacco smoke it nearly made both of the boys sick.
“You can put the bicycles under the wagon,” said one of the gypsies.
“Here is the medicine for your knee,” and he brought out a black bottle
which smelled of turpentine.
Two of the gypsies entered the wagon with the boys, while the third
hurried off to join the men in another shelter. Somewhat against
his wishes, our hero’s knee was bathed. The stuff put on burned
considerably, and it is doubtful if it did any good. While the bathing
was going on the gypsies talked loudly and continuously, and after it
was over one of the men offered both a drink from a pocket flask, which
they promptly declined.
“Wont drink, eh,” said the man. “You don’t know what is good.” He gave
a coarse laugh. “Where are you from?”
Roy told them, and the two men exchanged glances. It was still raining
as hard as ever, and the second man proposed that they play a game of
cards to while away the time.
“I don’t know how to play,” said Roy.
“Then I’ll tell your fortunes,” said the gypsy, and immediately set to
work, telling them of a dozen wonderful things which were to happen to
both of them in the course of their lives.
“You are both going to meet with a loss soon,” said the man presently.
“Two bicycle riders from Greenpoint are going to play a dirty trick on
you. One of the men is a tall fellow, with a squint in his eye; the
other is short and stout. Look out for them, they are your enemies.”
The man spoke earnestly, looking them squarely in the face as he
addressed them. Had they believed at all in fortune telling they might
have imagined that there was some truth in his statement. As it was
their faces took on a perplexed look, at which the man winked at his
companion on the sly.
An hour or more was spent in the wagon, and then the sudden shower
began to let up. Joe had been rubbing his knee and now declared himself
able to proceed. But the gypsies insisted that they wait until the road
had dried up a bit.
“There is no use to hurry,” said one. “We are not charging you for
staying here.”
“No, nor for telling our fortunes,” put in the other. “Make yourselves
at home until the sun shines again.”
“I’m afraid it won’t shine much before it sets,” said Roy. “If your
knee will permit, we’ll start now,” he added to Joe. “As it is, we
won’t get home until dark.”
He was close to the back flap, and throwing it aside, leaped out.
Our hero followed more carefully, and both looked around for their
bicycles. The machines were gone!
“What did you do with our wheels?” asked Roy of the gypsies.
“Why, you placed ’em under the wagon,” was the reply.
“They are gone,” burst out Joe. “Did that other man take them away?”
“I guess not. I’ll ask him.”
The gypsy called the leader who had left them when they had entered the
wagon. He shook his head, declaring he had not seen the bicycles since
Roy had placed them under the wagon.
“Well, some one has taken them, sure,” said our hero, and he eyed the
gypsies sharply.
“Ah, I have it!” cried the man who had told their fortunes. “Did I not
read it on the cards! Those two bicyclists from Greenpoint, the man
with the squint and the short, stout man. They have----”
“Do you think I believe any such stuff!” interrupted Joe. “Not much!
You have our wheels, and I want you to produce them.”
At this all of the gypsies who had gathered around looked dark.
“We are not thieves, young fellow,” said the leader. “It was your
business to look after your machines, not ours. Now clear out about
your business. We did all we could for you and it’s small thanks we are
getting for it.”
The gypsies looked so angry and aggressive that both lads were forced
to retreat. But they only went as far as the road, as the gypsies made
no attempt to follow them.
“This is a nice fix,” grumbled Roy. “They have our wheels, I’m certain
of that.”
“So am I. The question is, how are we going to get our bicycles back?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. Where do you suppose they have put them?”
“Perhaps in their tent, or in one of the other wagons.”
“They won’t dare keep them there.”
“Of course not. At the first chance they’ll ride off on them and sell
them in some city, after changing their looks and numbers.”
“What had we better do?”
“Pretend to go away, and then watch them,” said Joe.
This advice was followed out. They walked along the road around a bend,
then dove into the woods, coming up in the rear of the gypsy camp.
For some time they saw nothing unusual. The gypsies came up to the
front of their tent and commenced to eat around a newly made campfire.
The meal over one of the members began to harness a pair of horses to
one of the wagons.
“That wagon must have our machines in it,” cried Roy. “I wonder where
he is going?”
“Hark,” said our hero. “I hear a horse and wagon on the road!”
“Run out and see if it is any one who will help us,” cried his chum,
and Joe ran out--to behold Mr. Franshaw, swinging along with his empty
wagon at a lively gait.
The youth drove into the woods again, but by running at a rate which
hurt his knee not a little, he managed to reach the bend below the camp
just as Mr. Franshaw was passing.
The man was stopped and matters were explained to him. Of course he
readily agreed to help the boys all he could.
“But they are a dozen to us three,” he added.
“So we must use strategy.”
The gypsy wagon was now coming out on the road. It was a boxlike
affair, without a cover, and in the bottom rested some objects covered
with a piece of canvas.
“He’s got your machines in that sure,” said Mr. Franshaw. “Go for your
friend and we’ll follow that wagon.”
Joe ran into the woods once more and summoned Roy. Both boys secreted
themselves in Mr. Franshaw’s turnout, which was then headed in the
direction the gypsy’s wagon had taken.
Scarcely half a mile was covered when the gypsy discovered that he was
being pursued. He whipped his horse, and a lively race began, which for
a long while was a case of nip-and-tuck.
“We are gaining!” cried Roy at last. “Can’t you make him go faster, Mr.
Franshaw?”
“I’ll try. Go it, Billy! Git alang there!”
And Billy did “git alang,” until the gypsy’s turnout was all but
overhauled. Seeing he could not escape, the man slowed down.
“We want our wheels,” demanded Joe sharply.
“Who are you talkin’ to?” returned the fellow with a blank look, but
without ceremony Roy leaped from one wagon to the other, and pulled the
cover from the two bicycles.
“Hang the luck!” growled the gypsy and sprang into the road. But Mr.
Franshaw was after him, and struck him with the butt of his whip.
Then Joe and Roy leaped in, and after a tough struggle, lasting fully
ten minutes, the gypsy was overpowered, made to enter Mr. Franshaw’s
wagon and bound up with some bits of harness. Roy remained with the
prisoner, while Joe undertook the task of driving the prisoner’s
turnout; and in this fashion they journeyed to the nearest police
station.
Here the gypsy was held for trial, and in the meantime some officers
went after the other gypsies, but failed to catch them, as they had
left for parts unknown.
It was late when the two boys arrived home to tell their story, and the
excitement through which they had passed was sufficient to last them
for some time to come.