THROUGH ONE LONG NIGHT
Gypsy camp fires were indeed dispelling dark shadows of a fading day in
the heart of a forest glade when the truck bearing Merry’s “Golden
Circle” arrived at the scene of the encampment. But no little French
girl danced about any of them.
“They’re gone, those Frenchies,” said the greasy gypsy who came out of a
tent in answer to their call. “Don’t know much about ’em. They’re not of
our tribe. We’re Americans; been here for generations.”
“Did they have a girl with them?” Weston asked.
“Yellow-haired?”
“Yes.”
“She’s with ’em, all right.”
“Bound?”
“How do you mean, bound?” The gypsy stared. “Gypsies don’t tie their
folks up.”
“But she was kidnaped,” Merry broke in.
“Listen, young lady!” The man came close. His air was defiant, almost
threatening. “Gypsies don’t kidnap girls. Why should they? Got enough of
their own.”
At that moment three dirty children crowded around him. The look on his
face softened as he patted their tousled heads.
“That girl kidnaped!” He laughed hoarsely. “She’s one of ’em. Talks
their French lingo. Talks gypsy talk, too, better’n me. Danced all day,
didn’t she, youngsters?” Again he patted the dark hair of the shy
children.
“Beautiful, so beautiful dancer!” the oldest girl murmured.
“See!” he exulted. “I tell the truth. Children don’t lie.”
“But where have they gone?” Merry’s mind was in a whirl. Petite Jeanne
staying in such a place of her own free will? Petite Jeanne, who was so
much needed elsewhere, dancing all day beside a gypsy tent? The thing
seemed impossible. Yet here were the guileless little children to
confirm the statement.
“Wait! I will show you.” The man disappeared within the tent. He was
back in half a minute. In his hand he held a soiled road map. On this,
with some skill, he traced a route that ended in a village called Pine
Grove, many miles away.
“Beyond this place,” he concluded, “is a great pine grove. Some man
planted it there many years ago. You cannot miss it. There is only one
like this in the state. This is where they will camp. There are others
of their kind camping there. They are gone three hours ago in a motor
van. See! There are the wheel tracks. You may follow, but you will not
overtake them; not in that.” He pointed at their truck with a smile.
“Gypsies have always been blacksmiths. Now many are motor mechanics.
They trade for cars, fix ’em up. Always it is for a better car. By and
by they have a very fine one. So it is with these.”
Still smiling, he bowed himself into his tent, and closed the flap.
“We may be slow,” Weston said grimly, “but we are sure. We will be in
Pine Grove before sunrise. Hop in, little lady, and we’ll step on the
gas.”
A motorist traveling that long and lonely road, mapped out by the gypsy
and taken by Merry’s “Golden Circle” that night, might, had he been
traveling in the opposite direction, have marveled at the motor
transports he met that night.
The first was high, broad and long, a gaudily painted house on wheels.
On its seat rode three men. At the back of this traveling house was a
room, much like the one room apartments of a modern city. Two broad
berths let down from the ceiling were occupied; the one on the right by
a girl, the one on the left by a woman and child.
The girl was Petite Jeanne. With her golden hair all tossed about on her
pillow, she slept the sleep of innocence.
Do you marvel at this? Had not a gypsy van been her home in France for
many a happy season? Ah yes, this was truly her home.
From time to time, as the van jolted over its rough way, she half
awakened and found herself wondering dimly what beautiful French village
they might be near when they camped for breakfast in the morning.
Happily sleep found her again ere she was sufficiently awake to realize
that she was in the bleak interior of America; that she was with strange
gypsies, and that she had no money.
The woman and child across from her were not so fortunate. The child, a
girl of two or three years, whose eyes were dark as night and whose
tangled curls were like a raven’s wing, tossed about in her bed. She was
burning hot with fever. The mother slept fitfully. Often she awakened to
sit up and stare with big, motherly eyes at the child; then with tender
fingers she tucked it securely in. The gypsy mother loves the children
God has given her.
Three hours back on this road a second truck made its lumbering way
through the night. On its seat, taking turns at nodding and dozing or
driving, sat three men. They were not well clothed. The night wind blew
all too frankly through their threadbare coats. But their hearts were
warm, so they cared little for the wind.
At the back of this truck, buried deep in a pile of ragged quilts and
blankets, was blue-eyed Merry. She slept the long night through.
With the dawn Weston swung his truck sharply to the right, drove on for
a quarter of a mile and then brought it to a sputtering halt.
“Hey, Merry!” he shouted back. “We’re here. And over there is your
friend. See! She is dancing the sun up. She is dancing around a gypsy
camp fire.”
And there, sure enough, radiant as the morn, was the little French girl,
dancing her heart away while a broad circle of gypsy folks admired and
applauded.
“Now, what,” Merry rubbed her eyes as she tumbled from the truck, “what
do you think of that?”