Officer Flynn seized the wide, scarlet kerchief on the gipsy woman’s head and gave it a jerk. It came away—with it a full and ropy coiffure.
“Stung!” cried the woman.
Now, shorn of its late protection, her head was masculine in appearance, the short, brown hair showing itself to be well cut and carefully kept. When Officer Flynn had plucked off the man-gipsy’s wig there was disclosed another head no less modishly barbered.
The lieutenant was a man of long experience.
“College,” said he.
The woman-gipsy bowed. “You are inspired.”
From behind them came sounds of suffering—the five gentlemen in the rear were bent to the floor. Seeing them, the gipsies fell to chortling shrilly.
The lieutenant was turning the leaves of the book. “Inspired nothin’,” said he. “Whin Oi see a youngster makin’ a jackass of himself——”
And it was then that something dawned upon Agatha: these were all friends of Mr. McVicar’s, and this was what he had meant when he spoke of their “annoying” her. But she was a college girl, and knew just how much fun could be gotten out of a lark—even a silly, sophomoric lark. She glanced over at Mr. McVicar and dimpled.
“An’, mebbe,” went on the lieutenant, almost agreeably, “this is a’ inittyaytion?”