“Sarishan, rye,” answered the man.
Grandfather Whiting laughed and shook his head.
“No, no,” said he. “I’m no rye, and ‘sarishan’ is all the Romany I know. But I wanted to see whether you would answer me. There are not many Romanies to be seen about here nowadays. Are there?”
The man shook his head and moved on. After a pause, he began his whistling again.
“What is it, Grandfather?” asked Susan. “What were you saying? Who is that man?”
“He is a gypsy,” answered Grandfather, watching the man out of sight, past the schoolhouse and round the bend of the road. “I thought so when I saw him, so I spoke to him in Romany or gypsy talk. I said, ‘Sarishan.’ That means, ‘good-day.’ I’m surprised he answered me. They generally pretend not to understand.”
“Sarishan,” repeated Susan. She liked the soft pretty word. “But what did he call you, Grandfather?”
“He called me ‘rye.’ That means a gentleman. A Romany rye is a gypsy gentleman. Some people like gypsy life, Susan, and know and understand the gypsies better than others do. Sometimes they slip away and live with the gypsies for a time. And this man thought I was one of them because I spoke to him in Romany.”
Susan wanted to ask Grandfather what gypsy life was like. But the man Grandfather was to see on business drove up just then, so she slipped across the road to the deserted schoolhouse, and, bringing out her own little broom which she kept under the porch, she proceeded to give the steps and the walk a thorough sweeping.
This housewifely task ended, she seated herself on the steps, for she thought the squash baby needed an afternoon nap. Tied round the handle of the broom was a little blue cloth that Susan used for a duster. It was new and clean, so she fastened it round the neck of the squash baby as a cloak, and so rocked the baby to and fro and hummed a little song.