"Who is there?" he demanded, striding to the edge of the circle cast by the firelight.
"He! he! my dearie, call off the dog. May he burn, spark of the evil one!"
"Mother Jericho! Here, Peter!"
"Yes, it is I, dearie. Bless you, rye, I knew you'd camp here."
The scarlet cloak emerged into the firelight, and Dan beheld his gipsy friend uglier than ever in the flickering light. She shook her stick at Peter, who responded with furious tongue; whereat Dan caught him up in his arms and choked him into silence. Mother Jericho, interpreting this as a sign of welcome, hobbled near the fire and seated herself in a comfortable corner. In no wise resentful of her company--for even with "Lavengro" he found the dell a trifle lonely--Dan threw himself down in his old place and waited to hear what his visitor had to say.
Evidently determined to act as a good comrade, Mother Jericho produced a dirty pipe and clawed the air in the direction of Dan's tobacco-pouch. He tossed it towards her, and, while she filled pipe and pocket, produced from the caravan a bottle of whisky. Filling a glass with this desirable drink, he looked interrogatively at the old woman.
"Hot or cold water?" said he, deeming the undiluted spirit too strong for so aged a person.
"Neat, dearie, neat! It's good for me in that way. I git on'y too much water on rainy nights."
Having finished the whisky (a speedily performed operation) she lighted her pipe, and, puffing vigorously, leered at her host out of the smoke like an ugly cherub. He thought of Lavengro's companion in the same situation, and groaned.
"What a substitute for Isopel!" he muttered disgustedly.