There was a slight stir when they were seen approaching; and then the gypsies went on with their usual work, the women weaving baskets from osiers, the men cutting up gorse into skewers. There were four low tents, and a wagon stood near; a bony horse grazing on the common.
"Now," Captain Ripon said, "I am a magistrate, and I daresay you know what I have come for. My fowl house has been broken open, and some valuable fowls stolen.
"Now, policeman, look about, and see if you can find any traces of them."
The gypsies rose to their feet, with angry gestures.
"Why do you come to us?" one of the men said. "When a fowl is stolen you always suspect us, as if there were no other thieves in the world."
"There are plenty of other thieves, my friend; and we shall not interfere with you, if we find nothing suspicious."
"There have been some fowls plucked, here," one of the policemen said. "Here is a little feather--" and he showed one, of only half an inch in length "--and there is another, on that woman's hair. They have cleaned them up nicely enough, but it ain't easy to pick up every feather. I'll be bound we find a fowl, in the pot."
Two of the gypsies leaped forward, stick in hand; but the oldest man present said a word or two to them, in their own dialect.
"You may look in the pot," he said, turning to Captain Ripon, "and maybe you will find a fowl there, with other things. We bought 'em at the market at Hunston, yesterday."
The policeman lifted the lid off the great pot, which was hanging over the fire, and stirred up the contents with a stick.