“How do?” he remarked. “Flemming boys; Jerry knows. How do? Sit down.” And he bowed so low that his yellow-white hair fell forward over his wrinkled old face.
“We can’t stay, Jerry,” said Louis. “What shall we do, boys? It’s plain she isn’t here.”
“I don’t know what next,” said Harry wearily, as he took off his cap and wiped the melting snow off the visor. “What do you say, Stan?”
“She may have been here and gone,” suggested Stanley rather doubtfully, for indeed it did not seem likely that the child would venture out into such a storm, for the second time.
“We can’t have passed her on the way,” said Louis. “I’m sure I should have seen her,” he added, as if to reassure himself, for a vision of little Gyp, lying chilled and alone by the side of the road, had struck terror to his soul.
“Gyp has plenty of pluck,” said Harry. “If she really made up her mind to come here, no amount of storm could keep her away. Let’s ask Jerry if she has been here. Do you suppose we can make him know what we mean?”
“I’ll try it, anyway,” said Stanley.
This little conversation had been carried on in a hurried undertone, while the old man was still bowing and beckoning to the boys to approach the fire. Stanley now turned to him and, following the direction of his hand, went up to the stove in the corner.
“Jerry,” he began, “do you know little Gypsy Flemming?”
Jerry shook his head in hopeless bewilderment.