"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.