“There,” said Macey, as they went along the lane, “you hear. They ought to know whether those are good or no. If they were nice, do you think the gipsies would let them rot in the woods.”
“But, you see, they don’t know,” said Vane quietly, and then he gripped his companion’s arm. “What’s that?” he whispered.
“Some one talking in the wood.”
“Poaching perhaps,” said Vane, as he peered in amongst the trees.
Just then the voice ceased, and there was a rustling in amongst the bushes at the edge of the wood, as if somebody was forcing his way through, and resulting in one of the gipsy lads they had before seen, leaping out into the narrow deep lane, followed by the other.
The lads seemed to be so astonished at the encounter that they stood staring at Vane and Macey for a few moments, then looked at each other, and then, as if moved by the same impulse, they turned and rushed back into the wood, and were hidden from sight directly.
“What’s the matter with them?” said Vane. “They must have been at some mischief.”
“Mad, I think,” said Macey. “All gipsies are half mad, or they wouldn’t go about, leading such a miserable life as they do. Song says a gipsy’s life is a merry life. Oh, is it? Nice life in wet, cold weather. They don’t look very merry, then.”
“Never mind: it’s nothing to do with us. Come along.”
Half-an-hour’s walking brought them into the open fields, and as they stood at the end of the lane in the shade of an oak tree, Macey said suddenly: