"Well, I don't know," said the man. "What about rain? When it's raining hard, and we're huddling in the van and can't get any dry sticks for the fire, and our feet are soaked, what are you doing? Why, you're all snug in your houses, with a real roof over you."
"I'd much rather live in a caravan than a house," said Horace.
The man laughed. "You're a young gent out for a spree," he said. "You don't count. You wonder at me," he continued, "being able to tell the time by the skies. But I dare say there's one, at any rate, of you who can find a train in that thing they call Bradshaw, isn't there?"
"I can," said Robert.
"Well, there you are," said the gipsy. "What's luck? Nothing. Everyone's got a little. No one's got much."
"Oh, but the millionaires?" said Horace.
"Millionaires!" said the gipsy. "Why, you don't think they're lucky, do you?"
"I always have done so," said Horace.
"Go on!" said the gipsy. "Why, we're luckier than what they are. We've got enough to eat and drink,—and no one wants more,—and along with it no rent and taxes, no servants, no tall hats, no offices, no motor-cars, no fear of thieves. Millionaires have no rest at all. No sitting under a tree by the fire smoking a pipe."
"And no hedgehogs," said Gregory.