“It’s the smoke, dearie,” said she kindly. “You’ll be used to it in a moment. Tell your little brother not to be afraid. He is among friends. We wouldn’t hurt a hair of your heads. Tell him that.”
“I want to go home,” said Phil, with under lip thrust out. “I want to go home.”
“And so you shall,” said the woman briskly, “as soon as it stops raining a bit, and my man can find out where you live.”
“Straight up the hill,” said Susan quickly. She, too, was eager to be at home. “I saw you at my gate,” she added shyly, to the man. “My grandfather said ‘Sarishan’ to you.”
Susan knew the brown velveteen coat, though the red tie was hidden under the upturned collar.
The man looked at her a moment, and then he smiled.
“True enough,” said he. “I remember. I’ll take you home. I’ll harness the ‘gry’ and take them in the van,” said he to his wife. “It’s still raining hard. They shall know that the gypsies are good to deal with, and that the worst of them is not James Lee.”
And, whistling his gay little tune, Mr. James Lee lifted the tent flap and went out again into the rain which still pattered musically on the canvas roof.
Susan began to enjoy herself. Now that she knew she was going home shortly, she looked about her with fresh pleasure.
“It would be fun to live in a tent,” she thought,—“so different from home. No beds, no chairs, no table. The gypsies must eat sitting on the ground, and sleep, perhaps, on that great heap in the corner.”