Dora began to giggle.
“You’re laughing at me,” said Clarence, flushing.
“Excuse me,” said Dora. “I—I—”
This time she broke into silvery laughter.
Clarence gazed down upon himself. He had forgotten, in the interest of the conversation, his present attire. For a youth of fourteen, bare-footed, clad in a rusty calico shirt and trousers of uncertain age, to accuse himself of taking pride in his apparel and appearance was, now he came to think of it, highly comical. He joined Dora in her laughing.
“And yet I was not always thus,” he said. “You should have seen me this morning in my natty sailor suit. I really think I was stuck on myself. Dora, by George, you’re a good fellow.”
“Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll tell you something about the people you’re with.”
Clarence looked around. The twain were practically alone beside the fire. Two other gypsies, men whom he had not seen before, were helping Pete and the boy to give the stolen boat a new appearance. The little children were paddling about in the water. Strangely enough, they scarce uttered a sound. They played, it is true, but their play was largely pantomime. Ben was off to the right tending the horses. The two women were in one of the tents.
“Here’s a log,” said Clarence, rolling one forward with some exertion towards the fire. “Suppose we sit down, and criticize the whole crowd.”
Clarence had come to an end of his meal. He ate no more, because there was no more to eat. One would think, could one have seen them, that the two innocents, as they seated themselves on the log with their faces turned towards the river and their backs to the fire, had been acquainted with each other from their nursery days.