Vane nodded and went off with Macey, feeling as if he had never liked Gilmore so much before; and then the little unpleasantry was forgotten as they walked along from the rectory gates, passing, as they reached the main road, a party of gipsies on their way to the next town with their van and cart, both drawn by the most miserable specimens of the four-legged creature known as horse imaginable, and followed by about seven or eight more horses and ponies, all of which found time to crop a little grass by the roadside as cart and van were dragged slowly along.
It was not an attractive-looking procession, but the gipsies themselves seemed active and well, and the children riding or playing about the vehicles appeared to be happy enough, and the swarthy, dark-eyed women, both old and young, good-looking.
Just in front of the van, a big dark man of forty slouched along, with a whip under his arm, and a black pipe in his
mouth; and every now and then he seemed to remember that he had the said whip, and took it in hand, to give it a crack which sounded like a pistol shot, with the result that the horse in the van threw up its head, which had hung down toward the road, and the other skeleton-like creature in the cart threw up its tail with a sharp whisk that disturbed the flies which appeared to have already begun to make a meal upon its body, while the scattered drove of ragged ponies and horses ceased cropping the roadside herbage, and trotted on a few yards before beginning to eat again.
“They’re going on to some fair,” said Macey, as he looked curiously at the horses. “I say, you wouldn’t think anyone would buy such animals as those.”
“Want to buy a pony, young gentlemen?” said the man with the pipe, sidling up to them.
“What for?” said Macey sharply. “Scarecrow? We’re not farmers.”
The man grinned.
“And we don’t keep dogs,” continued Macey. “Oh, I say, George, you have got a pretty lot to-day.”